Beans

Okay, okay. I know that my first post today cannot defend itself as a true honest to goodness post, what with NaBloPoMo. So here's something a little more worthy. Or, at least that's the goal.

(NaBloPoMo #2)
There are some nights in my life I wish I could live over and over again...like the night I spent with ____ (Ha! Like I'd actually reveal his name!) when we chatted for hours, connecting on everything from art to Moz-art, chowing down on our Red Iguana; Team 23; craziness in the ACK/up in Park City with The Girls; weekends spent with the Brothers F; nights (I should say early mornings) in 161 F. Smith; spring scooter rides in Provo with my scooter boy, knowing I had a whopper of a French exam in the morning, but "wah-hooing" the night away; 6th grade sleepovers on Stansbury; the Monumental Monument Night '05; When Catherine Sloan (Blake) came to spend the night; Haglund Family Reunion Devotionals; cousin nights with A, K and M...the list could go on.

Tonight, thanks to three of the four heads that were actually present on this spectacular evening, I was able, at least to some extent, re-live a night that has forever and will forever live on in splendid fame.

We jumped into the rusted brown Taurus (nick-named the "Poo Stain" for obvious and not-so-obvious reasons) ready for whatever the night had in store. M and I were in the back. Mo as pilot, N the Wing Woman. Four girls out on a Friday night. Harmless enough. The PS was handling like the '91 gem that it was, all squeaks and creaks; springs poking up through the brown velvet seats, which were only visible if all of Ashley's wardrobe (minus the shirts she stole from 'Mudge) were shoved aside. Oh, and then there were the beans. That's the thing about the PS: you never knew what you'd be sitting with, on or around. And, on this particular night, it was beans.

The Dynamite Duo (E & M) had gotten Mo back good. For what, I'm not quite sure, but beans were everywhere. You know, the hard uncooked kind...the kind you used in first grade to count out your tens and your hundreds. Who knows how long they'd been there. Weeks? Months? They'd been spewed all over creation, finding the PS's musty environment inviting. Some of them decided to jump ship and were rooted in the ground on Mo's parent's parking strip; the avid beans sprouting a bright green sprig.

There we were, Triple M and N, the Queens of PS Bean Town (I know you're insanely jealous), ready for anything. Seventeenth South and Michigan brought wondrous glee as the PS sallied forth over a large dip. It was so delightfully unexpected in fact that Mo tugged that baby into R, executing an immediate cross-terrain-quadro-reverse...flawlessly indeed. Before we knew it: Round Two. This time, the starting line was a bit further up the road. The PS's shoulders were squared and she was ready to launch. I recall thinking something about a seat belt. I guess I trusted that trusty, rusty Taurus, (and it's driver) so much, I was willing to risk my limbs for another rush of excitement, because I didn't buckle-up. Mo revved the engine. Even the beans felt a tinge of elation as they began to dance on the car floor, gaining momentum as the engine revved.

Zero to 10 in ten seconds, at least. (This thing had power). Suddenly, we were airborne, all four (and M confirmed this tonight) wheels of the PS in flight. I don't know who spotted him first. The stray cat's eyes glared back at us as if to say, "Good night and good luck, gals" but, Aha! This cat didn't know the illustrious Power of the Poo Stain! Power aside, the cat wasn't (aside) and needed to be, for we were headed directly towards it, still on the wing. I know we were still en aeros because Mo cranked the wheel as hard as she could in the direction opposite Mr. Chester. However, when rubber finally hit asphalt, the car hadn't turned. The axle clunked. The tires burned. Instantaneously, as we went down, Mr. C went up, taking his fur in flight, trying like heck to dodge the Bean-Queen Taurus Mobile. At this point, we weren't so much worried about the Cheshire as we were the fact that we were now perpendicular to the road, 90 degrees off of where we should be in order to avoid not only a very concerned witness slash cat-owner? and three cars parked on either side of the street. Mo did the only thing she could do - she cranked the wheel 90 degrees in the opposite direction, mere inches from a car on the other side of the street. Sir Isaac Newton on our side, by the time we came in range of the third car, we'd covered a significant amount of terrain - half on land, half on wing, and we missed the car by a long shot. There was a little more pinball machine-ing before we were positioned straight and narrow, closer to Herbert and Yale Ave.

Mo 10-and-2-ed it, and slowly turned up Yale. The PS and all passengers (beans included) were dead silent. Then, as if on cue, the all of us (I like to think the beans joined in) erupted with uncontrollable laughter. We had to laugh to keep from crying! Not only had we risked our four young lives, the life of an innocent (wait...cats are never innocent, but I'll give him this one) cat, but we'd brought the beloved PS as close to death as she'd ever been. And her dear beans? Those could have been toast, too. We sat in the caring brown velvet slash vinyl clutches of that Poo Stain of a life-saver, each telling and re-telling our account of our Ride-O-Death a la Seventeenth East. We've recalled the incident on numerous occasions since, living vicariously through our individual and collective memories, each time laughing so hard we nearly cry.

The PS was laid to rest a few years ago. All cars go to heaven, though. I'm sure of it. And this one, this Brown Beaut, climbed it's way to heaven from Mo's parking strip, on a giant beanstalk.