mr. peabody clones

by Karyn Huntting Peters

Now.
Listen up, kids.

I wanna see a life story full of Mr. Peabody clones and comic book guys.
And I wanna see it now.
Stand up and be counted
all you

smart
clever
shy
know-it-all
friendless
trekkie
die-alone
loser

geeks

and show your posterity
right here...

Midlife Crisis

by Karyn Huntting Peters

Oh, and the car.

Well, unfortunately, it had a major midlife crisis. Or shall we just say it bit the big one. See, Friday night on the way home from work...

No, wait.

I work in Portland. Downtown. I live in Vancouver. Another state. There are two bridges between Oregon and Washington in the Portland area that cross the Columbia River: the I-5 Bridge (old) and the Glenn Jackson Bridge (new). Now, if you live here and you had to pick the one place in the entire city where you would least want your car to up and crap out on you, it would be

on the middle of the I-5 bridge

See, the lanes are very, very narrow. No shoulders. No hedge room at all. No room to breathe. The bridge shakes with each passing car. It's a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. You're enclosed in a green steel cage that was recently rehabbed because it was known that an earthquake would leave it a mangled, twisted heap of greensculpturewithcars.

So to make a long "my worst nightmare come true" very short, my car up and died on the I-5 bridge. Right there. Yep. Just died.

Forty fricken' minutes for a tow truck to get there. Meanwhile, cars and semi trucks screeched to a halt behind my tiny red Mustang (its hazards blinking madly, of course), one after the other nearly slamming into me and sending me flying into the Columbia River. They'd then sit there, flashing their brights, honking wildly and flipping me off. Like, what? Did they think this was Candid Camera or something? Did they think I was doing this just to see what their reaction would be, that I was planning to start my engine any moment and continue on my merry way?

Some people's kids. I swear.

A tow truck, a cop car, a $95 tow, and a few escapades later, it's the next day. My car's in the shop. It's now Saturday. I'm at the rental car place, trying to get the dang car before I'm late for my hair appointment at the trendy place in Portland with the purple sparkly walls and effeminate male hairdressers with orange dredlocks. They serve Starbucks coffee in big purple mugs, so you can drink while they're messing with your head.

The girl at the counter had said on the phone that they were out of compacts. Meaning, of course, that I was not going to get off cheap. So I said fine. I'll shell out a ridiculous $37.99 + hidden fees daily for a midsize. I get there and the phone rings. She says yernotgonnabelievethisbut...

but what?

The midsize (my midsize, that is) was in a wreck or got somehow mangled and is unrentable. So, she says, you get a free upgrade.

I don't like the sound of that. I don't hear the word luxury in that sentence, so it is not good.

"How would you like a minivan for the price of a midsize?"

"A what?"

"No extra charge!"

"Holy shit. I don't want a minivan. I don't do minivans."

"Well, I'm afraid that's all we've got."

I can see a midlife crisis being forced upon me.

So, I'm driving this Sherman Tank around town. And it looks like it'll be for longer than I would have wanted. The car is dead. But, like the bionic man, it can be rebuilt.

They can fix it.
They have the technology.
And for the low, low price of only $4,300 to $4,800 they can give it a new long block!
Okay.
So it's not new.
It's a remanufactured long block.
Wow.
What a bargain!

Vroom, vroom...

Just shoot me now.

Life at 40 is off to a roaring start! ;-)

Brake Job

by Karyn Huntting Peters

This is not working quite like I planned it.

So, I take my car into Firestone yesterday--with a coupon, mind you--for a $190 front and rear brake job. That's front and rear brakes. Brake job and pads. Semi-metallic. First off, the guy tells me that, no, this Mustang has to have ceramic pads. Has to. No two ways about it. Can't use semi-metallic. Can't. Must have ceramic at about $60 more a set.

Obviously this guy does not know me.

Furthermore, this guy does not know that Brian picked me up at the airport Saturday night and we went to Vancouver Ford to get said Mustang out of jail to the tune of over four thousand dollars for one remanufactured long block.

The guy at Firestone--correction--the guys at Firestone now know me. I kindly informed them (okay, at first I was kind until they pulled the "you're a girl and a customer and you don't know shit about cars" crap) that my 1996 3.8L Mustang does not require ceramic pads, thenkyouverymuch. Funny how these mechanics don't know that, you know? I then inform them that ceramic pads were original equipment and that the manufacturer recommends them--but does not require them as replacements for the OE pads--because they generate less brake dust and result in a bit less noise than the semi-metallic (or organic, though I'm not even going there) pads, but I can have whatever pads I damned well please. End of story.

