15,691. THE DESIGNATED RAMBLER, #1

THE DESIGNATED RAMBLER

Not fun, just jagged. Not smooth,

just rough. That could be me in a

nutshell. If I dwelt in nutshells,

but I don't. The car that brought me 

here was some ambulance-chaser's

black sedan and it ended up in the

same ditch I did - plastered by a

train on Rahway Ave. How's this?

I exclaimed, and what the heck's

going down? I'm eight years old

and you've got me done, already

pushing me into the ground?'

-

There was a lot of silence after that.

No one seemed willing to talk. Steve

Meszaros had to drive to tell my father

what just happened. He'd been in the

car behind us, oddly enough. First Aid

Squad buddies too. That must have

been one hell of a trip. The preacher

guy came by, onto the scene, and gave

me last rights. I never knew I had any

rights, and already I'm at my last? I'm

eight years old and you've got me down,

already in the past?

-

Last thing I remember was noise : a curling,

bashing, metallic sound. The '53 Ford went 

over and round. No body screamed because

nobody could. My mother got out OK. Her

part of the car stayed right there, while I

went 200 feet down the tracks with the

train, for the sleighride of my life. In a

manner of speaking, I was dead and gone,

until they tried to pull me out from under

the old metal dashboard. I made a noise.

They stopped their chore! It was 1958,

remember, on a cold snowy February 

day. A moan was all I could come up

with. I had nothing more to say. That

priest gave it up and went home.

The designated rambler was

still alive and set to roam.