planet bmv

Something tells me I'll be a winner this time. The voice from the speaker in the ceiling says he's giving away four tickets to the Super Smash-Up Destruction Derby at the PlastiChem MegaDome this weekend. I don't give a shit about watching cars race, crash, explode. In fact, I can think of a million other things that I would rather do this weekend but sitting here at the BMV, I find something romantic about winning four tickets, four for a family, and going to the MegaDome alone, three empty seats next to me.
Hello, this is my family. My family of ghosts. We'll watch cars clang and clash, slam and smash. We'll watch other families spend "quality time" at the Derby. We'll breathe in particulates from the growing cloud of exhaust and fumes, coughing against the dome's paper roof, towering like a toxic brain.
Yeah, I'm beginning to fall in love with the idea.
I approach the bored clerk seated behind a bare desk. There's a telephone and a sign that reads "START HERE." She is a colander. License renewals, wait here. New car registrations, there. Nervous sixteen year olds, anxious to take their driving test, over there. All these people, waiting. Waiting for their number to be called. We're all a bunch of unwilling contestants in some kind of slow moving death march of a lottery. I'm number 47.
"Hi there," I say. "I need to use the phone, please"
"Dial nine then the number," she responds between chomping teeth on bubblegum.
"Caller number 11 will be the lucky winner of four, that's right, count 'em four tickets to a smash-up good time at the PlastiChem MegaDome this Saturday night! Keep dialing!" the speaker in the ceiling screams.
I dial. Busy signal.
I dial. Busy signal.
As I continue to dial, I keep telling myself, This time, I'm going to be a winner. Busy signal.
I dial. Surely they've received 11 callers by now. Busy signal.
I dial and this time the other end is ringing and I'm waiting for a happy, jovial voice to pick up and congratulate me.
"Hello! And thanks for listening to Xtreme 98! Your home for today's hottest music! Sorry, you're not a winner but stay tuned to Xtreme 98 for more chances to win fantastic prizes!" a prerecorded voice says. The message ends with some high pitched guitar notes, bending and squealing.
"No one home?" bubblegum colander asks as I hang up the phone.
My reply is a lie and I say, "No. Wife must be picking up the dog and kids. Ha ha."
I return to my blue plastic seat and the winner of the Derby tickets is live on the line, his voice pouring out of the speaker in the ceiling. His name is Hank, Frank or some such other. He says something about how much his kids will enjoy the Derby.
I like to think of Hank Frank as a divorced dad in his 40s. This weekend is his to spend with the kids. Hank Frank is a good, decent man doing his best. His wife really fucked him over with the divorce and all, but he's a good man. Resilient. The foggy plastic sleeves in his wallet overflow with pictures of his three kids. Cute kids. I hope he enjoys his weekend. His kids. That damn Derby.
But back here on Planet BMV the waiting continues and the sound from the speaker fades and I become something else. These people.
She, she's a contaminated queen.
He's an arsonist of the heart.
Children, loud and noisy and restless run around, filled with antibiotics.
The names of these people are somewhere. Names contained in documents, filed away in dark drawers, manila envelopes.
Their faces are trapped in books, albums. A small black and white square in a yearbook from 1954, a fake smile. Or a photograph from a trip to the city carnival in '87. She's there. In the background with big hair and cotton candy. Trapped in a moment in a picture in some stranger's photo album, on a shelf, collecting dust and smoke.
Sometimes, beauty hides.
Sometimes it's tucked away, safe and hidden under a pink scar, numb from the cut.
Sometimes it's in every bead of sweat, trembling and glistening on the feverish red forehead of a sleeping child. Restless legs, pajamas and medication.
Sometimes beauty is in a wasteland, soaking under a blue sky. Dead plastic flowers. Glass decanters now empty of their exotic fumes. Durable goods no longer dependable. This stuff used to be the fat of the land. Now it's all useless. Dead objects of a million colors, sleeping together under a blue sky. And the stars. And the moon. Swimming in the Universe. Beauty. Hiding.
Number 47. A voice says, Number 4-7. And I'm back. Back here on Planet BMV and something tells me this time, this time I'm a winner.

mc