[ExI] Americans are poor drivers

[Damien Broderick]

At 07:24 PM 7/8/2009 -0700, JG wrote:

>How do traffic circles work?  I remember seeing them shown as an 
>object of humor and comic consternation in various American films I've seen.

Here's an example from I'M DYING HERE, the new "screwball noir" crime 
novel by me and Rory Barnes:

=============
I turned smartly through the great wide gates of Fawkner Crematorium 
& Memorial Park and round the fountain, patiently following Share's 
instructions. The road was candy striped with parallel paint lines in 
many merry hues, like a hospital floor, the better to guide the dead 
to their destinations, some peeling off to the right, some to the 
left, some forging straight on.

'Not only is the end nigh,' I said, 'it's conveniently color coded.'

A stifled snort implied that I was forgiven.

'Seventh Avenue,' she told me.

We had to wait as a funereal cavalcade passed, headlights burning 
sullenly in afternoon daylight. In the long dark gray limo behind the 
hearse, a wife or mistress wailed behind smoky glass. Several 
vehicles back, four hearty real estate agents or used car salesmen 
howled as the driver, beefy red face creased with hilarity, reached 
the punch line of his joke. We crossed Merlynston Creek. Never flush 
with water at the best of times in these greenhouse El Nino days, it 
looked parched and cracked. I parked on asphalt outside a blandly 
tasteful interfaith chapel. Share put on a broad-brimmed hat with a 
handy obscuring veil.

'Who's being buried? Or is it roasted?'

'Walk with me,' Share said, taking my arm. 'Let us reason together.'

[certain hijinks ensue, including the hijacking of a hearse and a Bad 
Man who gets locked inside a reeking coffin]

'I'm sure you have ways and means,' she said. 'A career criminal like 
yourself.'

'These things get blown out of proportion,' I said. I got out and 
caught Mauricio and the boys as they backed on to the narrow cemetery 
road. Dago grumbled, followed me back to the hearse, took something 
out of his pocket protector and had the machine hotwired and purring 
in less than 30 seconds.

'I know how,' I told Sharon, who was laughing quietly. 'I do. But why 
exert oneself when there's specialist help at hand?'

Culpepper, awakened in darkness and stench and enjoying it no more 
than we had, began banging. Given the lavish upholstery of his 
casket's lining, I was surprised we could hear anything even with the 
airholes Culpepper's cronies had thoughtfully punched to spare Cookie 
from suffocation

'Get some music on the radio,' I said.

Share found something liturgical on a CD. I drove toward the gate to 
the Hume. The banging grew louder. A gardener glanced our way.

'Something noisy,' I said, 'Here, Gold FM should do the trick.' I 
punched the radio through to the Boss howling out the news that he 
was Born in the USA and feeling a bit betrayed about it, all things 
considered. That seemed apt enough to me so I turned the stereo up 
full bore. They had a very nice sound system, full surround boom 
boxes in the back. Burials by day, shaggin wagon by night? I found 
myself hemmed in at the roundabout. A cortege was headed for the 
crematorium, headlights burning. Faces turned, eyes swiveling, at the 
racket. I didn't care, I'd lost all sense, the madness of the last 
days had frizzled my reality principle.

'Fuck this,' I said after the third car, and cut into the stream of 
mourners. The vehicle ahead picked up speed, following its colored 
code line, or perhaps the arse of the car ahead. Culpepper made 
noises. I turned, reached with a long left arm, banged on the top of 
the coffin.

Beyond the gates, the Hume Highway looked chockablock. Sharon punched 
off the rock station and accidentally hit a race call instead. 
'--Bandersnatch neck and neck at the turn,' the high, frantic, nasal 
voice was calling, 'it's sensational, Loose Lips has stumbled, the 
gelding's taken a tumble, and here comes Brute Force, the long shot 
is stretching out now, by a nose, Brute Force at fifty to one has--'

'You little bloody beauty!' I said. 'Free lunches at Ivy's for the 
rest of the year. Shut the fuck up back there!'

A discreet toot from the car behind. Distracted, I surged too far, 
missed the exit, found the hearse carried in a large curve once more 
around the memorial fountain that ran with water like a pair of 
flying saucers lifting from the ocean's bowl. All it needed was Cathy 
Freeman in her pristine white 'We come to your planet in peace' 
starship suit and it would have been a re-run of the rising Mother 
Ship from the close of the Sydney Olympics, that time it got stuck. 
Flicking my own headlights on, I turned right in time, went out the 
gate, turned left. Sharon doubled up in laughter. She hit the radio 
button again, went back to Gold. Roy Orbison informed us at the top 
of his resonant, mournful voice that love hurts, burns you like a 
stove. Burns you like a crematorium, I thought.

'What are you braying about?' I said, eyes on the traffic.

'Check the mirror,' she said.

We had a tail, like a comet. Headlights burning, drivers teary with 
sorrow, the cortege had followed us back into the highway. I saw my 
chance, accelerated into the passing lane. In the back, the coffin 
bumped. I thought I heard a throttled scream.
===================

Damien Broderick 





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