by Dave Draper
This is an excerpt from Dave’s book, A Glimpse in the Rear View
There’s an impressive list of ever-growing personal appearances I’m to make, from San Diego to Pittsburgh, with a quick stop in London for charm.
Then there’s the upcoming E! True Hollywood Story—lights, camera and action. Wowee! But let me tell you a favorite story, a recent one that more clearly portrays the bomber I know.
Hayward is 50 miles northeast of Santa Cruz and is the home of Protein Research Labs, the manufacturer of the Bomber Blend protein. I make a trip to the lab every month or so to pick up a supply of the precious powder. I dare not run out and risk muscular denial, depression and scurvy. My last run was in mid-January, early one Thursday afternoon—sweet timing to beat the mean Bay Area commute traffic.
Rocko, the warehouse super, loaded my pickup with two shrink-wrapped pallets and declared me ready to go. I stood back, studied the towering stack of boxed tubs and scratched my head. Looks goofy, but it’s not overweight. Okay, Santa Cruz or bust. I hop in, rev the engine and I’m outta there before the working mobs cut loose. Traffic is my enemy.
The power and the stability of my Toyota gives me confidence and I move from the friendly, boring slow lane of 880 to the alluring yet frenzied fast lane. No one 200 yards in front of or behind me and I’m sailing. Both hands on the wheel, synchronized eyes on the road and side-view mirrors and I’m flying. No highway patrol in sight, I level off at 70. Risk is my secret companion.
The plastic wrap is making a racket as it flaps to the rhythm of the wind.
Three miles down 880, the tempo of the shrink-wrap clatter perceptibly changes and causes me to wonder. I tilt my electric side-view mirror upward to inspect my cargo and watch, as if in slow motion, four cases of that remarkable Bomber Blend, one followed by another, tumble from the back of my sturdy four-wheel drive truck.
This is not funny and I’m not laughing. Gotta get outta the dumb fast lane fast and onto a clear shoulder.
Negotiating, maneuvering, shifting, braking…and I’m stopped roadside and stepping out of the truck. This doesn’t look good.
A small compact speeds by, guy blowing his horn, yelling and waving fists.
I’m topside, securing the reduced load and craning to see the road behind me. Thoughts crowd my head, like what a loss, cops are gonna come, get the truck off the freeway: all those embarrassing, selfish thoughts that expose who you really are.
I hop off the truck and run up a rise, hoping to get a better look at the crime scene. All I can see is a white billowing cloud the size of a Costco, with powdery cars and trucks bursting out of the near side like baffled pigeons of a mischievous highway joke. I’m in awe.
The puffy pigeons keep coming, and I turn and run for my conspicuous metallic-red over-stacked Japanese four-wheeler.
It’s a short dash across a narrow 100-foot weedy shoulder strewn with a roadways’ collection of debris. I’m making good time as I study the passing traffic, hoping they don’t pull over and flog me.
Suddenly, I’m down and rolling in the dirt.
I get up, and down I go again. My legs are tangled in a rusty wire hoop that came out of nowhere and as I lie on the ground, kicking and crawling and angrily tugging at the tricky device, I visualize my plight.
The already distressed passers-by see this oversized, red-faced buffoon in comedic tragedy, flailing and bewildered, staggering and stumbling as if possessed.
Somewhere inside, I laugh as I hurry to return to the highway and retrace my ignominious steps.
Was there a tragedy, an accident of consequence, a car out of control, or has everyone escaped with little more than a healthy fright from the exploding vanilla powder and momentary loss of reality? Ten minutes later I’m in the slow lane, exploring the target zone and see only wisps of drifting whey and calcium caseinate. Fifty pounds of branch-chain amino acids and anti-oxidants drift in swirls at the highway’s edge, not a tub or cardboard box as evidence.
I resume my slow lane voyage to my homeland and recall with a spontaneous burst of repressed laughter the tubs of vanilla as they, in locked-time, retreat from my tailgate in the general direction of the blacktop and the oncoming innocent players.
Still today, I await a knock on my door by a uniformed policeman, a lawyer and or angry mob looking for justice in regard to the 880 Random Blizzard Bombing. My life has taken many turns; the bizarre episodes are unending. Next week: The Day I Did Squats with Aliens from Outer Space: Episode One.
It’s a grand day, and I’m off to the gym to steal a pump.
This was an excerpt from Dave’s book, A Glimpse in the Rear View
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