here,there & elsewhere. Speed punk

We’re speeding along in our bright blue hearse like a gramophone needle in an LP the size of the expressway. We’re playing the classic anthem of the road-warrior: no tickets, no schedules, no tension. The landscape scrolls past our windows in a hypnotic blur of trees, rocks, fields, towns, sky, clouds, on and on. And on again.

As a non-driver, I’ve spent large chunks of my life being transported like this, passive as a parcel. Maybe it’s because of the accumulated months and years of happy childhood journeys that I find it utterly soothing. In my past, we travelled in family groups where the children sat cushioned between the large soft bodies of mothers, aunts and sisters. No wonder these memories are laced with the iron-clad security of those days, the absolute absence of fear, of doubt, of loss.

I can’t read because I get car-sick and I’ve slept enough to last me a week. So I’m reclining at full length, listening to Birk and Bins singing along with the radio, swapping anecdotes, telling jokes. I can barely understand what they’re saying. They sound more like two old dogs, yipping and howling companionably together. Punky the skunk is asleep on Bins’ lap as Birk drives, but when Bins is at the wheel, the skunk is draped around his neck. We’ve been on the road for four days now and the little critter seems completely relaxed around us.

One of the running jokes on this journey has been about what to do if we’re caught transporting a wild animal across state lines. Birk doesn’t know whether or not it’s illegal. Bins doesn’t care. “If some police-guy stops us, so what, man? We’ll just aim little Punky with his tail up and — paf! Stink bomb! No more police-guy!” Much wheezy laughter. “Can you imagine using Punky to hold up a bank? He would totally clear the building!” According to Birk, the average American citizen is scared witless by skunks. “We believe the spray is worse than napalm,” he says. “Causes nerve damage. Instant gangrene. Madness.” As a one-time pest controller, he’s been sprayed a couple of times. “Sure, it’s awful — but the fear is worse. You survive the spraying, but the fear of going mad drives you mad.”

So we’re racing along and laughing and paying no attention to the speed limit when all at once we hear a familiar sound. A kind of wailing. A police siren. We’re being told to pull over while other cars shoot on by. Bins is at the wheel. Deathly silence in the car. The cop walks up to us. I can only see his torso. Slender as a whip, shiny and tight. He speaks softly to Bins through the open window. Bins hands over his license. The officer makes a note, hands it back to Bins. Just then the skunk stirs. And the officer sees him.

Time stops. Then, very slowly and without making any sharp-angled movements, the officer backs away. He backs all the way to his car. Gets in. Drives away. “Good boy,” whispers Bins. “Whatever,” says Punky.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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