Non sequitur –

Let us call it a hazard of the driving profession.

But say you are heading east from Glendale on the US 60 – or as it is also known, the Superstition Highway – and let us say you are behind the wheel of a Mercedes Benz 600 Limo with a v12 lurking under the hood. That’s right. Twelve cylinders. Twelve cylinders nobody actually uses, as a limo does start-and-stop traffic downtown, idles at stoplights, parks in lots outside posh restaurants and seedy houses on the south side. The car never gets to growl. Never gets to sow its oats. But this is 11:30 PM on a Friday, and every officer of the Phoenix law is downtown seeing traffic safely out of the ballpark, and more power to them. The Superstition is just that. Dark. Empty.

So let us say, out of curiosity, you have a momentary lapse of reason. And let us just say for the sake of argument KSLX FM 100.7 classic rock out of Phoenix happens to be playing Tom Sawyer…

“His reserve, a quiet defense /

Riding out the day’s events /

The river…”

…and for that moment you forget yourself, because somehow someway you are as frustrated as the car, and have been so for a while. German engineering firing on 12 cylinders that is never allowed to roar. Quietly, ever so gently, you let your right foot in a pinching-tight dress shoe just fall and fall and fall and fall.

It is glorious. The engine hums, nothing but. Just sends a bass note shiver back through the long body with one living part left, which is you, and you can feel it in your stomach as the big black car slides smoothly up to 80. 90. You watch the road, but glance down, there is no one around. 100 miles per hour.

“Mean mean stride /

Today’s Tom Sawyer /

Mean mean pride.”

Nice. 110.

You shoot by some little Dodge piece of crap like an ICBM. That car is like a different species. An aardvark to a tiger. 120. Nary a rumble, just happy German mechanical noises, like something finally doing what it was supposed to be doing all along. What it was designed for. Finally.

“Catch the witness, catch the wit /

Catch the spirit, catch the spit.”

130 mph. The stupid chauffeur hat they make you wear has whipped off into the back, because the windows are open. It’s lying back there with empty bottles of lime vodka and spent spliffs in ashtrays, but all that doesn’t matter. Not a grumble, not a complaint from the driving motor. Just smooth engineering so that the night slips by like a knife over water. Nary a ripple, nary an upset.

136.

Two hands on the wheel and one foot on the floor, but it is nothing, because you are only a part of the whole. Twelve pistons rising and falling and dark wheels turning and oh look, 138. Can this car do 140?

140.

Nice.

A shake? Was that a shake? Seems likely, as the vehicle is for all intents and purposes a 7000 pound missile now. One-hundred-and-forty-two miles an hour and you can’t hear the words any more but you still know the song

“The world is /

the world is…”

You know you should ease up on the gas. Because this is ridiculous. Because you are rocketing around the beltway of Phoenix, Arizona, like a flaming bird going down. Rebirth is not a given. Pull back on the reins, something sensible says. And maybe you do, and maybe you don’t, because maybe in that moment of perfect velocity, all that matters is whether or not

143

you can tick one more mph out on the digital display

144

before you lose your grip, tear through a guard rail like tissue paper, and learn to fly.

* * *

And that, sometimes, is what it feels like to be a writer.

———–

M. Edward McNally is the author of the Norothian Cycle books: The Sable City, Death of a Kingdom, and The Wind from Miilark, and before the end of this month, Devil Town. If you are not reading them yet, what exactly are you waiting for? A fancy invitation? A poke in the eye? Because plenty of one is available. Ed is a contributor at Indies Unlimited (IU Bio Page) and tilts at his own windmills over at http://sablecity.wordpress.com/

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