I mean really, now. Unless I'm going to hook up a hose from a securely-fastened face mask to the brake assembly while I drive or, as a cheaper but somewhat more daring alternative, hang my head out the window and snort brake dust while I drive with my feet and watch the road with my third eye, I really don't think I have a lot to worry about.

So the guy shuts up and agrees to the semi-metallic pads. But not after first trying to tell me that the rear pads for the Mustang have to be special ordered and that the semi-metallic Raybestos pads cost $60 more than "normal Raybestos semi-metallic pads" (that, of course, being their cost, which they would not charge me more than. He says he found this out when he actually searched for the part number in the computer and found that they were not a regularly-stocked item and had to be special ordered.

Funny, I say. I wonder where you get your parts.

Why? He asks.

Because they're ripping you off.

Oh? And he gives me this nice try little girl smirk.

I'll tell you why. Because I can go out and get a pair of Raybestos ceramic pads for less than sixty bucks, and that's not the cheap ceramics, either. And they're a stocked part within a mile of here. It'd take about ten minutes to have them in hand for about $30 bucks, and that's retail, sweetie. Now, if you want to talk semi-metallic--and we're still talking Raybestos, mind you, because I do not want you to put some generic K-Mart crap on the drive axle brakes of my Mustang you understand, the price is going to drop to about $17 bucks or so. Not $60 more than "normal Raybestos semi-metallic pads." So, I don't know where you're getting your information, but I have a real hard time believing you could possibly be paying anywhere near what you just quoted me.

Well, I'd like to know where you shop then.

Try partsamerica.com for starters. You order online and it'll be ready for you to pick up at Shuck's. And Shuck's has the Raybestos pads I mentioned in stock right now. That is if you know how to order online.

Well, you could do that and put them on yourself, but then you wouldn't have the lifetime warranty.

Oh? Who said I wanted to put them on myself? Isn't that what I'm paying you for? And most pads, even Raybestos, don't have a lifetime warranty. And if it is, it's limited. And if you read the fine print, it's generally limited to manufacturers' defects and does not apply to normal wear. The warranty I'm interested in is the warranty on labor right here. I'm willing to pay you people to do the work. I just want to make sure you're competent and that you know what you're doing and don't screw up. Human error is the most common cause of premature brake wear, and the Raybestos warranty doesn't cover that, does it?

We'll see if we can get the semi-metallic brake pads at a lower cost.

Good. Thanks. If you can't get a cost as low as I quoted to you, call me and I'll help you. If my car weren't here getting its brakes done, I'd bring you the pads myself.

Anything else?

Yeah. The rotors should be machinable, but if there is any problem with them and any of the rotors can't be turned, call me to discuss it. If you don't have rotors for the 3.8L Mustang in stock and have to have them brought in, they start at just under $30 for the K-Mart models. Just so you have an idea.

and later:

Looks like you're going to need new calipers in the back.

Looks like I what?

New calipers. The old ones were spread so far, I don't think I can get them to fit on the new rotors. It's going to be another $317 for new calipers.

No it's not, because you're not putting them on.

But we may have to.

Not if I don't authorize it.

We could put it all together and then find that the old calipers just don't work right. If that's the case, we'd just have to take the old ones off and replace them.

Then put it back together. I'm already late for an appointment in Vancouver.

But--

Listen. My car was supposed to be done at 2:30. Now you say it'll be 3:30. My appointment was at 3:15. I want my car back. And I will not have new calipers on it. You tell me how long it'll take to finish getting the old calipers adjusted with the new pads and rear rotors and get everything ready to go, and I'll be there to pick it up. I assume you've already been working on it?

Well yes, but--

I can be there in ten minutes.

How about fifteen?

Fine. I'm picking my car up in fifteen minutes. Brake job, semi-metallic pads, new rear rotors and front rotors turned. Right?

Okay, right. We'll see you in fifteen minutes.

Yes, you will.

elusive one

by Karyn Huntting Peters

he forever eluded me these long years,
thinking, chancing here and there,
and dizzy in night dreams, lost in a surreal
world of the never-to-be.

i heard his thoughts, elusive one,
felt his pain, knew the things that slipped
from his grasp, for they were my own,
just as the longings he held within.

he forever eluded me, never arrived,
yet i inhaled the air on quiet nights
by the water’s edge and i could smell
the memory of moments that might never come.

he forever eluded me, yet perhaps he was here,
standing in the space where i was,
breathing the air that filled my senses,
but in another dimension or time,
wondering why i forever eluded him.

shadow box

by Karyn Huntting Peters



White birch tendrils
Bare in winter's cold hands
Glow against the shadow box
Of nighttime's ink.

