Oct 02 2008
Boom
Katie Cashman
Expos. Writing, 4
Mrs. Donovan
30 September 2008
Boom.
Throughout my life, I have been on more than enough car rides, road trips, drives to the mall, whatever you’d like to call ‘em. Each one tends to enclose a different, exhilarating adventure, but I can only imagine what a road trip with Mr. Blasser might contain.
Our day would start off in Government, sixth period. As he would lecture, he would pace back and forth in front of the class, swinging his arms all about in different directions, occasionally writing a word or two on the board. Usually this word would be completely random and not useful at all, such as “Amendment” or “Art. 4”. There is no purpose to writing words like this down, but at least he’s made an effort to write more than three letters on the board. Good job, Mr. B!
After class, we’d bond while listening to soft 70’s rock, including Carl Douglas’, Kung Fu Fighting, Steely Dans’ Show Biz Kid and of course, Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits. I’d casually insult his horrible taste in “elevator” music as we would plan to attend the volleyball game after school. Now, I’ve been playing volleyball since 7th grade, and well, Mr. Blasser has been a huge fan of volleyball ever since. Now and then, he’ll ask for updates on the current season, but on this particular day, he’ll ask for a ride to the game, and of course, kissing ass and hoping for a higher Government grade, I’ll offer to drive him.
Once school was out, we’d hop into my convertible, red Volkswagen beetle, and on this hot day, I’d choose to put the top down. Mr. Blasser would explain to me how he had a Volkswagen as well in high school, and I’d act interested in this matter, even though in reality, cars do not interest me one bit.
Upon starting the vehicle, the music would begin blaring as I left it, but the song would not be Mr. Blasser’s typical “elevator music”, as Mr. Reynolds likes to call it. The song playing would be The Bloodhound Gang’s one hit wonder, The Bad Touch. From that moment on, things might get awkward.
I’d quickly push the skip button, and we’d enjoy some good ‘ol Cher. As I would belt out the lyrics
to “I Got You Babe”, Mr. Blasser would act casual, probably thinking about the stock market, and wishing he brought his newspaper to catch up on the latest reports on McCain and Obama. After a couple more hits, Sublime’s, Caress Me Down, would begin to play. Being one of my personal favorites, I would refuse to skip this song, leaving Mr. Blasser in shock.
After deciding turning off the music was the best idea, we’d make small talk, probably including volleyball, my sister, Allie, and maybe some recent movies coming out. Of course I find it completely unfair that I have to pay full price for a movie, while Mr. Blasser gets a discount for being a senior citizen. He sure doesn’t act like a 60-year-old man.
Yes, Bob Blasser is actually 60-years-old as of this year, but he barely looks it. As I would observe him while driving in my convertible, I would notice his white grey hair blowing in the wind like the ocean dragging the waves away from shore. His glasses would lay gently on his nose as he would squint his eyes due to the bright, dazzling sun on the horizon. The small tint of color on his beard would leave me entranced. I’d contemplate while at the stop light what color it was. Upon deciding this portion of hair was light brown, I’d return to driving. As I stopped at the stop signs, I’d turn my head left, then right, looking for any cars. Out of my peripheral vision, I would see Mr. Blasser’s throat moving as he spoke about who knows what. I would be way too caught up in his moving turkey gobble, that I wouldn’t pay any attention to the words coming out of his mouth. Being so caught up with his mouth moving, I wouldn’t look at the road, and I would almost hit a brand new (insert car here). Mr. B would then screech “HOLY CRAP! I wasn’t expecting a hit from that angle!” and I would slam on the brakes and upon stopping, I would yell back into his face “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!” He would not understand my joke and find no humor in it whatsoever. From that point on, there would be no discussion. I would casually turn up the music, but not a CD this time; we’d stick to the radio.
Upon arriving to the game, Mr. Blasser would jump out of my car as fast as lightening. Of course, we’d win the game, and he’d be cheering for me the whole game. Once we won the game, Mr. Blasser would need a ride home, because his wonderful wife, Mrs. Blasser, has taken their car back home to Healdsburg without him. Once again, I am his ride home, lucky him.
The ride to Healdsburg is a good 38 minutes, 32.05 mile drive, but hey, what better to do than give my Government teacher, Dean, and Vice Principle, a ride home. On the ride home, we’d get stuck in horrible traffic. Not the 20mph freeway traffic, no, it’d be the complete stop on the highway for a good 30 minutes. After 3 minutes of sitting in the car, I’d punch Mr. B’s bicep, and under my breath say “Red slug bug.” A chuckle would then make its way through Mr. Blasser’s lips, and then we’d begin playing other car games. As we made our way out of the traffic, the sun would go down and we’d decide to stop at the local Starbucks to get some energy into our systems’. Mr. Blasser would order some sort of strong coffee, while I’d stick to me Double Chocolate Chip Frappachino with extra whip and two shots of peppermint. He’d criticize my taste buds and I’d stare at him in disgust as he would sip down his coffee slowly.
Finally we would reach our destination. We’d depart on good terms, putting the ride to the game aside; we’d do our secret handshake we made up before Government class on the afternoon of October 1st. Boom.
