Mailer's Ride

David Marvin Mailer is currently on probation and under the care of the Bumfuck Probation Department's Aluminum and Underage Canine Protection Unit. As a result of having shorted all property, finance and aluminum related securities in July of this year, he came into a substantial sum of money recently during the Welcome Back, GOP stock market rally.

So he bought a car.




Mailer drove his brand new BMW Z3 convertible off the car showroom floor, through the window, laughing maniacally but not hysterically.

Taking off down the motorway, he floored it to 90 mph, enjoying the wind blowing insanely through the beatnik-style haircut that, except for having expired from drink, would have induced Jack Kerouac a quick case of the DT's.

"Jesus Christ!" Mailer ejaculated to himself as he flew down the freeway, pushing the pedal to the metal, revelling in a sensation of non-pharmaceutical speed which he had not sensed ever since joining the industry which had previously employed him as a Project Meeting Attender.

Looking in his rear view mirror, he was distraught to observe a police car behind him, blue lights flashing. Then the siren commenced its ontological wail.

"I can get away from this punk--no fucking problem," thought Mailer to himself, half insane behind 400mg of sildenafil-citrate and well into early stage Alzheimer's with a side order of Senile Democracy.

He hit 110, then 120...then 130mph!

Coming to his senses, it suddenly occurred to him: "What the fukk am I doing? I'm too goddamned old for this shit, Jesus, I musta OD'd on the Diovan again this morning...."

He pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the end. This time it was truly over.

Pulling in behind him, the police orifice walked up to the driver's side of the BMW, removed his Ray-Bans, looked at his watch and then beheld the sad wastrel of what had previously been a functioning Corporate employee. The officer took in the beautiful day, the stunning Z3, the onset of the late afternoon bringing with it the first hint of dusk.

"Sir, my shift ends in 10 minutes," the officer said in a resigned fashion.

"Today is Friday and I'm taking off for the weekend and to tell the truth, I could give a shit today, know what I mean? You ever have a day like that?"

"Well, possibly once or twice," Mailer replied.

"So here's the bottom line--if you can give me a single reason why you were doing 130 that I've never heard before, I say, what the hell--I'll let you go."

Mailer looked off into the distance, the road leading into some future that held who knew what, all the unknowns... the conundra wrapped within onion rings, the great Mandala of Being that lay just over the horizon as always it does...and most of all that trip to his stockbroker to close out his account with the last of the 6.3 million he'd scored on the market collapse.

Of a sudden, he looked up at the cop, cleared his throat and spoke slowly but deliberately to the law enforcer.

"Years ago," Mailer told him, "one of my wives ran off with a policeman."

"Izzat right?"

"Yes. That's right," Mailer confirmed.

A tear welled up into Mailer's left eye as he struggled to contain himself, suddenly engulfed in an emotion that even he thought was real.

He gulped, gathered himself together and finally managed to continue.

"I thought you were bringing her back."

"You have a good day, Sir," said the policeman.