Out of the way!

A lot of my tales will involve cars.  There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is that I am an American, and Americans love their cars.  Cars give us freedom.  Cars give us power.

I generally consider myself a very good driver.  Aggressive, but very good.  My brother, on the other hand, is a truly great drive.  Insane, but great.  In this story, I was his passenger.

The last time I rode in a car driven by my brother was years after the tale you are about to read, but a quick description of that car ride may help build an understanding of my brother's driving skills.  You see, the last time I rode with my brother, an every day commute to his place of employment, I thought I was going to die.  He was, simultaneously, driving his stick shift Ford Explorer in heavy traffic, drinking a Mountain Dew, smoking a cigarette, and talking on a cell phone.  He didn't have it on speaker, he was holding it in his hand.  At this point, I want you to pause, and count the number of hands my brother is using.  Got it?  Yeah, I thought I was going to die.

So, on to the story.

My brother used to have a Volkswagen Bus.  It was a horrible vehicle, made all the more horrible by my brother's horrible maintenance.  It had bald tires.  It drank oil by the case.  And my brother had removed the bumpers because he thought it looked better without them.  I only rode in his Bus twice, and both times, I thought I was going to die.

The first time I rode with my brother in his Volkswagen Bus, I was in the backseat and his friend Billy was in the passenger seat.  We were driving through downtown, in mid-day traffic, not too congested but paying attention was a necessity.

My brother wanted to smoke a cigarette.  Billy had a nice Zippo lighter.  Billy knew my brother well, and there was no way he was going to let that Zippo out of his grasp.

Billy had no actual fear of death.  He lit the Zippo and held it in front of himself.  My brother then proceeded to lean across the wide gap between him and Billy and lean down to light his cigarette he was holding in his mouth.  And then he had to find a way back off of the sidewalk.  I thought I was going to die.  I wasn't the only one, as that sidewalk was populated.  Or, rather, it started off populated before my brother made his presence known and then was rapidly vacated as my brother's Bus barreled down it.

We hit nothing.  I did say he was a great driver.

Let me tell you a story

I resisted this for years.

In spite of being my (misguided, naive) job of choice as a youth, I never tried to actually become a writer.  There were bills to pay, and I knew, just knew, that I would not be able to pay the bills with writing.

I was probably right.

Armed with my wisdom of the years I have lived I now realize that I did not make a mistake by not trying to become a professional writer.  I would have failed.

Of course, I failed at a lot of other things, and made many other mistakes, so if I had pursued becoming a professional writer, it would have just added on to an already lengthy list of mistakes and missteps.

So why would I start this project now?  I have stories to tell.  I have the freedom to tell them on my own terms.  And most importantly, the statute of limitations has expired for most of them.

All stories I claim to be “true” are “true” stories.  I put “quotes” on “true” because truth can be subjective.  I am fallibly human, and thus have an imperfect memory, emotional baggage, and a necessarily self-centered perspective.  What I experience may not be what is perceived by an impartial observer.  And thus these “true” stories are colored by the Jeremy shaded glasses through which I view the world.

So, join me in a story telling session.  Enjoy, as you can.  And if you do enjoy a story here, feel free to let me know with a comment or an email.

Now, get comfortable, and let me tell you a story…