Stuck in the mud
By Lars-Åke Krantz
Out driving around in Västernorrland recently arrived from three months of sun. Lincoln Mark Fiken’s soccer field of a hood flows from one side to the other over a wide string of snow. People have stopped plowing.
- The spring equinox was yesterday so that’s it.
The chromed rims are plugged with snow and all kinds of slush spray the bottom of the car, overpowering my recorded radio shows from Florida. It sounds weird when the meteorologist promise 80 degrees and an ocean smooth as a mirror all weekend.
Here I am, sitting upright in the middle of winter with an unsatisfying defroster. My overall is so dirty I don’t want to lean back on the seat and my gasoline-hands are as big as medicine balls. . The left one holds the wheel
cautiously between thumb and index finger. The right one rests steady on the thigh, black on top of fresh oil with a rag in its grip.
Gasoline-hands?
- You know the thing when the hands are drenched in fuel for a longer while and it feels like the extensions of the arms are gigantic, numb, fully bloomed, pulsating dandelions.
Behind me is a new Peeuegot with the dimmers on in my rear-view mirror.
– Darnit, just pass me you Fittipaldi. Darn racer
Krantz’ chronicles can only be read here in Worldkustom. Today about bare legs and gasoline hands.