burning man vs. burning car

I doubt that Darrell knew that once a year people from around the world go to Nevada to trip on acid, get drunk, and walk around naked. This is Burning Man, this is a festival. The desert is hot, from what I have heard, and the EMTs wait around for people to faint from dehydration. I doubt Darrell knew that. They don't drink enough water, either because they forget or because they assume themselves immune to the dryness, the heat. Their mouths get dry, they think it's because of the pot, and the next minute they wake up with a needle in their arm and a large man named Mike standing over them, shoving all sorts of liquids in their face.
"Drink this."
"Okay."
You have to listen to paramedics. Darrell probably, definitely, knew that.

We weren't in the desert, and certainly were not naked or tripping. Admittedly, I was hung over and naturally bewildered at the sight of my vehicle being engulfed in flames - I hadn't even thought to remove anything but myself and my dog.
"Get your purse!"
"Okay."
"Get your backpack!"
"Okay."
"Do you want this dog food? This laundry basket?"
Snap, snap. I grabbed my cds.

Darrell put MA in his car. She looked at me.
"Mama, what in carnation is going on?"
"We're not going to Dallas anymore, boo boo."

We stood 100 yards away and watched. I started laughing hysterically. Just me and Darrell, standin' around, watchin' my car burn, burn. He looked at me.
"Glad you can laugh about this."
"I'm in shock, I think." Burst of laughter.
"I think so, too."
"Keep talking to me, I don't want to loose it."
"Want a cigarette?"
"Yes, yes. Please."
He asked me what I do. I bartend.
The first tire exploded. Laughter.
I asked him nothing. I couldn't think to. I noticed a wedding ring and wanted to exclaim a question, "Wait, you are married?", but knew I would sound more aghast about that than I was at the sight of the fire, so I kept it to myself. I thought: why shouldn't Darrell be married? Why would you assume he wasn't? Fuck, fuck, fuck. You see, you bartend, and... no, that's not even valid. You bitch, you pitied him the moment you saw him because he is dirty and weathered. Because in any other situation, you would be on your guard. Take it back.

I took it back. A second tire exploded. I ceased my inner dialogue. Darrell was staring at the car, the flames, the smoke. I was vaguely aware of sirens, far off, coming to make an even bigger spectacle of me. I leaned over, put my head between my knees. This was Darrell's cue to keep talking, keep me alert, keep talking.
"Where were you comin' from?"
I straightened slowly. "Baton Rouge."
"Oh, well that's not far. Do you have someone that can come get you?"
I hadn't even thought of this. How novel. I have no car. I have no car. I am relying on the kindness of strangers, ninety-nine percent of whom are policemen. I have a dog with me.

I thought of the things I've said about cops, about the stereotype. I thought of the things people have said about bartenders. Stereotype there, too. Sgt. Moore does his job, Darrell does his, I do mine, and today we meet in the middle around a bonfire, all wishing we were holding a beer in the woods instead of on the Atchafalaya waiting for the damn traffic to let the firemen through. Damn traffic.

Darrel had taken his shirt off. It was hot. The Man was lit, we were watching it burn.

The gas tank. Full. Two explosions happened this time, one from the car and one from me. Laughter, laughter.

An ambulance pulled up, the EMT was concerned. Why shouldn't he be? It occured to me that all of these men probably have children, and a few of them may even have daughters. Also, I'm helpless and my car is on fire.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, just a little shaken."
"I bet. Need anything?"
"Do you have water?"
He put me in his air conditioned ambulance with water and Gatorade, staring the opposite way of the debacle. It's a funny feeling to be sitting down and realize you've been shaking for an hour. You don't notice when you're moving around - you just think you're mentally shaken. No, you're actually shaking.

I thought about it. The thought, “my car just blew up,” left me incredulous. There are things much worse, of course, I knew that. I also knew that I was about to enter into a world of car notes, which made me slightly nervous. I knew I was not going to see my parents that night. I knew I had single-handedly stopped traffic all the way back to the Mississippi.

They wouldn’t let me near the car. Trudy. My chariot of three-and-a-half years. Your childhood copy of Black Beauty was in there, I thought.

The fire took twenty minutes to die. The car's charred skeleton and innards were scraped up and towed away. Darrell, Sgt. Moore, and I all looked at one another. The festival was over. Time to put on our clothes and go home.

happy hour

"I figured out why they don't get along."
He never looks up, so I keep talking.
"Law school."
At this he does look up. He cocks one eyebrow.
"How'd'ya figure?" He asks.
I smile. I've got him. "Last night they argued for thirty minutes about the legalities of involuntary manslaughter." I think I'm being clever. It's rarely picked up on, so I suddenly conclude that perhaps I'm not good at being intentionally clever. Or maybe my attempts are interpreted as sarcasm.
Either way, he looks back down at his newspaper, nodding, and makes a noise that comes from the back of his throat, letting me know he understands. There will be nothing more said about law school. I lost him.

I piddle around in the back. I turn all the beer bottles to face forward, even though no one can see them. I've developed a few ticks, to say the least. The worst is the twitch in the corner of my left eye if the candle isn't placed on top of the post. You wouldn't understand.

Bud Light guy walks in. I hand him a Bud Light. He smokes about eighteen cigarettes over the course of the evening. I debate back and forth, internally: Do I want a cigarette? Yes, no. No. Wait, yes. Shit.

It's a rainy Monday, but it feels like a rainy Sunday, and I should be in bed, sleeping. If I were to have a husband, he should be in bed too, but reading. Rainy Sundays always feel married.

It gets dark enough to light the candles. I light the ones on the bar first (tick), then the ones on the tables (tick), and finally the one that sits atop the post (tick tick). I pour four shots of vodka and distribute them to the gentlemen. Some sip on them, others throw the stuff down the hatch quickly, so as not to have to taste what feels, smells, like rubbing alcohol. They holler down to their stomachs, "Look out below!"

Someone comes in and cheesily asks, "Have your hours been happy?"
"Sure. They usually are."
Person laughs, cheesily, and asks for a beer by sounding out the acronym: "Uh, get me a peeber."
"A what?"
Laughs. I'm thinking this is the cheesiest person I've ever met. "A PBR."
I laugh too, in a nice way, a professional way.

I plan on going home to walk my dog and maybe eat. I won't be there long - my sanctuary has been transplanted to another place which I have yet to find.