I'm on my back under a car. My eyes are fixed on the motor
above.
The radio d.j. tells us about the cold then spins some surf music. My
ears are awed by the news. My nose new when I left for work what my ears
just heard. When I left my house in the early dark a roar of cold lept on
my nose and said," watch out for the frost that bites." The black wool
pea coat I wore to work now takes some time off from its busy day. What
makes the coat so nice is also a draw back. It is so thick and bulky I
cant wear it while I work on cars. Like a good dog my coat lies near by.
It wants to play but will rest on the floor until I am ready. I stare at
the grimy dull metal motor that makes the car start. I must pull it out
and put the shiny black new one in its place. I kick my legs about to
keep them alive. I must look funny to the car owner who waits in the warm
room with my boss on the other side of the glass. I must look like I am
being eaten by the car. I wish it did eat me. I watch my hand move
around some water hoses while it lines the cold tool up with the oily nut.
My brain sends a test to my hand to see if the lines are still up. The
hand never gets it. I must guide my hand with my eyes. I feel like I am
here to help a plane land that just lost its power in the main cabin panel
and is being flown by hand with no beeps, buzzs, or l.e.d's. My metal
tool is the plane. OK, tilt the wrist to the right and push out the thumb
a bit while blah blah blah. As I guide my hand in for a safe touch down
my mind goes for a walk.
My mind tires after a bit and comes to rest on the state of
clams andthe myths that lie with them in the cold damp sand. Clams are the
mafia
types from late night tv who took all they knew to the grave. I guess at
what the clam knows, but don't think it will ever tell. Safe in the bank
box of the ocean we can only guess about clams being happy or not. Until
the end of time the ever 'happy clam' will be talk not fact. Did clams
get where they are by never going past start or are they the end of the
clam tree? After many eras of tests are they the final form or are they
slow to put out a new model? I don't think a clam is happy all the time.
Does any man or woman know for sure if a clam is happy? The first clam I
saw I didn't think, "well hey, what a happy little guy." The rumor never
got past the B.S. guard in my ears. I'm sure the first human to see a
clam did not think, "looks happy." No, more like, "if I string this slim
white rock like thing to a stick with some vine I can use this for many
tasks." The first tool used by early man in a crime was a clam on the
end of a stick. "Ok, I want you all to leave your furs and meat on your
way out of this cave or you'll get the clam end of this stick on your
head." Then new ideas on how to use the clam arose. For Lewis and Clark
the bowie knife, for early man the razor clam.
The blood drips from my hand. The oils and acids ate the top layer
of
my skin. The cold made the new top layer of skin very weak. While in my
clam land of ideas I did pilot my palm into a piece of sharp sheet metal.
The pain alarm sent by my left hand never made it to my brain with the
route under seige by the cold. I only knew about my cut hand from the
blood I saw drip drip drip. A hot soapy soak broke the lock the cold put
on my hands. Touch and feel are home and so am I. My icy hands turn into
oven mitts after an hour in my house. The pulse from the core of my body
does throb in my hands as if to point out the fact that my heart still
beats. I made it one more day. How do I deal with such a stale job day
in and day out? It's time to let work go. I lie in my bed deep under the
cover. As the warm quiet calm laps my tired being I see the clams smirk
at us types who awake each day to the cry of the clock. Did I set my
alarm, sleep is here.
