Runaway Kook

If it wasn't for that cow on the side of the Kemps dairy truck, I wouldn't be here right now. Not in my home, or in this state either. Probley nor even on this continent for that matter. The time it took that semi to make a leisurely left hand turn west onto highway 8, was all the time I needed to change my mind and abandon my brilliant scheme. It was that heifer's face looking back at me with it's large soft brown eyes along with the Kemps company motto, "It's the cows", written underneath it that reminded me of Robert B's eyes, and the promise I had made him for dinner.

Work at the rehab center has not been running smoothly. Both my patience and my tolerance has been worn thin due to the mountain of added responsibility, and increased work load crammed into my over long work day. Coworkers, instead of being of help, exist only to cause me irritation lately. My mind, when aloud the luxury of a daydream, wraps it's self around foot rubs and warm solitary bed fantasies. This past weekend, when the walk in cooler and freezer sighed it's last tempt breath, it was the nudge that sent me cursing over the edge. My heart sunk with a loud thud hitting the now barren metal cooler causing a rippling effect in the strategically placed lakes surrounding the compound. Then I thought of the pending alumni reunion coming in for a long weekend and me with no refridgeration to uphold my food sanity. As much as I longed to crawl under the desk in the back store room and curl up, hugging my knees to my chest while I rock maniacally and babble in devil tongue, I did the next best thing. I commandeered in a somewhat shady manner the company van and planned to pick up my needed perishables from the main kitchen and transport all of them back across campus to my kitchen between each meal. That would have been a breeze had each meal not consisted of a dozen loaded carts of industrial sized food stuffs. Tossing the last of my necessities for dinner into the van, the gallon sized plastic jug of thousand island dressing slipped out of my hands and landed on the cement, exploding on contact, and covering me from the knees to toes in stinky orange goo. My mind was beyond pandemonium at that point. It was t minus one hour forty five minutes to have two entrees, a carbohydrate and choice of veg plus a salad bar and desert ready for sixty hungry expectant guests. The shelf live of my reasoning ability had reached it expiration point.

I left that broken jug of dressing right where it landed, at the base of the steps into the big kitchen. I had also dropped all premise of rational as I sat perched on the edge of the illicit van's seat, clutching on the the steering wheel to be able to reach the pedals. I hoped the big lout who had moved the seat all the way back and jammed it, so I had to drive like a little munkay just handed a loaded gun, slipped in my mess, and hurt himself, bad.

The campus was already teeming with new arrivals. As I politely waited as the pokey pedestrains meandered across my service road/walking path, I hatched my plan.

I had a large loaded van with with food and a tank full of gas. A very non descriptive vehicle. All I had to do was make a series of turns out of this compound and head to the open road and freedom. Easy does it, my ass, I thought, when my nervous eyes spotted the company's encouraging road sign posted to remind all abusers as well as all drivers to slow down, as I made my first turn onto the road towards a new life. Move now, you dawdling group of penguins posing as promenaders, I'm out of here.

I would pick my boys up at their school on my way, and call my supervisor, explaining vaguely I had a huge incident to buy myself time before he called the authority's and reported the van stolden. I could put many miles between hell and destiny before they called the cops. Buy enough time to snatch some new plates in another state even, I planned as I was finally able to pull out onto the service road. I grinned as I imagined a group of starving rioters pillaging my listing kitchen with flaming torches and fighting over the goldfish crackers I had left behind.

My kids would love our adventure. I would let them pick out their new hair colors at some Walmart in Iowa. Heck they could even pick out their new names. Of course I would stop by my bank on 8 and empty some of the accounts. I would have K1, I mean Marly, as he has always liked that name, in the front seat with me, with sunglasses and a linen napkin fashioned into a turban of sorts wrapped around his head to give the illusion, when the teller is questioned later, and the security camera footage scanned, that I may be being abducted by a terrorist.

I would stop by a few construction sites on my way south and send charming K2, er, Otto out to sell lunches to hungry workers at break time from the supplies in our getaway van to further our pocket money and lighten our load. Get out of my way damn you, you smug maitenance driver in your issued company vehicle. South America is waiting for me.

I will drop the van off at some airport in say, Ohio, to throw any unwanted heat off our trail. By that time, all the steaks blood will be mixed with the pork blood that will have dripped off of the raw meat in back and onto the van's floor and the time it takes for the lab tests to confirm they are not mine or the kids will jigsaw our puzzle even more. Then I can buy myself a nice little black el Camino circa 1978 that I have always wanted well since 1978. I don't care if you are a staff member or not there sister, walk like you mean it or I will be wearing you on the outside of this get a way van.

How hard would it be for me and the kids to get across the border into a warm third world country.?Gotta be much easier than getting in. My breathing became a little faster as I pulled onto Pleasant Orchard Road, off the foundations land , as I pictured the clean little ocean village I would soon be calling home. I would open a jerk chicken stand on the beach, my kids like fire, and I would make our living selling barbecue to the affluent tourist. Or perhalps a coffee stand where I would be a barista named Geta and the locals would come for a cup and a story of my homeland, Norway, and my family who had all died in an unexpected avalanche while herding the sheep that supplied the wool needed for the manufacturing of Ugg boots. Marly will teach travelers to string flower lai's and Otto will study marine biology. If anyone trys to speak Norwegin to me, I will burst into tears and clain I am to despondant to reply in my native tounge. We will only allow ourselves to miss our past as we sit cooking our sweet potato lefsa on a hot rock in our fire pit on Christmas, and plan for the day I can tell Hubby of our whereabouts, after he has retired and cashes in his pension, to join us. I cannot tell him sooner, as he cannot lie and the police would see through him faster than the clear sea saltwater that will be in the taffy I will manufacture and slip notes in, fortune cookie style, before shipping back to Minnesota to maintain correspondence with my family behind.

Areosmith, Cake, Systems of the Down, Rolling Stones and even a new PSP to keep me and the kids entertained on the long drive went on the Walmart shopping list in my mind as I squeezed my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel so I would not slide back in the seat and be unable to reach the accelerator once the semi in front of me finally pulls into traffic onto highway 8. I must remember a large cushion to brace my back as long as I'm there, or I will never be able to drive the entire trip, I thought.

It was then the semi pulled into traffic and I caught sight of those beautiful bovine eyes pleading with me. Roberts eyes. His license plate on his Mercedes reads Dr Bear. And he is a sweet teddy bear of a doctor man. He has been back at recovery almost a month now. I am always glad to see him and he is polite and often asks after my kids. I share my adventures on my day off with him and I show him pictures of my family. I try to make a special effort to cook healthy alternatives for Robert. He vaguely mentioned once to me he likes kale, and I told him I would see what I could do to get my hands on some for him. Robert has told me if he does not take care of his body, and what he eats, he is more tempted to abuse chemicals again. The thought of him backsliding and start using again could mean the possibility of him unintentionally hurting one of his patents. I could not live like that, even on a beach front nirvana.

All I thought about when I turned that grey van around at the stop sign was weather or not the bale of kale in the back would taste good with a smathering of thousand island dressing.