BOB JOHNSON RIDES AGAIN! 324

324. THE FLUX AND COUNTER-FLUX OF FATEY FATE

324. THE FLUX AND COUNTER-FLUX OF FATEY FATE

When Bob saw the latest potential salvation of his love life, Thomasina Boswell, beeping the horn of his magically reconstructed gold and rust colored ’89 Plymouth Sundance, he couldn’t help but believe that there might be place in this big, corrupt, dying, poorly overused and billionaire-ridden planet for a guy like Bob and a gal like Thomasina to find happiness. And this sense of unfounded optimism was only accentuated by the vision of his car’s two oldest resident-meeses–Archibald Cox and Kidney J. Flabbergast–standing on the rear dashboard, dressed to the hilt in sequiny troubadour outfits, serenading the night with their squeakiest rendition of “Here Comes the Night,” while accompanying themselves with bracelet tambourines and finger cymbals. It almost made Bob glad to have provided them a home in his old car all these many months when the rest of the world couldn’t be bothered.

Thomasina drove them to Paso Robles. She drove them to Salinas. She drove them to Fresno, Solvang, Gonzalez, Greenfield, King City and Parkfield. “Fate can’t find you, Bob, if you don’t know where you are! It’s just you and me against the world of Highway 101 and anywhere this long ribbon of road can carry us! Bring those inseams a little closer, Bobby baby! You’re my used-tux-adorned man and nobody else’s, even accidentally!”

Bob couldn’t remember the last time anybody had ever called him “Bobby baby!” Or for what possible reason anybody as attractively-middle-aged-and-loving-it as Thomasina might want to.