Bad Transmission
Oggy's neck was bothering him and the
reek of his arm pits reminded all present of his decaying insides,
the lack of good attitude and diet, the rotting putrescence of his
bitter bowels. It would all rupture eventually and be filled with
maggots. John Updike said of a close call with death, “The Big Guy
is getting my range.” like a mulligan taken in golf or a practice
toss in cornhole...reducing our demise to a random mortar shot from
the almighty. And why can't God take a practice putt before calling
in our soul?
Oggy was underneath his dashboard the
other day trying to repair a random electrical problem that caused
his tail lights to fail and his turn signal to work intermittently.
It was that stupid decision to update his turn signal cam switch
returning to haunt him. His arthritic knees and besieged spine grated
with global indifference to his agony. He only had a few hours to
drive to San Antonio and back to return that transformer and look for
gifts for the mythological prisoner of Oggy's meandering focus in
Mexico. He was sweating and gasping for breath as his ragged lungs
mocked his efforts. But was he sweating so bad that his ass crack was
soaking wet? Oggy was confused. Maybe he had sat in a puddle when he
rolled underneath the van to tighten the worn transmission bands.