Jerrod Clark
Frank Denali is just Denali - a gritty, unflappable, balding man. He's headed out to get some beer, but his short trip leads to a much longer journey of self discovery...
ISBN ebook: 978-1-926760-8-5
FICTION | Humor
Word Count: 80,000
List Price: $0.99
Published: May 14, 2009
Buy: Amazon; Barnes & Noble
Excerpt
The gas gauge painted an anemic picture. The needle flirted with the “E” and when the oversized tires smacking the road pounding the old Toyota 4runner uphill, the needle actually dropped below the fifth and most important letter. Frank Denali was only mildly concerned by this development. It was a beautiful day and he was glad he left the hard top at home. The wind blowing over his nearly bald scalp justified his existence today.
The roll bar across the top of the truck was modified to be able to open a beer bottle without the driver having to take both hands off the wheel. There was a small hole cut in the center of the bar which Denali had mastered a long time about by reaching up and opening a bottle without spilling a drop. Also, with the top on, he couldn’t do this.
The bottle between his legs was staring to warm up just a tad, but no matter, it was also almost gone. The biggest issue was not a warm beer or an empty gas tank. It was the Styrofoam cooler sitting next to Denali in the passenger seat. It was empty save a couple of bags of ice.
The plan was to get to the gas station, get a tank of gas; a case of beer and a dozen night crawlers for the day’s fishing exercise. The gas station was only a few more miles away, but Smith’s Mountain stood in the way. Denali did not give it a second thought as he floored the old truck up the hill. At the midpoint, the truck finally started to starve and cough due to the lack of gas in the tank. The missing truck sputtered to the top of the mountain, but was barely crawling along it was a case more of momentum than propulsion.
Denali finally faced reality and as soon as the truck crested the top of the hill, the idea hit him. He could just turn the truck off on and let it coast to the bottom of the mountain. He reasoned, with luck he could coast half way to the gas station without turning the truck back on.
It was a brilliant plan except for two small problems. At the top of the hill there was a sharp left hand turn. The turn itself was called the drunken run. About once a week, usually on a Saturday night, a drunk driver would put their car over the edge of the mountain. The phenomenon was so common that the local tow truck companies actually commissioned a rough track road to the bottom of the hill. The second problem was not as obvious. When a driver shuts a vehicle down, one usually sets the car into park. The car is never moving and as a safety precaution, the steering column locks up and will not allow any input from the driver. The reason being is that it helps to keep the car from rolling in the wrong direction. In essence, the vehicle becomes 4000 pounds of dead weight subject only to the laws of Newton.
Denali failed to comprehend either of these two factors. He pushed the truck’s stick to neutral and turned the key and killed the engine. As soon as the engine was deprived of the life giving spark the steering wheel locked in place. The first few dozen feet the truck traveled did not concern Denali. His left hand rested on the top of the steering wheel and his right held his beer in place. He did not feel the wheel lock.