Old folks need apocalyptic blasphemy too!

Simple savages.

Only a savage would ignore the subtle differences in beauty between the distinctly angular silhouette of a Coleman and the sleek, curvy outline of a Kenworth. To them, a semi is a tractor-trailer is Mack is an 18-wheeler. They have never uttered the words articulated combination vehicle. They’ve never spoken those sweet, succulent words over and over to themselves, tasting the way they roll over their tongues, articulated combination vehicle, articulated combination vehicle, articulated combination vehicle. Some people don’t stand back to admire the tilt-cab construction of a classic Sterling 481 and they’ve never run their hands admiringly along the bubbled fender of a ’77 Navistar International. Some people just call them trucks. Some people don’t know true beauty. Some people can’t appreciate the pure sexiness of heavy mechanical power.

I open the door of my little pickup and step out into the crisp fall air. I keep my gaze leveled at the beauty in front of me and I don’t bother to shut the door tightly behind me. Walking up to the rear of the tractor, I notice how naked she looks without the Lowboy attached to her drive train. I marvel, and not for the first time, at the mechanical masterpiece of the hydraulic lift attached to fifth wheel. I run my fingers gently over her, imagining the landing gear of the trailer fitting down behind her rear wheels. The tread is think and grooved and delicious, like black licorice.

Passing the extended sleeper cab, I can’t help but stare at the graceful curves of her running board and the modified fuel tanks clinging to her smooth sides. As I get closer to the door, I let out one shaky breath into the cool autumn night and I shiver a little, but not from the cold. I realize then that I’ll probably be unable to properly express myself if I have to face the driver. I decide it’s best not to disturb the man in my current state, so I turn and head back to my truck. My retreat to the safety and cover of my truck is quick, but stiff and nervous. Once I‘m sitting back in my seat, behind my own little steering wheel, I relax a little. I take one last look at the cold metallic beauty of the The Green Crawler, and I drive away, my heart hammering away with its fast and guilty beats.

They’re made of black and white leather (maybe) and I think that, once upon a time, long before I bought them for ten dollars, they were shiny. I think the glossy black edges positively gleamed against the matte white top, sides, and tongue. Now, they’ve lost their reflective luster and the black has become a dull, scuffed, shadow of its former glory. The white has lost its once-pure radiance and now bears the marks of countless scuffles with sidewalks, curbs, and stairs. They look like the kind of shoes that might have been cast aside by Frank Sinatra after a spontaneous night of drunken, back-alley kickboxing.

On the top of the toes a dizzying pattern of holes are punched into the “leather.” Perhaps it was intended to look like a fleur-de-lis, or a shield, or just a stylized arrow pointing out toward the world in front of it. At some point, maybe before I bought them, maybe since, the holes lost their uniform integrity to what was probably a paperclip or a ballpoint pen. Some are wide and uneven, others still have their original shape, and still others seem to have been filled in with clay or silly putty.

Along the top, where an apparently ungodly amount of walking has bent the toe up from the rest of the shoe, a crease has formed. By crease, I mean trench. The trench has expanded widthwise across the shoe, as well as grown deeper into the surface of the leather. In one place on the left shoe, the trench has become a crack and it can no longer keep a left foot dry in the rain. Directly above the trench-cracks, there used to be black waxed-cord laces. When one of these snapped a few years ago, I replace it with some braided hemp twine. In the interest of symmetry and tastefulness, I replaced both, rather than just the one. They’ve proven to be an effectively durable replacement for the originals.

For reasons I can’t completely articulate, I’ve stopped wearing these magnificent shoes. So, if anyone wants them, I’ll sell them for nine dollars. Tell your friends.

They were laughing their queer little laughs while holding up skirts and sequined tops against themselves and each other. The short one, the one with long and girly blond hair, picked out a flamboyant velvet hat and delicately placed it on his head, striking a fem pose in the mirror on the wall. He didn’t look too pleased with what he saw, so he handed it to his “friend.” This kid was taller, thinner, with short hair, and looked like one of those trendy little metro fags you see on TV. When he put it on, Goldilocks wrinkled his face, shook his head, and turned back toward the rack of women’s dresses.

Metro put the hat back on a shelf and walked over to look at the mini-skirts. He walked just like the token gay kids do on the Real World: knees pointed gently in and hips swaying, trying to show off an ass he didn’t have. He found a glittery little number and pulled it on over his skinny black jeans. Walking back toward Goldilocks, he adjusted the waist of his new skirt and looked at himself in the wall mirror. He cocked his hips to one side, folded his arms across his chest, and pouted his lips in a way that made me sick. I could just imagine all the other queers oohing and ahhing at such a pretty little boy all dolled up in women’s clothes.

I wanted to look away, but it was like a gay train wreck; I couldn’t help myself. I held up a pair of jeans and acted like I was inspecting them thoughtfully. I looked past them to Goldilocks who had just pulled a bright, floral dress on over his way-too-tight hipster jeans. It was an ugly dress, even for a woman. It was the kind of thing that overweight, middle-aged women with too much perfume wore to church. It hung ridiculously over his body like a tent or a tablecloth, folds of cloth drooping loosely over everything. He broke out in a big grin, clapped his hands twice, and then he actually squealed at the mirror. I couldn’t believe the clerks weren’t kicking the little perverts out of the store. There were kids and old ladies in there.

I put down the things I had been carrying and considered walking over there to beat some manners into the little ladyboys. It took some serious self-control, but I decided today wasn’t the day for beating queers. I just walked to the door, slowing down only to glare at the clerk behind the counter before leaving.

I move through the dense, wet air with a motion somewhat like swimming, somewhat like walking, and I try to get my bearings. I stand firmly on the ground, yet hopelessly lost in the middle of a cloud. Occasionally little pockets of clarity open within the fog and, in the distance, I can make out the vague edges of the monstrous thing in front of me. I move forward in my dreamlike world, watching, anticipating, remembering.

I’ve done this before. I know this.

Each time the wispy white air clears, I can make out more of the giant creature’s shape. It rests, momentarily dormant, not even seeming to breathe. The enormity of the indistinct fogbeast makes me dizzy and I almost retreat to the safety of the structures far behind me. After a few false starts, I finally continue forward, slowly and silently moving closer to the one thing I dread more than anything else in the world.

I remember you.

The body remains still and I still can’t make sense of its edges. I see folded wings, an enormous tail, and a colossal, horned head. I can’t tell which way it faces. At first I think I’ve approached it from the rear. I allow myself hope that this may go easier than  expected. If I can find its head, perhaps even a closed eyelid–

The creature chooses that moment to snort, and lazily lift its gigantic head off its front legs. Every tendon, muscle, and scale on its body creaks and groans If the World Tree ever falls, I imagine it will sound just like that. The demon slowly turns its grizzled snout down toward me and I stare into its eyes wondering, even now, if I’ve come here to save it or slay it. A grin spreads across its ancient face and for a second I can see its cracked and yellowing teeth. Those teeth wouldn’t slice me in half like knives; they would crush me like boulders.

“Do you know my name.” Its voice sounds like I imagine shifting geological plates to sound.

“Yes.” My voice comes out high and thin.

“Say it.” It orders.

“They call you Eschatos.” And at that moment, I realize I have come here to save it.

I am sitting in my backyard, grilling tasty meats, listening to accordian music. Life is truly swell.