Dust Because

Ally Allowinter 

 

     I didn't feel like doing it, but the two inches of dust on the windowsill wouldn't spontaneously combust itself away. Maybe my mom would. I don't mean blow up, or even dust the window, but maybe she'd change her mind and not come next week. Then I wouldn't have to dust at all.

     Getting my lazy ass in gear, I got up and headed to the kitchen to get the dusting supplies from under the sink. But when I got into the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator to get a drink and realized I didn’t have any of Mom’s wine. That wouldn’t do. All I had was the cheap stuff in a box. Mom had to have wine from a proper bottle.

     I grabbed the keys to old Betty, my 63 Beetle, and headed to the liqueur store. We needed whiskey as well as wine. After going on a shopping binge and getting Jack Daniels, three bottles of white, three reds, and a couple cases of Michelob for David, my neighbor, who pretended to be my boyfriend whenever mom visited, I threw it all in the front, passenger seat and headed home.

     I made it to the freeway access road, but quickly got mired in a traffic jam.  Shit. I turned on the radio and found that an accident stopped traffic in both directions for several miles.  I groaned, inched my way to the left lane, then made a u-turn in an emergency vehicle only lane. 

     With a sigh of relief that no flashing lights chased me, I headed onto the back roads.  It took longer this way, but at least I was moving. I’d probably get home faster than if I waited out the accident.

     Three miles past the Otis Mills Dairy farm and just before the old covered bridge, a chicken crossed the road. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to ask it “Why?” because Betty went flying into the ditch and all the alcohol that I bought, hit the dash and exploded. 

     I think a few minutes went by before I could understand what had just happened. Fortunately, Betty’s seatbelt worked and I, unlike my bottles, was not plastered all over the windshield. I put Betty in reverse, but she wouldn’t budge. I turned off the engine and pulled the lever to release the seatbelt, but it was stuck. I pushed, I shoved, I screamed, and swore, but nothing would release it.

     There was nothing more I could do but dial 911.

     “911, please state your name and what’s your emergency?”

     “My name's Bunny and I’m stuck in my seatbelt. I can’t get out.”

     A moment of silence passed before the lady said, “I’m sorry, Bunny, did you say you were stuck in your seat belt?”

     “Yes.”

     “Then why don’t you drive to a place where someone can help you.”

     “Because my seatbelt is in my car that is stuck in a ditch in the middle of nowhere.”

     A snort came through the phone before the lady's slow words.  “Can you tell me a little more about where this nowhere is?”

     “I’m on Barrister Road just before the covered bridge.”

     “Okay, Bunny, stay calm. I’ll send someone right out.”

     “Thank you.”

     She hung up between the thank-and the -you, and I think I heard her laughing too. Glancing over at the glass carnage next to me, I noticed that the bottom of a broken whisky bottle had about a jigger's worth still in the bottom of it. I stretched to reach it and, careful to find the dullest edge of the glass, I downed the whiskey. 

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Ally Allowinter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.