The Beast

 

In 2004 I became the partner of the Beast.  This has nothing to do with goats’ heads or black candles.  The Beast is a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser.  Since the partnership was formed he has schlepped me and my family, towed a sail boat, made fifteen round trips from New Jersey to North Carolina, on five of which he was towing a trailer full of beds, books, dishes, plants, and rocks, don’t ask.  In other words, this being has been an integral part of our existence. 

The Beast is sick.  Something is wrong with the dreaded technological whatzits that make all his systems operate.  They have unbooted, fried, or gone into revolt.  Why something as brawny as the Beast should need whatzits to make it tick is one of the grim metaphysical glitches of existence. He is sitting in the driveway wrapped in two blue tarps to keep the rain out of the windows that won’t operate (they’re stuck in the down position).  This is an embarrassing state of affairs for such a capable fellow.  Too expensive to fix?   Such blasphemy was considered in the same manner that one considers selling a child.

But as I look out there, I realize that I am rather attached to him.  A piece of machinery, you might say?  If that is your attitude, I wouldn’t hire you as a baby sitter.  Surely he is a thing.  But then again, so am I.  And if I was busted, my wife, bless her heart would insist on having me fixed (you know what I mean). 

So, he’s going to the hospital today.  I take him with the anxiety of a family member having to trust a healer with their loved one.  So show a little respect.  OK?