"Judge Eleanor emerged, lifted me by the arm, hailed me into court, pronounced judgment, sentenced me, and executed punishment. Generally one of two things should have happened: mouth wash with soap, or slow death by Tabasco Sauce. On this occasion, neither being at hand, pepper was substituted. I was then unceremoniously plunked on the back stoop to howl my life away." ***** "Now all of you, who have never been boys, need to comprehend the male fascination, adult or tiny, with cars. At one time or other virtually all have tried to commandeer riding lawnmowers, motorized bicycles, tractors, stream rollers, army tanks, battle ships, anything, just to be allowed to DRIVE. This phenomenon is not age specific; it begins to manifest itself as soon as the young boy is able to escape the women. Immediately a quest begins to DRIVE A CAR. ***** " I gripped the mighty steering wheel with both hands. I turned it side to side. The engine vibration, starting at my small hands, pulsed down through my body, harmonizing with the engine's rumbling sound. My eyes darted across the dash panel. The needles on several small gauges trembled before my eyes. I immediately began to calculate what next I should do. I contemplated the horn button. I dismissed it. No need to interrupt the hood shrouded "listeners". My eyes shifted to the pedals far below my diminutive feet. Pedals! The men pushed these with feet as part of the "driving" process. I scooted forward until my body was flat on the seat cushion. My foot was only an inch from the flat pedal that made the motor roar when my dad wanted to drive faster. Gripping the wheel more tightly, I stretched that final distance. My full weight shifted onto the pedal. The old car's engine screamed." ***** "To my amazement the water was cool, almost cold. I drank eagerly, almost as a hungry suckling baby might. And the water was wonderful. Tasting as if it had come from some deep, hidden, even sacred source. It was one of the most satisfying moments of my young life, and it was water. As I paused for breath, my benefactor's voice interrupted my enjoyment. 'Why don't you let your dad have some of this?' I watched as my dad took deep long swallows of the wonderful water. Then our provider walked to me, and lifting the container, poured a cooling flood on to my head. It was immensely refreshing. I felt as though I had been resuscitated after surviving an inferno. It was a baptism in hell. Dad was also inundated. We both drank again. Dripping wet, Dad finally asked our benefactor his name. 'John Lazarus, ' was the response. 'I live up near Elko. I'm on my way to El Centro to visit family. I always bring a good supply of water from my well. Tastes pretty good doesn't it?' Mr. John Lazarus then turned and entered his truck. As the engine roared to life, he pointed to me and gave a large friendly wink. He was then off down the road. As we climbed back into the Hudson, I queried my father. "Did he say he was taking water to Hell Central?" 'No, ' laughed Dad, 'there is a town in California called El Centro.' It didn't matter to me. From what we were experiencing, I could easily envision poor damned souls getting a swig from Mr. John Lazarus."
About the Author: W.S. Connell is a writer living in Western Washington with his wife Christine and autistic son Wiley.