Pinpoints of faraway stars above
But echoes of a million years ago
Cover the unknown universe
As earth's clouds are blown past our sight.

remnant

by Karyn Huntting Peters

Colors of vegetable ink,
bright and running
in the cool stream,
but hues of the rainbow
inside white light.

Killer (for Poe)

by Nathan Hays

Ah, thank you my friend for coming on such short notice. Yes, it is urgent business but I must start at the beginning so you will not think me crazy like the others. Please sit for a moment and have some tea while I relate to you my recent experiences.

You see, there's been a murder in our town just last month. A young woman was found discarded on the side of the road, her neck slashed. Yes, it was horrible crime and we are all in a somber mood. It has the police quite perplexed because they have no leads on who the killer is. I wasn't going to get involved - with the medium stuff and all - but I've had such bad dreams. Until this is solved, I don't think I'm going to sleep well ever again.

If you remember, the last time I tried to help was when we had that ugly spate of dead animals that were showing up all over town. I spent a good deal of time searching for the subtle cues that hang in the air after a violent crime. My efforts weren't exactly rewarded though. The police got it all screwed up and thought I might be the slasher! Just because I have special sensitivities and can intuitively piece together a viable description of events, they thought I must've had something to do with it. Seems I knew details I shouldn't have but see, there's the proof of my talents. They had no substance to their suspicions and after a while they got off my back. They still haven't found the real perpetrator.

And so it was with a good deal of trepidation that I began hanging around the crime scene. I never ask questions and try not to listen to the gossip. All those words can fool us into thinking we are on to something and lead us astray. Instead, I just sat there on the side of the road and tried to conjure a vision of her falling from the car. Suddenly, an image of extreme violence flashed into my mind. Her neck had been cut as she was pushed out, presumably to avoid blood in the car. The image was too much for me to bear and it took a several days before I could muster the strength to return.

I went back several times and each time the picture became clearer and clearer. Soon I gained some insight into the killer's mind, the thoughts he had leading up to her death. He had forcefully suggested she get into his car. He wasn't being violent or anything, he was just impatient with her skeptical demeanor. Surely she would see that he was really a nice person and like him, but she wouldn't succumb to his advances. She started screaming absurdities about being kidnapped and that enraged him. He felt he had no choice, that she would ruin his life if her crazy reaction were spread all over town. His blind rage over her attempt to destroy him was what led him to kill her. How sad he was over the waste as he sped away! I can feel his grief even now. This is the point where the images become incoherent. There is however one more engram which I will relate in a moment.

I know there is no logical way I could know this, but it is all too real for me to shove it aside as a sober man of science would. There are many things on this earth that science has no inkling of let alone explanations for. My problem is that the police can be so ignorant of these possibilities. If they can trust the techniques of a DNA machine that they know nothing of, why can't they trust my abilities? I am close to discovering the identity of the killer, but I fear they will not believe me and my life will be in grave danger.

This is why I have asked for your help. You can go to the police where I cannot. I would go to them directly, but given our last encounter, they will not see or hear clearly. You can say that you overheard all this on a bus or something but could not see the face of the one talking. They can do with the information what they want, but you will not be involved beyond your tip. I want this killer to be found. Will you do this for me? Good. I knew I could trust you.

There is the last clue that I have mentioned. This is the key to the identity of the killer as it concerns a bloodstain which surely they can trace. The last image I have is of the killer removing his shirt and throwing it away. I found that shirt in the trash can behind the theater. See! I told you my techniques were powerful! The garbage men have not come yet, so if they hurry, the police will have their best clue yet.

Go my friend and may God's will be with you and all of us.

distance

by Karyn Huntting Peters

distance.
an illusion.
an odd little thought
that once entered our mind.
it passed from your half to mine,
and then it was gone.
we met in the middle.

I feel a poem coming on

by Kimberly Lewis

Heart-tugging, squeezing, demanding to be heard it creeps discreetly into my chest and filters away all mundane, filing down the old halls of forgotton memory and ancient paper-dreams, peeping curiously into crevices exposed only to the most insightful days, boundless words constrict to fragmented meanings - tight-lipped fables of pleasant traumas and untold dreams, heard scraping and clawing sweetly to the electric surface, brewing blue moods and yellowing the real, hindsight and the unfolding concoct a present in gilted bows, the muse’s banality on the stage, sophistries rush and twirl tiptoed from this space, rightness crookedly conforms to a page; bellowing, whispering, hotly enveloping a cool heart, tired from the known and the hackneyed tongue; languid primordial, an ooze of word-pageantry; a bubble of utopia bursts to bleed the black ink.

backdoor visitor

by Karyn Huntting Peters