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Saturday, October 23, 2010

Han Solo is in my grasp!

In front of your car, the dump truck stops. Your heart nearly does, too, when you see what's poking out of the back of it.

We are completely stopped. I release my fists and sink into my seat. My heart was racing with the adrenaline of a bloodthirsty Mongol for a minute. Now the body attempts to return to normal. It takes a while. I chalk it up to the family blood pressure problem, which may or may not have something to do with our quick tempers.

The green corn fields around me are at hip height. I try to think about how much they’ve grown since last week, but I really don’t care. My focus returns to the dump truck in front of me. Out of nowhere this jackhole just stopped in front of me. I can’t see a thing beyond this bulky tank of a questionable stench. What the hell is going on? My frustrated fist finds the steering wheel, discharging a small honk.

The garbage is overflowing. Bags upon bags of refuse just wait to be opened, a raccoon’s wet dream. I hope they all stay in the truck and off my car. There is a healthy mix of white and black bags, a couple of vacuum cleaners, random pieces of wood, and a life-size replica of Han Solo encased in carbonite. My eyes widen, my posture becomes upright and attentive, my hands start to sweat, my heart explodes from my chest. Han Solo’s frozen hands are held up to me, his mouth slightly open. The off silver and pewter of the casing looks identical to the one used in Jabba’s palace. Not so much Cloud City, it was much more metallic and fresh there. But oh my sweet baby Jesus! I must have it, no matter how bad it smells or whose cat peed on it.

I unbuckle my seat belt and slowly let it pass through my hand. Traffic doesn’t show any signs of moving. The cars are lined up as far as my mirrors can see. I put the car in park and steadily open the door. I try to stay focused, blocking out the curious faces behind me. Crouching and keeping one hand on my car for balance, I slowly sneak towards the imprisoned Captain Solo. A few horns go off behind me, but they are merely the John Williams orchestration of my own Star Wars adventure. Play on my friends, play on.

It stinks worse than I imagined. I try to breathe through my jacket sleeve, but I need both hands. I grab the rectangle replica on opposite sides and pull. It won’t budge. Wiggling it does nothing, but I keep trying anyways. I am so focused that I don’t even hear the sound of air brakes being released. More sound effects to me. The dump truck backs up suddenly before jerking forward. Those tiny movements send me backwards into my car. My hood makes the horrible sound of caving plastic as I slowly lose consciousness. I’ve let Han Solo down. Looks like it’s up to Lando and Chewie.

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