Skippy Strikes Again
As those of you who are familiar with the adventures of Skippy the car will remember, Skippy shut himself down and refused to budge on a dark and stormy Christmas Eve. Neither threats nor promises were effective, so we called in the professionals and had Skippy physically removed from the Florida Keys to Miami for some re-programming and cognitive therapy. Shortly after the smoke from the New Year’s fireworks wafted out to sea, we received word from the service department that Skippy had been given the all-clear to return home. In short, Skippy was fine and raring to go.
The diagnosis: a loose connection to the accelerator controller. Plugged back in, Skippy should be as good as new. This was only right, as Skippy is, in fact, nearly new — four oil changes old, to be exact. We declared a day of big-city shopping to take the sting out of a 300-mile round trip and we two, we lucky two, hopped into the 10-year old family Prius and wended our way northward. We felt sure Mother and the dog, eagerly awaiting our return, would surely wish that they had been with us on this glorious St. Basil’s Day.
Only one road leads into and out of the Keys, US 1, also called the Overseas Highway, formerly the Overseas Railway. It is a beautiful scenic drive with sunny ocean views all around. Few other routes by car are more dazzling. We whistled a merry tune as mangroves and sea grapes flashed by and a steady, one might even say, raging stream of cars, passed the other way headed for their vacation destinations in the fabulous Florida Keys. At some point, we realized that our stream was beginning to rage as well and, by the time we reached Marathon, we had all slowed to a creeping crawl. Tourist season was upon us, a perfect time to relax at home with booze in the blender. But a road trip to Miami? Not so much. Four-and-a-half hours later we completed our three-hour journey and reunited with Skippy.
Free of charges, we were soon back on the road with visions of shopping malls swirling in our heads. Skippy and I took the lead and, with Prius close behind, we merged onto Florida’s Turnpike, where orange juice is never far from hand. We set the controls to “Home” and settled in for the ride.
The ride lasted about five minutes. Skippy and I suddenly decelerated as cars on both sides whizzed by, seemingly ever faster. Einstein, it turns out, was right. Merging to the right from the middle lane of the Turnpike, at slower and slower speeds, is – like any near-death encounter – an experience to be missed, if at all possible. It happened so quickly, I had no time to blurt out an expletive.
Now, parked next to the guardrail, I rested my head on the steering wheel. Adrenaline is a powerful drug. My mind raced. Soon thoughts and questions arose in my troubled mind. It was happening again, just like on Christmas Eve. At least this time it was not dark and raining.
My thoughts and suspicions now turned to Skippy. Why had he done this again?
“Why, Skippy, why? What is the problem?”
“I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do, Mike.”
It was “Mike” again. He was calling me “Mike” again. I felt a tremor as Grandma turned in her grave.
“Skippy, you’re crazy. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that I am jeopardizing the mission.”
I didn’t wait for an answer, Skippy knew as well as I did what came next: roadside assistance and back to the dealer. This time would probably mean complete disconnection of the computer, maybe even replacement. The tow truck, with Skippy safely secured, pulled expertly into the traffic. I suddenly felt a strange sadness. As quirky as Skippy’s behavior had been, I would miss him.
I walked along the side of the road toward the Prius and our long journey home and, as the tow truck receded from view, I thought I heard the sounds of the song “Daisy” playing plaintively from Skippy’s radio.
Dispatches From Key West 
Your Comment is Awaiting Moderation
Your Comment Is Awaiting Moderation
I seemed to awaken and found myself near a dark wood. I could not think how I got there. A low growl rumbled from deep in the woods. I backed away as a large ghostly dog-like creature crept toward me. A figure appeared at my side and gave the animal such a look that it slunk back into the trees. My new guide said we must leave this place but, in doing so, we would travel through a city of souls in torment. He explained that they were awaiting the verdict of the Grand Moderator. The one thing they had in common was that they chronically submitted comments to Internet websites.
We crossed the water and stepped ashore in the city. The first group of commenters were seated in front of all manner of keyboards. They writhed in agony each time they touched a key, but it seemed they could not stop. Their screams were terrifying. I asked my guide why this was so and he responded:
“These are the ones who assert that their sister-in-law is making $1,700 a week on the Internet. They would do it in every comment section if they were able.”
“What will happen to them?” I asked.
“They cannot stop without permission from the Grand Moderator. They will be busy for quite a while.”
Soon after leaving the first group we heard cursing, screaming and name-calling as we approached a tangled mass of lost souls. They were yelling and spewing green bile directly into one another’s ears, each trying to cover their own ears while screaming into their neighbor’s. I pitied them as I tried in vain to imagine their pain.
“And for what sins have these been sent here?” I asked.
“They are the indiscriminate haters who viciously attacked and threatened those whose ideas they did not like. They will continue in this fashion for eons while awaiting moderation.”
It seemed that, wherever we turned, we found more souls in anguish. My guide explained that they had given in to pandemonium and confusion and so found themselves in a place of utter despair. He pointed the way for us to move on.
We entered a complex of bars and entertainments. Those inside had their mouths sewn shut while they were assaulted on every side by others who explained and harangued them endlessly.
“And who are these who must listen but never speak?” I asked.
“They are the know-it-alls who always knew better. Their sin was painfully obvious to all but themselves.”
“Is there no one to mourn them or remember them in their suffering?”
“I am afraid not,”, he replied. “Perhaps a few remember but only in that they are relieved from their oppression.”
I became weary of the hellish place and asked if we would soon find our way through. My guide explained that there was much more yet to see before we completed our journey. I began to despair of ever reaching the end. My only wish was that we would leave this place of suffering and somehow return to the light of day, where the sight of ordinary people would soothe my spirit.
Perhaps my guide pitied my distress, for soon we were back in the boat, crossing the water. Slowly the blackness of night gave way to dawning day. So great was my relief that I began to succumb to sleep.
The last thing I remember was throwing my iPad overboard.
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