Initial Diagnostics From Dry Dock And A Love Story In One Fiery Act

Actual photo of actual crash on actual I-70 at the Loveland Pass

I stand here on the threshhold of CBW. The beast is waiting there inside, tongue lolling.

I am bedraggled, and heartbroken, my back aches from carting the Boat here, and my feet are sore from walking, but I've made it back alive.

Tucked under my arm, held safely against my hip, is the dented reliquary that holds The Most Important Thing. In my other hand, held low and loose and hidden in my skirts against my right thigh, my dagger is unsheathed, but I am not going to use it.

I have no use for weapons.

I've been doing a lot of soul-searching as I've dragged my toothmarked heart, my battered psyche, and my shattered self-esteem around behind me like cans tied to a wedding sedan. And I realized that before I disappear into the wilds of CBW to put The Most Important Thing back into a safe spot, that I should at least tell you, in the plainest language possible what happened to me.

*****

I fell in Love.

And I was rejected.

And oh, man, that shit HURT.

*****

No one goes into something like this thinking, "You know what? I think I'll do something that is going to make me lose my appetite, weep uncontrollably at my desk, perform my job sloppily, lose sleep for days at a time, and in general behave like an irrational fool and crazy person who should be locked up in Creedmore for a rest cure. That sounds like a whole lot of pure-D fun!"

I believed that I was beyond all that. I thought I was, let's be frank here, too old for that.

One of the great things about being human is that we have this amazing ability to forget about the things that hurt us. We get back on the bicycle again and again, even though we still have, under our skins, the reminder that we flipped over the handlebars and cracked our collarbones.

It's the same thing with love. We forget all about the other times it has disappointed us and run toward it because it is so welcoming and pleasing to the senses. Some of us approach it more warily, because we carry, in our bodies, some trace memory that warns us, along the way, "Steep grade. Trucks use low gear."

But then, we get the "all clear" signals along the way or misread or even ignore the signals altogether and finally say, "Oh, the hell with it, this just feels so GOOD, and I'm having so much FUN, that I'm taking my feet off the pedals, my hands off the brakes, and I'm gonna coast down this hill."

We ignore the fact that this isn't a bicycle, but a Maserati, and we aren't on some gentle country grade in upstate New York but are in fact on that scary stretch of I-70 past the Eisenhower Tunnel and the Loveland Pass that is twisty and turny and dotted with runaway truck ramps for bailing when things get out of control, and that it's dumping snow, and the CDOT has turned on the signs that say "Icy conditions ahead. Use caution." We fail to check the hitch to make sure the Boat we are towing is secure.

During the Great Email Deletion Project of 2010, as I sorted, exported, printed, and deleted with a self-imposed detachment, as clinical and methodical as a surgeon, grimly whistling Elle Driver's murderous tune as I did so, I was able to see all those long gravel ramps as they whizzed by me in a blur and I said to myself, "ooooh, I shoulda gotten my brakes checked in Denver."

Instead, I hurtled past Silverthorne and Keystone, and crashed violently on the Frisco-Breckenridge exit, and I am only now able to limp out of the wreckage and head toward Vail.

I know, I know, mixed metaphors and all that. Boats, bikes, trucks, expensive Italian sports cars. They all tell the same story.

The emails tell me the story, too, because I thought for awhile there that I couldn't trust my own memory.

*****

Him: Hi! Check this out: I got rid of my station wagon. I'm test-driving this Maserati. Wanna ride?

Me: Sure! Let's hook my Boat to the back first.

(Hops in, neglects seat belt)

Me: I love fast cars! In fact, I'm an expert at driving fast cars. I can drive this baby better than you!

Him: Awesome! So you'll know what to do if we start to skid, right?

Me: No problem. I'm an expert at this.

(VROOM!)

Me: Whoa! Slow Down. Remember, cars like this are pretty powerful, and you have to know how to handle them on roads like this. Don't forget, I'm really familiar with these roads.

Him: Okay, maybe I'll slow down just a little bit.

Me: Slow Down. I know these roads. They can be pretty bad.

Him: Okay, I'll just touch the brakes again a bit.

Me: Slow Down, I tell you. These are dangerous roads. You have to know how to navigate them.

Him: (flooring it) Oh, the hell with it. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!

(VROOM!)

Both of us: Wahooooooo!!!!

Me:  That was fun! Let's do it again. I promise, I won't get hurt.  I've done this before and I know exactly how to extricate myself if there's a crash.

(VROOM!)

Both of us:  Wahoooooo!!!!

(Looking at each other)

Both: Oh, shit, we forgot to fuck.

Me: You can still slow down, you know. I can get out right here and no one will get hurt. 

Him: Okay. Let's stop here.

(Briefest of rest stops at which we pace around miserably, each furtively looking at the other from under downcast eyelashes.)

Him (finally): I long to call you back to me. I fear it's too late. Will you get back in the car?

Me: Really? Okay.

(VROOM!)

Both of us: Wahooooooo!!! ..... Oh, shit, we forgot to fuck again.

Him: Wait, let me think about this.

Me: Okay.

(Another brief rest stop at which I should have checked the damn trailer hitch, and maybe even unhitched it)

Me: God, this really sucks.

Him: I know. Boy, I really want to sleep with you.

Me: Me too. It would be amazing.

(We go off into reverie of lovemaking that is lovemaking and not just fucking, but that can sometimes be fucking, but the lovemaking is there nonetheless, with complete compatibility and locked eyes and welcoming upthrust hips and puppy whimpers of surrender, and hair pulling and bruised legs and biting, and close-in whispers followed by cries heard through open windows, which honestly, is the best kind of fucking.)

Him: Wait a second.

Me: Okay, but now it's too late for me. The brakes on the Boat trailer are all burnt out and I can't stop.

(Checks rear window. The Boat trailer is whipping around crazily.)

Him: Hold on. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.

(Another touch on the brakes)

Him: I'm well on my way to falling in love with you.

Me: Weeeeell, okay!

(He slams on the brakes, sound of skidding tires)

Me: What the -- ?

Him: I've changed my mind.

(Vehicle veers into loose gravel at side of road)

Me: Are you kidding me?

Him: I've changed my mind.

(Squeal of metal on guardrail, chips of paint and sparks flying)

Me: Are you FUCKing kidding me?

(Vehicle slows a little more)

Him: I've changed my mind. Get out of my car.

Me: I don't believe this. You dragged me all the way out here and now I don't have a ride back to town!

Him: I've changed my mind. Get out of my car. NOW.

Me: Really? REALLY?

Him: Get out of my fucking car, RIGHT now, GodDAMMIT. Find your own fucking way back into town.

(He wrenches wheel to the right. Car bursts through guardrail. Long, airborne silence as car and boat trailer sail into ravine, then sound of impact, breaking glass, crumpling metal, then explosion. From the vantage point of the roadside, we see two small figures hurled free of the wreckage and miraculously, some time later, they move. They are still alive. They crawl away with grievous injuries, in different directions. One crawls back to the conflagration to retrieve the Most Important Thing, which has somehow been shaken loose. It's dented, but salvageable. She staggers a little as she gets to her feet, turns and lifts a hand in farewell at the retreating figure that is headed back toward Denver.)


Me (in tiny, O-ren iishi-under-the-bed voice): *Whimper.*

*****

So, once I was able to get to my feet, bloodied and with very serious, but not life-threatening, injuries, I somehow managed to drag the Boat back to CBW. Here, I'll scrounge up replacement parts to make the necessary repairs and relaunch her when she's seaworthy once again.

It will take awhile.

You'll be invited to crack a champagne bottle over her bow.