| 25 July 2006 Clowns Without Borders I heard about a troop of volunteers, who don greasepaint and travel to areas of the world with real needs to cheer up the kids. Give them a diversion from the crushing misery of daily reality. I assume there are big feet and honking horns. The organization calls itself “Clowns Without Borders.” I salute them, and anyone else who is doing something hands-on to address the depressing state of affairs in Africa, a continent with so much prospect and so much hopelessness, or all of those who are trying to do something about building democracy in lands that have not progressed much beyond the concept of honor killing of their daughters. It causes a twinge each morning when I realize I have hung up the greasepaint, put away the big shoes and the horn with the big rubber bulb. Considering what comes from the media each morning, I'm surprised anyone keeps a smile on their face, greasepaint or not. I definitely did not want to go to Florida on a day-trip to visit a customer who is hard to pin down. He is busy with the war, and if he wears greasepaint, it is of the dark green variety, interspersed with black. I was thinking about Florida in July, yesterday. It was early, and there was a flight to catch, and a rental car to engage, and fifty miles of The Bee Line highway to traverse, and a meeting to do, and then the reverse to be back well after sundown. I was thinking about the number of things that could go wrong, and the
likelihood that I would be sleeping in Walt Disney's cruel airport that night due to
thunderstorms. I was driving the truck because I know what happens in that I had the window down, and suddenly, amid the construction equipment, an eerie sound arouse like that of a rocket in flight. Loud. Pervasive. I raised the window and it was still there. My hands clenched on the wheel. I jut had the exhaust system replaced. Some of it must have let go, binding against the differential, perhaps. I should have pulled over right then. I scanned the gauges and sniffed the air in the cab to see if something was nestled against the driveshaft, heating to white hot before it burst into flames. I managed to whoosh up to the ticket dispenser at the parking structure, trying to look nonchalant to my fellow travelers. I found a spot to park and shut it down with alacrity. I walked around, admiring the sleek lines of the old warrior. Nothing was dragging. The new shiny stainless steel was still bolted where it was supposed to be. I needed to get down on the ground and scoot under to check the undercarriage, but I was still fresh in my seersucker suit, and there would be plenty of time to get dirty when the planes were caught and the business was done. I locked the truck, hefted my briefcase, and walked away, hoping nothing was glowing cherry red underneath, and that there would still be something in the parking slot when I got back. I had a plane to catch. Which I did. It appears that the airlines are on the road to success. They have reduced capacity to the point that demand exceeds available seats, and everything is full, all the time. I guess that is good, since I am in favor of air travel, but there is a proximity with my fellow travelers that requires extra adrenaline to cope with. I was only moderately surprised, after the Dutch kid clambered over me to try
to find his bag in the wrong overhead bin that the cadaverous and morbidly
obese man in the row behind wanted to engage me in physical combat, since my bag He must have been headed to Disneyworld, and I had an appointment to make. It is in the nature of an anti-climax that everything went well. I mean everything. I was at the wrong terminal, and still a car was available; it was an upgrade, and quite comfortable; the turn I took that put me a half hour out of my way still delivered me on time to the place of appointment; the clearances had been passed and the dour Special Security Officer was happy to see me; the customer was present and gave me full attention for more than an hour, and I got several potentially exploitable leads. The only thing that hung over me, even as I motored smoothly on the Bee Line
highway, was how I was going to solve the problem of the truck. Have it towed?
Take a cab home and worry about it later, parin tolls rising to the size of a There was plenty of time to get back to the airport; the rains held off and did not break until I was in the terminal; a jet arrived as scheduled, and departed as advertised, and no one wanted to fight me as we disembarked. It was eerie. The sun was lowering as I trudged to the moving walkways that trundle under the valet parking in front of the soaring wings of the Main Terminal. Soon enough I was back at the truck, which was resting quietly right where I had left it many hours before. Things had gone so well, I assumed that I would be soon standing in the dark, beside the road and the burning hulk of my classic truck, I was therefore moderately surprised, on a long day where everything appeared to work, that the truck thundered to life on command. It rumbled joyfully through the parking structure and out onto the long ashpalt ribbon that led back toward the capital, humming along in the darkness. Perhaps it had been visited by clowns, or Disney characters, in my absence. Perhaps it had found religion. Whatever had occurred, it had healed itself. Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra |