Peter, Mike, John and Diana

(Climbing the Grapevine)

Part Three

            The V.W. mini-bus sputtered along the Grapevine waiting for the pleasant company of death to end its slavery to its human overloads.  Collecting memories of abuse, suffering and neglect was all it had achieved during its years of toil in the mortal coil.  Its suffering had varied from being driven into a wall by a man high on a not-too-user-friendly form of a common household cleaning agent to having to drive the hills of San Francisco for ten years delivering a free weekly newsletter about the eventual triumph of Communism over Capitalism to being ignored for three years while skunks nested in its engine compartment to enduring countless people playing with its stick shift who had no right putting their hand on any vehicle’s stick shift for any reason even if it was only to reposition themselves while having sex in the vehicle.  The current driver was included in that former category.  The VW van’s life was nothing more than a series of miserable and abusive situations and now, being well over thirty years old, it decided that it would not drive faster than thirty miles an hour regardless of it's owners cries and threats.  It wanted to die an old, bitter, and mean V.W. mini-bus perhaps by swerving into an oncoming truck causing its gas tank to explode annihilating it and everyone inside it with a horrible death.
            “The vehicle is driving strange.  It's pullin’ hard to the left, “ Mike grabbed the steering wheel tightly to feel safer.
             “Ah, pull over and let me go hit the engine with a hammer for a while.”  Peter said as he wheeled a hammer in a threatening fashion as if he thought it was difficult to look threatening while wheeling a hammer.  In fact, the hard thing is to look non-threatening while wheeling a hammer.  It takes a rare bird indeed to wheel a hammer as if to say “I just came back from Sunday school and want to hear Grandpa tell me all about how easy I have it compared to him growing up.”   That is a rare bird indeed. 
            Motorcycles, cars, trucks, SUV, vans, small, low flying birds and varies insects zoomed by the VW bus as it slowly edged its way up to the top of Grapevine, a mountain that is as painfully slow to reach its peak as Dickens’s novels are to reaching any point of interest.   At least with the Grapevine after reaching the halfway point it is easier, not harder, to traverse.
            John fidgeted in his seat.  His mind was busily mulling away on the events of recent.  In fact there was a raging debate in his mind as he struggled on whether to go crawling back to his ex or continue on with his dreary friends in their god-forsaken mini-van to the edge of hell and beyond.  However, this was an atypical mental debate.  John’s mind did not have stereotypical parts arguing amongst themselves.  According to Freud, most people have a haughty ego talking about itself, an id that was busy dry humping anything that moved, and the least favorite and the one most often ditched when going out for a fun night on the town, a super ego who constantly questions why anyone would want to go to Vegas.  Typically, an inner debate begin with person’s id and ego arguing about the need for continued rigorous sex with the ex and proving, by remaining single, that he values how he think other people think of him more than rigorous sex.  The super ego would quietly mutter to itself something about no sex before marriage.  Then id and ego would yell at the super-ego, ‘mama’s boy’ (one must always remember it is all about blaming one’s mother) which would, in turn, commence a three-way battle royal.  And, of course, this battle would occur on a train passing through a tunnel.  At least, that was Freud’s view.  No, John had none of these ids, egos or super egos loitering in his mind picking fight with one another about who finds his mom sexier.  His mind worked in a manner that would makes Freud’s little three-way dispute look like a silly schoolyard argument with lots of slapping and no real punches. The following is a rare insight into the inner working of John’s mind, which, in turn, will explain why his ex took on the title ‘ex’ rather than ‘current’.  To being with, his mind was like a great field of neon green grass stretching over countless little hill all topped with a bright blue sky. Unimaginative, but cool to look at unless you had to mow the grass which often John did, typically while trying to learn something.  In that field of neon green his mind debated topics with small, cute, furry animals, typically squirrels.  These squirrels were cute with bushy tales and glimmering eyes but they had a harder edge to them, a sinister edge.   These squirrels were armed to the teeth with viscous looking rusting jagged blades, spiked clubs and hand grenades shaped like walnuts.  You could tell what side a squirrel was on by the color of their bandana.  The ‘lets-get-sex’ group wore bright indigo bandanas and ‘I-am-too-cool-for-sex’ had bandanas with a wonderful shade of mauve.  John had no squirrel equivalent to the super-ego.   That role was filled in by a thirty-five foot version of his mom who would occasionally rampage through the field with a broom bashing any squirrel in sight.  At this moment the thirty-five foot tall mom was nowhere to be seen and the indigo bandana squirrels were beginning to triumphant.  Their rusty blades were finding their marks while the mauve bandana squirrels struggled to form a counter charge.  The indigo bandana squirrels were ruthless in their attacks exhausting their opponents.  Just as the mauve bandana squirrels managed to regroup as series of well placed vollies of walnut shaped hand grenades found their mark and then the mauve bandana squirrels were nothing more than scattered pile of squirrel parts littering a neon green field of war.  With victory won the indigo clad squirrels danced a victory dance that is too embarrassing to discuss further.  Those naughty, naughty squirrels.
