It was now forty-five minutes since Harold left his abode planted squarely within an ‘Ozzie and Harriet’ neighborhood between Brownlee Park and metro Battle Creek, Michigan. Deciding to take that legendary Farm-to-Market route…Highway 66 – South, (i.e. – it was only legendary to the locals, because so many skunks had been run over by ongoing tractor-trailer rigs and subsequently left their stench in the wake of their demise. Not to be confused with the actual Route 66 which now has paraphernalia scattered all across the Midwestern United States, and in most cases, filched road signs hanging on the local-proprietor’s family-oriented restaurant.) Harold always enjoyed blowing his car horn when he would reach the middle of each town that he would pass through during the middle of the night. He would always recall how his uncle would like to wake up all those lazy bastards that enjoyed sleeping past 4:30 in the morning. Right on cue…
Joppa, Michigan…HONK!
East Leroy, Michigan…HONK!
Athens, Michigan…HONK!
Sherwood, Michigan…HONK! HONK!
Colon, Michigan…Harold paused from honking the home-manufactured device (made from the composite parts of a train whistle, tug boat blower and carnival zinger). Harold would’ve loved to meet the individual that this little metropolis would’ve been named after. He began to survey the sights as the dawn was now beginning to approach. The little white stucco church surrounded by the chicken-wire fence, a flock of sheep foraging freely by the side of the road (waiting to be obliterated by one of those passing 18-wheelers), the disgruntled newspaper woman having to deliver the Battle Creek Chronicle to the farthest region from her home to a bunch of illiterate ranchers that actually used the morning daily for emergency toilet paper (in cases where their diarrhea-laden chickens had some sort of ‘blow-out’), and the archetypal hound dog taking his early morning plop-n-pee by the side of his owners’ rusted-out tractor wheel. What really stood out about this quaint little community was the town’s school mascot, depicted on a small hand-painted sign, proclaiming that this was “The Home of The Mighty Trumpeters”. Harry couldn’t help but to giggle when he started thinking about it, until he crossed into an attached suburb. It was aptly named ‘Semicolon’, or, as the population plate pointed out: [; - pop. 19].
     Approximately five miles past Colon, the ’57 hit a large chug-hole in the road, jolting Harold out of his stupor and jolting one of the tubes in the car radio’s amplifier loose within its’ corroded socket. The mumbled music from the speaker cackled, sputtered, whizzed then promptly died. Harold fidgeted with the radio control knob by turning it back and forth in an attempt to revive it back to life, but it continued in silence. Harold grimaced at it, then opened the tarnished glove compartment, removed a miniature ball peen hammer and commenced beating on the speaker grill located at the top-center of the dashboard. A couple of volleys of static popped forth from the old speaker system. Then, with one final blow, he hammered the top of the metal dash assembly like a circus freak trying to ring the bell at ‘The Sledgehammer Jammer’. Sparks flew out of the dashboard speaker slits, followed by a 1959 rendition of “Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” by the cover band Melba Toast and The Spreadables (another forgotten bubble-gum do-wop ensemble out of the pre-hippie era where the lead singer and bass player eventually overdosed on some laced Turkish hashish while celebrating their sudden rise to fame and misfortune after their plagiarized one-hit wonder record hit #143 on the Hot ‘n Heavy Billboard Charts…which all but turned out to be fixed, anyway) blaring through the damaged acoustically off-tuned radio. Harold was soon comforted, smiling about the song, remembering the first time that he had heard the original version back in his home town. He had just knocked a curve-ball thrown by the notorious Big Benny. It went straight down the first base line, straight over Lil’ Jay Voorhees’ fence, and straight into ‘Slasher’s’ dog house. Knowing ‘Slasher’ (an inbred Doberman Pinscher eight times over), any kid stupid enough to try and retrieve their baseball back would undoubtedly be nominated for the ‘Fool of the Field’ award. Harold started humming to the radio, snickering uncontrollably. Knowing that there’s no fool like a young, dumb and full-of-cum fool! Harry felt very proud of that memorable victory over the beast, because he had over twenty-three bite marks and stitches to prove it. With chills running up his butt, Harold couldn’t help singing:
     Harold’s head started bobbing a little and his eyes slowly began to close. His grip on the steering wheel was starting to slacken, until he hit another line of lane dividers on the road. His eyes quickly popped open and he promptly steered the car back into its’ proper projection. A long sigh heaved from his tired body. The sounds of rippling gas bubbles could be detected under his rusted C.B.S. belt-buckle. Only twenty-seven miles to go before my stomach can meet its sweetheart, Harold thought to himself. A big breakfast plate at some road side truck stop diner, he dreamed. “Yummmmmmmmmm…” It wasn’t long before the car riveted on the divider line, again.
     Harold shook his head, but was actually thankful that his Uncle Froogle had sold him the misaligned car. It had helped him to stay awake after he learned to drive on those many long trips to camp out at Lake Powahahopo. Those trips, in return, helped him to prepare for this long protracted journey. Also, it felt good having the old ’57 Chevy loaded to capacity, singing along with a rurally transmitted station producing all those scratched-up oldies songs…
     “See ya later master baiter
       After awhile, crotch’ah dial
       Ding-doo-dong-dick’ah lick…”
Song: Ch.4-1
Song: Ch.4-2
End: Chap. 4