Michael Thiele is a woodsmith who makes musical instruments and playable furniture. He spends most of his life either in the shop or out on the road buying wood and selling his work at craft shows. In recent years, his travels have begun to inspire his own writing, so he sends me his thoughts.
“Blooge, blooge” (one second pause) “Blooge, blooge.” Soft “g” as in rouge. “Blooge, blooge……Blooge, blooge.” I know you’ve heard this one. Don’t say you haven’t. “Blooge, blooge.” Bass Wash. I don’t know what octave this is in, but I can’t even make my voice go that low. My corpuscles are vibrating along with my windows. “Blooge, blooge.”
The guy was behind me at the intersection but when the driver next to me made that right turn on the red light, the Blooge guy whipped around and took his place. I can’t see him. His windows are tinted super dark. “Blooge, blooge.” The scab on my elbow is vibrating. Maybe it’ll finally fall off. Does this guy know I’ve been picking at it for a week? Something in me wants to scream. The primordial type. When the light turns green maybe he’ll rocket off and leave me in the dust. Quiet dust. Not likely. He’s driving a low rider. Cruising.
At the change of the light I take off before he even notices the green. Slow to react, he may be blowing a doobie. Cool. Till the next light. Turtle catches hare. Shit. Maybe I’m the one who needs to turn. Why did I decide that I needed to go somewhere this morning? I’ll change my route. But today I won’t listen to the GPS girl. Yesterday she sent me on a forty five minute detour. A wild goose chase. I don’t need her help getting lost. I can handle that one all by myself.
I’ve made a left. Now I can set about trying to remember where I was going.