From my real, and not so imagined, life as a bipolar princess:
So Nick and I rip onto the highway, heading west. It's summer. Hot, scorching really. We're in his, what really should be an ‘off-the-road' vehicle. No, I don't mean an ‘off road' vehicle, but literally a car that should be impounded. Certain parts, which look to me as fairly operationally essential, appear to be held together by silver duct tape (and probably a lot of his spit and some crazy glue). It's a Ford Pinto - I think. Meaning either a bean or in Brazilian slang: penis. Really. Somehow very appropriate.
My fear of dying by spontaneously combusting is obliterated by my amazement of the audacity of the speed at which Nick is driving. Tail pipe's a-rattling, blue exhaust smoke a-puffing and Nick zigzags through Upper Levels traffic to our destination. Which if you've been reading these posts, I have no idea what that is.
"Did you?" He asks.
"Huh?" I can barely hear him over the rush of wind through the sunroof and the Harley-Hog like drumming of the muffler and stereo bass.
"Did you get the stuff I told you to?"
"Oh, oh," I adjust my thighs which are sticking to the sweaty vinyl and try to look nonchalant by leaning my face out the window to be cooled by the air. Instead, I bonk my head against the glass which I forgot I haven't rolled down. "Oh. Yeah." And rub my right temple.
I am both scared and exhilarated that Nick is taking me somewhere that is so out of the way we'll have 100% privacy and where no one could ever find us. Exactly.
When hurtling into mania, as those of you who've personally witnessed or experienced it know, skills to determine degrees of recklessness and discern safety are at the best impaired, at worse vanished.
The upside of this (sort of?) is our enhanced ability to enjoy said reckless and risky behaviour. This of course is the problem.
We zoom past Cypress Ski Bowl, past swanky Caulfield. Then Nick slows, reels onto the road shoulder. No signal. Who needs turn signals? WE are invincible. Then he cranks the wheel, gunning the engine, crosses the double line, just shy of an oncoming Hummer whose driver is mouthing and gesticulating vigorously and dives for the mouth of a dirt road that's thrusting itself onto the highway.
We barrel down this gravel lane into what opens up to be a secluded parking lot of sorts. There are no cars and just one sign: "NO TRESPASSING. Violators with be prosecuted with the full force of the law."
God, I love being a rebel - even when no authority figures know about it.
He drives straight past the sign and pokes the nose of the car under the leaves of a collapsing Maple (for shade, not camouflage, so he says).
He gets out, hoists his knapsack from the back seat. I grab my two plastic Safeway shopping bags and my massive draw string laundry bag that has the requested ‘stuff'.
"Let's go. It's down the train tracks - about 20 minutes. C'mon." He throws me a beer; cracks one for himself, swings his pack on and starts walking. There's something incredibly attractive about this man who doesn't turn to see if I'm following him. This makes me, well...incredibly...well, pathetic.
Now, did he say: train tracks? Like as in railway? I've got bad coordination at the best of times. In the heat, drinking Corona, lugging a laundry bag? I haven't got a chance. Oh well...it's all about having fun, right? Even when it's at my own expense - at least someone will be laughing.
To be continued...
© 2009 Victoria Maxwell