            “I should have never left!” yelled John, “Let me go.”  He slide open the van door to see the earth scream past him at about four, maybe five, miles per hour.  John paused while he considered jumping out the van.
            Peter readied himself to kick John out the door.  A glimmer of youthful joy could be seen in his eyes.  “Sweet,” he murmured to himself.
            “Do you think she is thinking of me now?” asked John.
            “You mean your ex?   Thinking of you?  Of course she is,” said Peter.
                “Really?”
            “Not in a good way,” snapped Peter,  “She is probably wondering why it took her so long to realize what a loser you are and all the hot guys she failed to sleep with because of you.”
            “That is not very nice,” said Mike.
            “But true,” said Peter, “She totally would have slept with me if it wasn’t for you.”
            “I am going to jump out,” threatened John.
            “Good!” replied Peter as he ready to kick John.
            “You can’t go back now,” said Mike, “She still remembers what an idiot you are.  You have to wait at least a week, if not a month.  And Peter don’t kick him out the door.”
            “I was going to do no such thing,” Peter said curtly as he lowered his leg which was primed to kick John out of the door.
            “I am going to jump,” yelled John staring fearfully out the door.
            “Go ahead,” chirped Peter. “Hey!  Mike, the van is barely moving.  Speed up.  I want to see him do somersaults when he jumps.”
            “I can’t get passed five mile per hour.  I don't think it will make it over the top,” warned Mike.
            “Just great,” whined Peter.  
            “Man!  Now we are barely going three!” yelled Mike.  “I don’t think it is going to make it!” 
            In a panic Mike jumped into the seat beside Mike and stared at the speedometer with worried eyes as if hoping by acting concerned he would somehow rectify the situation.  This did not work, however, the van continued it slowly crawled towards death.
            “I am going to jump!” shouted John.  “I must go back to her!”
            “Shut up!” yelled Mike and Peter in unison.           
            The V.W. mini-van made odd grinding sounds and slowed to two miles an hour.  Peter and Mike watched as a lone butterfly meander past the van.  It paused briefly in front f the van as if daring it to try and squish it before flying off into the distance leaving the van in its proverbial dust.
            “Stupid butterfly,” muttered Peter.
            “I might be ignorant of the working of machines, but, I think, this van is like dying dudes,” said Mike in a terrified but cute voice; so cute it should have inspired a sigh in even the most hardened cynics. 
            “No,” shouted Peter patting the side of the van.  “It is just tired. If we let it rest it will be OK.  Won't you dear? She loves me you know—”
            “She loves me!” shouted John.  “I know she does and I love her.”
            “You only love that trick she does with her tongue,” snapped Mike.
            A forty-foot table rendition of John’s mom batted the victorious squirrel off into the distance.
            “You know about that too?” asked Peter in a shocked tone.
            “We are almost to the last hill top,” announced Mike ignoring Peter's question, “then it is all down hill from there on.”
            “We will have to get a new car—” started Peter.
            “I refuse,” shouted Mike losing his placid demeanor, “to be near any car but a V.W. min-van! I mean I really, really won't do it!”
            “Ok, maybe this Van can make it all the way,” said Peter,  “I just got to give it some tender love and—”
            The V.W. van had had enough.  It filled its interior with oddly colored smoke, caking its occupants with thick, gray, slimy, goo.  The van hoped the goo was dangerous or at least would have nasty, and hopefully sexual oriented, side effects.  But it was happy that at a bare minimum its goo smelled indescribably awful.  
            “Ewe,” complained Mike, “I hate life.”
            “Quit complaining,” commanded Peter.  “I hate complainers on road trips and by god I'll throw you out this van.”
            “I don’t wanna be in the van anymore!” cried John, “Go ahead throw me out!”
            “You,” shouted Peter, “You I’m going to tie to the van!”
            Now the occupants of the van were barely recognizable as their faces and clothing were completely covered in gray goo.   
            “I think this isn't a good sign,” stated Mike with great authority.
             “No,” mocked Peter, “this is what the German designers had in mind, for the interior of the car to fill with gray, sticky, stinky smoke!”
            “This is a van,” correct Mike as he wiped clear the gray slim that was covering the windshield. “Shut-up,” shouted Peter in trying to drown out Mike's words.
            “Look,” gasped John, “we are approaching the last peak.”
            The three travelers hushed to create a shared dramatic moment as the last peek slowly rolled towards them. 
            The van coughed and sputtered to add to the drama, snickering to itself at the reliance it's masters had on it.  The van planned, just before the peak, to explode its gas tank killing everyone in a fiery blaze as its last act against human tyranny.  “Is there as car heaven,” it thought to itself, “or was this life just for amusement of others?”  In heaven it would no longer be a vehicle but be a rider.  In car heavy the cars rode humans.  The van, caught up in its deep thoughts about the after-existence, rolled over the peek with no consideration; it's great revenge had failed. “Dam!” it coughed.
            The three stinky gray goo covered travelers hooted and hollered excitedly like the first cavemen to discover fire once over the top.
            The mini-van then died, spilling its oil onto the highway like blood too depressed to even ignite its gas tank.
            “How far do you think we can coast?” asked John.
            “If I shift it into neutral and reframe from usin’ the breaks,” said Mike, “I'm pretty sure will make it to Bakersfield.”