Talk of the Town - Roadworthy reading list February 19 2004

The bound book’s demise has been predicted since Gutenberg printed his first Bible, yet printed matter continues to, well, matter. Even in the paperless Digital Age. Just try reading a plugged-in laptop inside the bathtub. If I drop a Mickey Spillane paperback into the Mr. Bubble, at least my evening won’t end with a free ride from the county coroner.

Down Mexico way, authorities in that nation’s eponymous capital city have given the term “underground literature” a new spin. The experiment involves lending books to subway riders, the idea being that a dollop of good literature will make harried commuters happier, pickpockets less picky, and gropers too engrossed to press the flesh.

Printed selections involve poetry and short stories, because point-to-point trips on the underground don’t allow for more reading time. But what about heavy literature? Where might we attempt this same cultural trial with books of real bulk?

I’m glad you asked. Because in greater Atlanta, where traffic delays are measured in brake light-years, there’s no limit to what our readers could digest. Hand out copies of War and Peace when they get on the I-75/85 Connector, and there’s a good chance Napoleon will be retreating from Moscow before anyone reaches Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.

The one drawback? Famous novels would have to be adapted to conform with local traffic norms.

Crime and Punishment: Raskolnikov edged up the on-ramp, cursing at the minivan trying to pass him on the right. He could not see it, but oh, he knew the minivan was there. With a soccer mom at the wheel.

Raskolnikov hit the gas, but the engine was even less responsive than his first wife. His 13-year-old Honda Accord, with the “I Brake For Serfs” bumper sticker, stuttered worse than the czar’s nephew. From zero to 60 kilometers in, oh, a half-hour. If only he could break free of this mystery jam.

Then, up ahead, he saw it. The gore — a triangle of white-painted road separating highway from merge lane. Completely illegal to violate, a point on your license if the police apprehend you. But oh, the temptation!

Stealthily, he made his way left, into the paradise of wide-open space. If only the idiot behind him would stop tailgating, the one in the Crown Victoria cruiser who just flashed on a rack of blue lights.

Uh, oh ...

The Godfather: Vito Corleone was a driver of respect, a man who received the right of way from all in his subdivision. Except Fanucci, who drove an F-150 pickup too big for his garage. He parked it in front of Vito’s mailbox so frequently that the Corleones hadn’t had a mail delivery since the Five Families War of 1946 — and then it was a pipe bomb.

One day, as Vito waited to pull out of the subdivision in his brand new Mini Cooper, Fanucci, yakking on a cell phone, rear-ended him with the F-150. The larger vehicle caused the back end of Vito’s car to resemble a Slinky.

“I have had several of these accidents,” Fanucci explained, grinning sheepishly as he got out of the truck. “Surely we can settle this like neighbors, without involving authorities who would yank my license faster than you can say, ‘Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes.’”

Vito thought otherwise. Whatever money he might receive from Fanucci was not worth the continued presence of this road hog. If Fanucci had a flat, he would not help him change it. If Fanucci’s battery was dead, he would not give him a jump. If Fanucci needed $500 after getting popped for DUI, he would not post his bail.

Grabbing the other man’s cell, Vito made the call:

1-800-ZZZ-FISH.

Gone With the Wind: Scarlett smacked the steering wheel in despair. Ashley Wilkes was headed to spring break in Destin, but she hadn’t gotten south of the Jonesboro exit off the interstate. And after two hours on the road from Tara!

The sun beat down on the roof of her midnight blue Suburban. Why had she let that carpetbagger car dealer talk her into buying a dark color? It only made the A/C work twice as hard. And the gas! Only 9 fiddle-dee-mpg, and that was in moving traffic!

Hunger gnawed at her. Scarlett reached into the Styrofoam cooler she’d brought along for the trip. All of her Atkins Diet provisions — the sliced London broil and quarter-pound of Alpine Lace cheese — were gone!

Desperate now, Scarlett opened the glove compartment. Deep in its recesses, beneath an old Reconstruction World theme park brochure and mapquest.com directions to Rhett Butler’s Charleston condo, she found it — the only bit of food left in the SUV. A stick of beef jerky Mammy had bought at a 7-Eleven in Butts County six months ago.

Scarlett greedily peeled off the cellophane wrapper. Choking on the bitter, spicy taste, involuntarily flossing her back teeth on a stick of mystery meat tougher than the Confederate defense of Lookout Mountain, she cried:

“As God as my witness, I’ll never drive to Florida on a Friday afternoon again!”

glen.slattery@creativeloafing.com

Glen Slattery is parodied out in Alpharetta.