The Spirit of Groundhog Past

Christmas was pleasant and predictable-just the way it should be for adults. After the usual family rituals (gifting and gorging), I gather up my loot and head home. I have a new Tom Waits CD and a football game on the radio to keep me company. Cool.

Flying down Rt. 17 , it occurs to me: this is where I hit that groundhog on Thanksgiving. Better keep my eyes peeled. I'm ready to avoid four-legged suicides.

I'm not prepared for the earth suddenly shifting on it's axis, but it does so anyway. There's a loud 'crack!' and I'm skidding down the highway at a 45-degree angle across both lanes. For the second time inside 30 days, my sled has dropped a wheel. Nuts. Somehow I manage to resist the urge to slam the brakes and twist the wheel . I make it to the shoulder without hitting anything. While I'm congratulating myself for this amazingly calm and dextrous driving feat, I realize that my throat hurts from the last few seconds of screaming. Scratch 'calm' from the previous sentence.

I'm shaking badly as I step out into the bitter cold. I am in the middle of a vast bucolic placelessness. It's dark, but there's plenty of traffic. I wait for a while, hoping a cop will drive by and stop. My wish is half-granted. I lose out on the stopping part.

It's late Christmas night, and for the first time in twenty years I'm hitchhiking. In between the whooshing of passing cars I hear chains rattling in the woods. Scary Dickens chains. Spooky.

Then, a whisper, in a chittery groundhog voice," I wasn't dead when you hit me. I was suffering horribly and you ended it. Merry Christmas."

Seconds later, a car stops. Kindly Stranger stops and gives me a lift to a Sheetz gas station. He refuses my offer of money and lets me use his cell phone. It's outside his zone, but I appreciate the gesture. I collect call Granma's and convince my dad and the Twin to bring me Granma's car so I can get home and to my new job Monday. (Later for that). It'll take a couple hours for them to get here.

I get some coffee and sit down at a booth for the wait. Let's see what's in my x-mas bag that I can use to pass the time:
-Socks and jockey shorts-practical, but lacking in entertainment value.
-New CD, no way to listen
-Nice new coat-see socks and jocks above.
-A book! That'll help take take the edge off my anxiety, self-pity and despair.

It's a Franz Kafka collection.

I'm reduced to tears after a few very short stories. Being stranded at a truck stop on Christmas with only Kafka's torment for a companion really sucks. I decide to see how many coins I can spin on the tabletop simultaneously. Five, which is all the change I have.

Time passes slowly, but eventually my relatives arrive. They bring Grandma's 1984 Mercury station wagon with them. Blessed be! Vinyl bench seats, no radio, broken side view mirrors, but it's got a V-8, which I like. The driver's side door cannot be completly shut, but at least it's got a seat belt in case it opens without warning.

It's not until I get on I-95 that I realize I'm very dependent on having side-view mirrors. The rear-view leaves a lot of blind spot. Harrowing, to be sure, but I make it home alive. The first beer tastes really good tonight, but not as good as the second one.

Tomorrow I'll have to figure out what to do about my car, but for tonight I'm just happy to be alive and unhurt.

Merry Christmas and to all a Good Night!