You try the windshield wipers, but it’s like one of those dreams where nothing works. It’s blurry, and the voice inside your head sounds the same.
Periodic pressure in your skull, and you wonder if it could be the aneurysm you’ve been expecting. Then you think it could be the other thing they talk about on the airplanes and advertising machine.
Symbolic of your way in the world, you think, waiting out the rain in the car. There aren’t any privately-owned radio stations anymore, so you don’t bother looking for a tune.
Another metaphor, it dawns on you.
Who isn’t looking for a tune?
The heat from the floor is roasting your ankles, and you think about going to sleep here on the side of the road. You’ve heard the stories about what happens to people who do that, but you chalk it up to the hate and fear running out of the advertising machine.
Why, just the other day, the United States was up in arms about a woman showing her boob on TV. One of the kids from one of those bands without instruments tore off here top during a football game, and the advertising machine nearly overheated trying to process what it means to you.
It’s T&A all day, and then they act like the real fake thing is a big deal.
No one wants to take credit for bumping up their Q rating.
The rain pisses on the roof of the car. You think of your friend from one of the white sections of the Bronx. It was white when he grew up there, and he used to say, Don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining.
Amen to that.
Just give me a washer and a little detergent, and I’ll make you feel like you’re on Savile Row.
Maybe drive up the road until one of the next in-between towns, sleep in the car in one of the bleach-white parking lots of the super-centers that have the local merchants losing their marbles. The city council wants the taxes, of course, but not a revolt.
The advertising machine says any business is good business, and if it is big business it must be great.
Then you hear a man in New York screaming over the airwaves that the nation is captivated by a tit, he calls it, and no one wants to talk about that company whose name relentlessly surfaces in the news. The one accused of overcharging the American public. The one profiting from war.
The one run by the vice president of the United States, he of the killing trips with the Supreme Court justice. The man in New York wants to know about these things, wants to know why no one else seems to care.
But quickly the advertising machine sets its sights on him.
And drowns him out.
Pushes that big tit right in to his un-American mouth.