A dozen air fresheners dangle from my mirror and hang from the dashboard, headrests, door handles and virtually every available space. Unfortunately, the fake pine scent can't disguise the hideous odor of the Trollamex chemical cloud forever embedded in my car seats, carpeting, and most likely in my lungs. I start the car and steer out onto the main road. My pine tree air fresheners sway in the air current that rushes into my vehicle. 

There's Kellen standing at the bus stop. I wave. Kellen waves back.

A large moth startles me when it bounces off my forehead. I brush it away and momentarily, my car swerves before I regain control. Behind me, I see a police cruiser's blue and red lights.

"I'm not a terrible person. I don't deserve this," I grumble.

I pull over to the curb. The police cruiser drives up behind my vehicle and a uniformed officer gets out. He struts to the side of my car, flashlight in hand. Sweet Jesus. It's Officer Jenkins.

"May I see some... You again." 

I emit a sad sigh.

He notices the severely dented hood and missing windshield. "Have you been drinking, sir?"

"I had about half a beer."

"Driving an automobile without a windshield. Can't let that one slide."

"I'm getting it fixed."

"Step out of the vehicle, please."

When I reach for the door handle he says, "Is your dog restrained?"

"What?"

A throaty growl from the back seat spooks me.

"I don't have..." Before I can complete my sentence, a large raccoon bolts out of the window. The agitated animal grips the officer's chest, bares its teeth, and snarls.

Jenkins screams and so do I.

The next few minutes are a frenzied blur. A lot of shouting, a fair amount of cursing, flashing lights, and the distinct odor of pepper spray. The next thing I know, a bloodied Officer Jenkins is treated in the rear of an ambulance parked at the side of the road.

I sigh in resignation watching my car as its hooked to a tow truck. Officer Bradford, a middle-aged police officer with hedge-like eyebrows, writes the citation. 

"Can I get my beer out of the car before they tow it away?"

"It's your property, sir."

I open the driver's door and retrieve my belongings. I cradle the bag of beer in one hand, I hold my briefcase in the other.

Officer Bradford signals the tow truck driver to pull away.

I sigh. "I guess the raccoon got in while I was in the bar. Musta been after my Cheez-Its."

"That would explain the orange hands."

"Excuse me?"

"Officer Jenkins said the animal had orange hands. That's police training for you."

Bradford rips the citation from his tablet then hands it to me. He summarizes. "Driving without a windshield. Reckless driving. Driving under the influence."

"I had one beer."

"No sober person would drive a raccoon around in a car with no windshield."

There's no sense arguing. 

                                                                              #######

I consider walking back to my hotel but I don't want to risk another run-in with the police. I call an Uber and fifteen minutes later, I'm in my hotel room.

My first order of business is a hot shower. I'm disappointed to discover that I'll have to settle for a warm shower. I compensate for weak water pressure with a vigorous application of a rock hard bar of soap that smells like a combination of sponge rubber and canned peas.

I dry myself, wrap a scratchy towel around my waist, and plop down onto the corner of the bed. I crack open a beer and grab the TV remote.

The numbers on the ratty, little plastic alarm clock on the nightstand flip from 10:37 to 10:38.

While scrolling through the television stations I gulp my beer. I stop to watch a grizzled, old fisherman sprinkle a pitcher of granules into the water beside his creaky rowboat. A bold logo zooms forward... EEL-LICKS-ER!!!

The announcer bellows, "Pour the powerful Eel-licks-er granules into the water and get rid of those pesky eels... forever!"

I change the channel.

Onscreen, I see thick yellow numbers - 25... 50... 150 as an excited narrator blathers, "Lose twenty-five... fifty... even one-hundred-fifty pounds in just ten days with our all-natural formula!"

While a photo of a morbidly obese woman is shown, a weak female voice says, "I went from a size triple, triple-X to my ten year old's jeans in just two weeks!"

Next, I see an emaciated woman in jeans that end just below her knees. The pants sag around her fourteen-inch waist.

A handsome man passes and wolf-whistles. She waves her skeletal arm flirtatiously. I change the channel to a heated panel discussion.

An angry man growls, "Utah has Mormons and New Mexico has Roswell. Why is that so hard to remember?"

A red-faced man shouts, "You've been critical of this administration since--"

"The President and his entire cabinet got Utah and New Mexico mixed up?! That's preposterous!"

I can't believe what I'm hearing.

The red-faced man continues, "Granted. Mistakes were made. But honestly, how many people know the difference between Utah and New Mexico? Really?"

The angry man snorts, "I do! For the past week, they've been evacuating the wrong state!"

"I didn't hear these criticisms from you during the last administration."

The moderator intercedes. "Here's what the White House Press Secretary had to say a short while ago."

"There exists a perception that there may or may not have been some miscommunication between The President and his top-level advisors. The President lays the responsibility at the feet of his Homeland Security Director who joked, "Guess I shoulda been paying attention in Geography class."

Gales of laughter erupt from the press corps.

I can't stand it. I change the channel and drain my beer. 

A commercial runs. To the strains of a sickeningly-sweet melody, a butterfly flutters across the screen. A lilting female voice sings:

We're helping puppies grow, 

Putting ballerinas on their toes,

Because every mommy knows,

We're your best friend.

The Trollamex logo appears.

My eyes bulge in disbelief as the song continues:

We help make the water flow,

We serve travelers on the go,

We're helping babies grow.

I shout at the TV, "You're making tumors grow!"

I cover my ears and walk in furious, tight circles around the room.

"Oh, my God! We probably helped develop that ad! Oh, my God!"

I catch my reflection in the mirror and discover that my face is purple and blood is streaming from my nostrils. 

"What?... What the...?!"

Entrails erupt from my abdomen with a visceral SPLOOSH!

Flashing, spinning lights paint the room in a dizzying display.

My eyes go to the ceiling where a disco ball spins, casting pulsating beams of light. In the corner of the room, the grinding couple dance in their underwear. The guy's hands cup his partner's buttocks, her face is buried deep in his neck.

There on the bed, a raccoon leans against the headboard while snacking from my box of Cheez-Its. A hungry armadillo begs for crackers.

The whirling lights send me to the floor, my arms flailing. I hit the carpet and land on my stomach. I roll over abruptly to find that the hotel room has returned to its usual state. No disco ball, no grinding couple, no raccoon. 

I check my abdomen. No wounds or exposed entrails.

With some difficulty, I rise on my shaky feet and swab my face, which is flushed but not purple. I notice that I'm naked. I grab the towel from the floor and re-wrap.

"The chemicals. It's the chemicals." I try to compose myself. "Take it easy. Take a deep breath."

I lift the telephone, panting like a racehorse. 

"Who do I call?"

While pacing, my eyes go to the clock. The numbers flip from 10:44 to 10:45.

"Somebody has to do something. Somebody has to..."

I dial. I hear a voicemail recording, "This is Carl Dunning. Your call is important to me, so please leave your name and number and I'll call you back." BEEP.

I let loose with an unintelligible garble of words and angry sounds then slam down the phone.