Just’a Good Old Boy

I blame those darn Duke boys.

It makes perfect sense when you think about it, considering when I grew up. Every week, some city criminals would go out to the sticks to try to make a dishonest buck off of the innocent and trusting residents of Hazzard County, and it would be up to Bo and Luke to take care of cleaning up the problem.

Sometimes, they used flaming crossbows.

Every time, they would make an insane jump over a river or a tractor trailer or a farmhouse in their magical General Lee, blasting off in awe-inspiring slow motion, Waylon Jennings playing in the background and “Dixie” blaring out of the car’s horn as they flew, flew, flew, and smashed down on the other side of their jump, undamaged, unstoppable, and speeding off towards their inevitable victory and freeze-frame credit roll.

I lived for those moments when I was a boy, parked in front of the television, mouth agape, eyes wide as glazed donuts. There was always a voice in the back of my head telling me that this time, this jump, this would be the one that ended with them upside down and on fire in a ditch. It had to happen sooner or later, right? Even Perry Mason lost a case.

But no. Every time. Without fail. Tires like angel wings, carrying the Duke boys higher and higher in the arms of the Lord, and then delivering them safely and without even a scratch to the General Lee on the far side of heaven. As a child, I was completely and totally hooked. I dreamed that I could be a Duke as well, didn’t matter if it was Bo, Luke or their two look-a-like cousins. All I wanted—all I ever wanted—was to drive that car up that broken bridge, to be immune to gravity and physics and sanity for just those precious few slow-motion seconds, and to feel like a god when I descended gracefully to the bank on the other side of the levee. If ever there was a moment I wanted to experience and capture forever, that one would have been it.

So today, I’m driving to work, along the river, thinking throwaway thoughts about bills and groceries and overdue books, absolutely not expecting that this will be the day that the world will open up to me like a flower and gift to me the possibility of realizing the magical dreams of my childhood.

You know the double-decker trailers that they use to deliver new cars to the lots? They drive the cars up on the bottom tier, them lower a long metal ramp and fill the second level with more cars, before a semi pulls the whole stack out of Detroit and to an auto dealer near you.

There’s an empty one parked in a lot facing the river. There are no cars on it. The ramp is down. It’s at the bottom of a hill.

It is, in a word, perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I’ve already got it figured out. First, I have to empty everything out of my Corolla. The extra weight will only limit the distance that I’ll fly once I hit the ramp. The General Lee didn’t have any side windows, and I don’t know if that improved its aerodynamics or not, but I think if I just roll all of mine down, it will have the same effect. I’m also going to fill the car with premium unleaded gas before I go, because if it costs more, it obviously must be capable of giving a bigger boost to my speed than regular unleaded. I’m going to take the back seat out too, but I’m leaving the passenger one in. I’m taking the dog with me. A man should never go off into the shining glory of adventure alone.

I’ve already painted a Confederate flag on the roof of the car.

It should be simple, really. I start at the top of the hill, roll down the windows, and gun it. It’s about a thousand yards from the top to the trailer, and all I have to do is hit the ramp dead on, which I’m sure won’t be as easy as it might seem, but I’ve spray painted bright yellow lines leading right up to the ramp, starting about 300 feet back, to help guide me. Just to make sure, though, I’m going to make a couple of practice runs first, to see if I can hit the ramp every time without fail. I’m not insane, after all.

The other side of the river? Just peachy. I already checked it out. The ground isn’t paved there, but it’s free of trees and large rocks, so that’s all good. Before I jump, I’m going to make sure there aren’t any abandoned shopping carts there or anything like that. Bo and Luke themselves couldn’t ask for a better landing zone.

So, essentially, all I have to do is drive fast, hit the ramp, give a rebel yell while I’m in the air, and nail the landing on the other side. It’s so simple, I’m surprised nobody has tried it before.

Tomorrow is the day. I am ready. The car is ready. The dog is ready.

Tonight I write this as a forty year old child.

Tomorrow I finish this entry as an ageless hero.

I am ready to being my life anew.

———————————Edit, The Next Day—————————————–

Bad idea! This was a bad fucking idea!

So bad. Bad.

Really, really bad.

God. So bad.

Police and firetruck. Ambulance. Veterinarian.

So many broken bones.

Corolla is upside-down in the river.

Dog is in a full body cast.

Television is a lie!

The Dukes of Hazzard is a lie!

Nietzsche was right. God is dead.

All is lost.

All is lost.