Motherhood and Apple Pie


Motherhood and Apple Pie

Our man, struck with a sudden burst of inspiration, searches desperately for an unlocked car. There, down that side street. He strides with purpose, with passion. He moves like a gassy fellow searching for antacid in a stranger’s bathroom. The car is unlocked, but he’s not sold on it. Bit ugly. Bit old. Bit old-mannish. But he gets in anyway, taking a moment to fully absorb the true nature of this perfection rendered in molded plastic which now lay prone in front of him. He grips the composition leather of the steering wheel cover, gently squeezing his approval. It’s important to communicate, always remember that. This is what he was always telling his useless hanger-on of a cousin. But, no matter.

What is that thing called? The reverse lock-out button, or something like that. He pushes it in. He turns the key ahead, wanting to hear the radio, but goes one click too far, freeing the shifter. Hey, it could happen. Right? Well it does in this case. Back rolls the car, into the knees of a man who had been approaching from the rear, trapping him between two ugly, old, old-mannish cars. The man happens to be the owner. It had served him well enough, done what was asked of it without question and had shown no signs of animosity. This is not to say the relationship had been problem free, but murder was out of the question.

He lets out a yelp.


Our man in the car leaps into action, remaining calm, cool and casual.

‘Oh hey. This your car?’

‘What? Drive the car ahead, you’re crushing my legs!’

‘Hey, sure. So this is your car? What do you think of it? You like it?’

‘You’re nuts… help me!’

‘No problem. But listen, could you do me a favour in return? Could you indulge me in a little brainstorming session? You know, just two guys shooting the shit. Nothing contrived.’

‘Are you for real? I can’t feel my feet.’

‘OK, great! Here we go. You can’t feel your feet, and… ?’

‘And if I live through this, you won’t.’

‘Honest, very honest. I like it. Quaint. Plus it conjures all that rose-coloured childhood stuff that always plays so well with test audiences. See? You’ve got some good ideas.’

‘Oh it’s not an idea, it’s a forgone conclusion. It’s gonna be in the flesh.’

‘By the look of your legs, I’d say it was already well into the flesh!’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Now now, no need for that kind of language.’

‘For fuck sakes man, give me a hand!’

‘Yeah, like charity. Brother can you spare a dime, like that. No, not charity, but brotherhood. It could become part of pop culture, take on a life of its own.’

‘You’re crazy. Listen, I need my medicine or I’m going to get sick. Can you get it for me out of the glovebox?’

He’s looking sweaty and pale, enthusiasm waning. Medicine eh? Of course. Everyone needs their medicine now and then, need it to get their heads straight. As long as there are humans, there will be medicine. This new prospect excites our man, but it doesn’t take much.

‘Excellent! Now you’re talking cross-promotion. I love it! Cars and pharmaceuticals. We could have the new motherhood and apple pie on our hands!’

‘Listen, you have to move the car. I’m losing a lot of blood.’

‘Well, we can’t have that. No one likes blood. Well, no one worth selling-to likes blood. Sure, there’s those gothic, vampire-novel enthusiasts, but fuck em. Actually, wait a minute. There’s a lot of people who like blood. Doctors, nurses, serial killers to name but a few. I think we can use this. Say, friend, you’re looking a bit pale. We might need more make up. Make up!’

‘I’m losing blood and I’m losing it while you stand there babbling on about god knows what.’

‘Cranky cranky! But that’ll work too. Maybe we could give you a Scottish accent. Scots are hot right now. People just eat that shit up, for whatever reason. Personally, I don’t care much for Scots. I mean, some of them are the nicest people you could ever meet, but others… real assholes. I just don’t get it. I’d take a nice Indian any day of the week.’

The man between the cars slumps over, faint from blood loss and exposure to unfiltered horseshit. He never had a chance, really, but such is life: a giant, shit-filled cliche.

And now our man looks away, his attention switching to a flourescent sign trumpeting the virtues of 2 for 1 pizza slices for $2.99. Pizza, now that’s where it’s at. Everyone loves pizza. It’s universal, transcending ethnic barriers like no other food.

Spaghetti and meatballs? Please.


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