Up The River Styx Without A Paddle

'Tis a strange place, this Limbo !--not a Place, Yet name it so ;--where Time & weary Space Fettered from flight, with night-mair sense of fleeing, Strive for their last crepuscular half-being ;-- Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, Not mark'd by flit of Shades,--unmeaning they As Moonlight on the dial of the day !

--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Recent events have forced me to bring the @-mobile out of retirement, and to this end my pal Tinker has been helping me get it road worthy again. The other night, he took it to the shop for a once over before I had to drive it to work the next morning. He returned with some bad news.

"Either your flux capacitor is going out, or you have a bad battery," He said solemnly.

Super.

The battery was working fine before my descent into the underworld. Why did it have to die now? All I need is car trouble in the great beyond. Get stuck between the veils and I never will get a lift home. Floyd said he knew where the Underworld all night auto parts store was, and volunteered to go with me if I promised to stop in the third circle of Hell for the late night pancake buffet. So it was off to the AutoZone of the Dead to get a new battery at 10:00 on a Sunday night.

We took the Camea exit, veered right at the Elm From Which False Dreams Cling, turned left at Acheron, and before you knew it we were at the river Styx.

"AutoZone is on the other bank," said the old guy at the canoe rental place.

"Can we rent an inner tube?" asked Floyd.

I shot Floyd the Eye of Scorn. He could tell by my look that not only were we not going to rent an inner tube, there were no pancakes in his future either. He dropped his head as we boarded the ferry. Forty-five minutes later and I was changing out the battery of the @-mobile in the dark parking lot of the AutoZone of the Dead. Now I'm no gear head, so what would be a challenge under the best of conditions was twice the joy with borrowed tools and only Floyd's faint ectoplasmic glow for light.

Then it was back across the river Styx and home to my little bed for a few winks before a ten hour day at the PGCBF. I felt smug the next morning as I gunned the @-mobile and sped away toward work. Sure I was tired, but at least I had taken care of my fly ride. That smugness was short lived, however. This morning I arose to find that the @-mobile had flat-lined again.

Sonuvabitch.

I lit up the @-signal, and Racer X and the missus ran rescue, post haste. With the battery freshly jumped, I headed to Pep Devils for a complete diagnostic.

Once there, the Pep Devil behind the counter (Manny, I think) told me there might be a bit of a wait. I looked at the ticket in my hand: 420, it said. The sign on the wall said, Now Serving: 003.

Sonuvabitch.

A call to Poo Imabooboo (A.K.A. Dee Dee) meant that I would not have to do my penance at the auto shop, but in the new and improved Underworld you can get your limbo to go. Manny smiled an oily smile as he handed me a pager. Two frayed wires hung out the back where a battery was supposed to be.

"Just sit tight and wait for my call," advised the grease demon. Then he laughed a laugh so evil the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

And so it goes in The Underworld. Every day is a new chance to play hurry up and wait. Waiting for a car, waiting for a decision that will affect the rest of your life, waiting for the Borg Queen to call you back, those extra-long economy sized minutes seem interminable, as each second flows like molasses into the next. I hate to wait.

I was startled out of a cat nap a few hours later when the battery-less pager went off. Were they finished with my car already? Gee, that wasn't so bad. Maybe things are starting to look up. Maybe I won't have to wait until October to find out the answers to my other questions. Maybe I won't have to drag through many more days filled with anticipation and dread. Eagerly I looked at the message on the pager.

Now serving: 004

Sonuvabitch. I hate limbo.