Fenicksville

by Hildie S. Block

My father died yesterday. He'd been sick, which is very sad, but the sickness wasn't something that was going to go away, so his death isn't really too traumatic. I'll miss him, but I had been missing the old him for awhile. I won't miss the him he was before he died.

They don't know what he had. He had the worst of about 10 diseases including Alzheimer's and multiple sclerosis and clinical depression and all sorts of stuff that makes you feel like you want to get up and dance the fucking hora or something. But we know what he died of. A nice shiny bullet.

I can't say I blame him. I can say that I was surprised it took so long. I can't figure out where he got the gun, but good for him.

I always imagine a bullet to feel cool and comfortable entering your skull. Bringing with it some kind of ultimate peace and a transcendence of things mortal. I know rationally that it'd be hot as hell and you probably wouldn't really feel anything for long, but I can't shake the cool image.

Basically, right now I'm in my car, the payments and insurance of which is what nearly stole my youth and made me part of corporate America. Thankfully the freedom and independence of owning a car is exactly what kept me sane.

I'm in my own lane. I have my own lane. It's Haggar's lane. I'm Haggar and this is my lane, thank you. I'm driving that old familiar route that I have driven for almost 10 years from Powertown to Sludgilvania.

They say no one lasts more than 10 years in Washington D.C. and I have almost made it. Every time I think about this I feel like I am in some bad '70s movie where I have some kinda stone in my palm that'll turn some obnoxious color and I'll get booted beyond the Beltway. Then I'll become the Haggar from beyond.

Now about this name of mine. It's a stupid name for a Jew. It's biblical my mother yelps back at me as I question her for the 13 k'zillionth time about the decision of two Jewish parents to name a girl child Haggar. Mom, I tried to explain to her, Haggar was the mother of the Arabs, the Muslims, all of Islam. Mohammed was her descendant. Sarah or Ruth or somebody kicked her out of the house for having Abraham's child out-of-wedlock. They sent her and the baby into the desert alone to die. She is the mother of the P.L.O.!

We thought it was a nice name. It has a ring to it. A ring to it!

So growing up I'm stuck with a name that sounds like a cartoon Viking. And me without a new world to conquer. Helga, get me a mead, wench!

Later when I actually met other Jewish peers—there never were any in Fenicksville, so I meet them all later—they never recognized me as Jewish, because of my name and because of the fact they never heard of Fenicksville. Is that on the Main Line they'd ask. No really, I'm Jewish. That's a very interesting name for a Jew.

Interesting is a weird word. It means, I don't want to use a descriptive word, but I'll say this and you'll know what I mean. It's polite and untraceable. And if you are out of it enough, you may not even notice what they are trying to say. Or not.

The trees and planted wildflowers are whizzing by the window like so many unwanted toys. Who ever heard of planting wildflowers besides the Maryland Department of Transportation??? Doesn't that defeat the notion of wild? At this point the only thing wild about the highways in America are the dogs that got too big for folks to handle and were set free there.

There are these rest areas along Route 95. Folks from the northeast corridor couldn't leave home without them. They have bathrooms the size of football stadiums and every variety of quick, fast and pseudo-edible food that the Marriott Corporation can muster. And a gift store. I wouldn't even mention them except I'm happy that there is no one from Louisiana in the car so we don't have to stop.

They, those Louisiana folks, think the rest stops are really cool. Wandering around like children in 31 Flavors, I can't get them out. So many choices of food. So many people to watch. They are amazed that no one there really lives there. I am less than amused. Like, that it is a place in transit, with people in transit. The anti-home. Something from a Saturday Morning space age cartoon. Meet George Jetson.

Shit.

I hate traffic. What are all these cars doing in my lane? Don't they know? Don't they understand? Especially this obnoxious Volvo Turbo Wagon that just pulled in ahead of me and braked. So that forces me to think of the idiot driving. I have no choice. Anonymity is no longer an option for her.

What's the point of driving a Turbo Volvo. A Turbo Volvo Station Wagon. A traditional family car. Volvo, a company that prides itself on safety. A safe traditional family car. With a parent or two and several small humyns inside. Maybe a dog. OK, a tank protecting the nuclear family. An expensive tank that brags of the earning power of the adults inside.

Hey, go ahead, spend the equivalent of two years of my salary (after taxes) on a safety vehicle, then throw in the element of surprise why doncha. Let's design the car (oops, tank) to do its best tricks at 20 miles above the speed limit. What the heck? Let's buy a tank to protect our most precious cargo and then endanger it for fun. I'm pretty sure I hate this woman.

I also think I can pull around and never have to think of her again, even if it may mean leaving my lane for a coupla feet. Now I feel better.

I'm consistently obnoxiously nice to humans held hostage in tollbooths. What a rotten job. Talk about feeling stuck. OK, can you imagine the job description? Looking for danger, yet stability? Want to deal with the public after they've been sitting in traffic for their entire lives? Have we got the job for you. Think about it, when do these folks get breaks? They endanger their lives just leaving their booth to go relieve themselves. I think I'll go walk across five lanes of speeding traffic now. Be back soon. And they are held there by magnets or something for hours and hours on end, watching people go places, while they stand still.

So what I do is I'm nice. I say thanks, have a nice day/weekend/reality. First, it spreads goodwill. I like goodwill on rye personally, but you know how it goes. Second, obnoxious meaningless phrases like "have a nice day" are like hot potatoes, someone says it to you and you say it to someone else just to get rid of it. I manufacture obnoxious phrases just to keep the industry alive. I mean if I didn't, who would?

Conclusion—»