SOBS: Fiction: Bob's Big Adventure

Bob's Big Adventure by Roger Marsh

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And so Bob and Julie continued south on Lincoln. Julie was tired and nodded off just as the engine made a funny noise and the car began to slow. Bob steered the Cordoba a little off to the right so traffic could move around him. The engine sputtered out. Bob scratched his head. What could be wrong? Quietly, Bob got out of the car, popped the hood, and studied the engine. Julie turned softly into the leather seat. "Wake me when we get there, Bob," she said, not knowing Bob was just outside attempting to get the car started again.

Bob moved around to the driver's side of the car and opened the driver's door. He reached inside and turned the ignition and then put the car in neutral. "I'll just give her a little push," he thought, and jump back in when she kicks in."

Bob walked to the rear of the car and put both hands on the trunk lid and started pushing. The Cordoba's wheels moved slowly at first, the front end heading back into the southbound lane, until it picked up a little speed. Bob pushed harder as it rolled, but suddenly lost his balance, slipping forward onto the trunk lid, his jaw hitting the bare metal, and then he slid forward and down, sliding off of the trunk, his body moving parallel to the bumper.

As Bob slid off of the car, the belt loop to his blue jeans caught the bumper, just before his body hit the asphalt pavement, and a small protruding dent in the bumper locked with his belt loop, fusing them together, and with a thud, Bob hit the street. In the next two or three seconds Bob stopped moving, the car continued rolling forward, with Julie asleep on the front seat, picking up speed, and in one violent split second, Bob's pants ballooned taunt and ripped off of his body.

In the next several horror-filled seconds, Bob sat pants-less along Lincoln Avenue, watching helplessly as the Cordoba picked up speed and continued southbound. Bob stood up and instinctively began running after the car as it moved across the Foster Avenue intersection. Bob only briefly wondered why he had chosen this day as the first day in his adult life to go without underwear.

Crossing Foster Avenue Bob thought that he might have a chance to reach the car — the Cordoba was still rolling and he could just barely make out Julie asleep in the passenger seat. Up ahead of the Cordoba something strange seemed to be going on. He could see people lining both sides of the street and further along there seemed to be some kind of metal overhang above the street. Bob focused on the car again and picked up his stride to try and reach it.

Half way through the next block Bob looked off to his left and read a giant sign — "International Photographer's Street Expose with Live CNN Worldwide Coverage." Now the people were gathering in the street to Bob's left and right and he began to hear an odd sound — "click," "click," "click" as hundreds of cameras went off.

Bob focused again on the car and picked up his speed. Up ahead there seemed to be some kind of judge's stage with a dozen men standing on it and more than a dozen television cameras on a steel bridge overhead. He had to Bob only briefly wondered why he had chosen this day as the first day in his adult life to go without underwear. catch the car before it went out of control. He had to run faster and faster and faster.

Just as Bob's mind registered the fact that the car had apparently stopped in the middle of the street, and his feet began to slow down, it was too late — Bob was going to hit the car. But in a final act of survival, Bob jumped at the last possible second and jumped up on the trunk lid of the Cordoba, and still running, bolted up onto the roof, just stopping himself as he reached the end of the roof at the top of the windshield, and with the crowd yelling, Bob lost his balance, his feet slipping out from under him, and down he went again.

Julie was just waking from her nap. She opened her eyes and peered across the dash board just as Bob's bare ass slid down from the roof. She screamed and looked to her left for Bob — who wasn't there. Bob continued sliding down the windshield, his shirt catching hold on the windshield wipers. Julie lunged forward with both hands on the dashboard and still screaming, her left hand striking the wiper button. Bob precariously continued sliding forward, his legs spread eagle, the wipers moving in unionson ripping his shirt from his back in one swoop, and he stopped rather bluntly at the hood ornament — which refused to toggle as it had been designed to do originally.

Bob looked painfully left to right across the judge's platform just 10 feet away — recognizing Mayor Daley — his eyes moving upward momentarily to see the CNN television crew recording the entire episode — and behind him he heard the squeekie sliding sound of a leaky sun roof moving. Julie stood up on the front seat, her head popping out of the car.

"Bob Tomlin. You get back in this car immediately," Julie said.

Bob looked painfully left to right across the judge's platform just 10 feet.

"The leather," Bob said.

"What?" Julie asked.

"The leather," Bob repeated. "Are you standing on the leather? Get off the leather."

A photographer stepped directly in front of the Cordoba and shot off one photo. The crowd was silent looking at a man on the hood of a 1978 Cordoba, naked, covered from their view only by a four-inch hood ornament sticking straight up at his crotch, and a woman's head visable from the roof. The crowd applauded.

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Chapter 2: The Fixer-Upper

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Click here to read Chapter 2: The Fixer-Upper