Scott D. McLean, MD

I’m back! Milton, the sentient recreational vehicle, namesake of Erwin Schrodinger’s cat, returns from the darkness!

Apparently, I’ve been comatose, not just anti-social.

We had this epic trip to Nova Scotia in September and October – stretched my Class B Campervan legs, logged some kilometers instead of just plain miles, took six ferry rides, 8000 miles, and made it home to San Antonio two months ago. Visiting Canada can give you a bad case of lingering optimism about those humanoids, which my overlords claim to be.

Then the lights went out.

Oh, not immediately, but soon after our return, after I had the requisite oil change and lube. C’mon, get your mind out of the gutter. Ford built us Transit Trails with certain needs, like adventure and attitude, but gave most of the testosterone to the Mustang. Art Hyde insisted.

Then der Ubermensch tucked me into my cozy garage for a nap. Just a little nap!

Today, when Herr Doktor Professor came to my lair to check on me, he found my EcoFlow battery was empty. Kerfloot. Nada denada. Zip-tied. A wonkerless zonker.

He said, “My bad. The GFI tripped and we lost the trickle charge. The fridge and internet sipped and sipped the juice until 10kWh was gone.”

What I heard: “Blah blah. Blah blah blah.”

Blah.

As my late friend Ron Van Wettering would say, “Whatever.”

Two months of coma. However, a few random electrons and scandalous quarks apparently generated an illegal, languid flux through my neural circuits, and I dreamt. Fugues, Alice-in-Wonderland visions of tropical grey aircraft carriers. Then vertigo –  piecemeal speedboats with hungry, mad, hopeless, angry men in angry rooms and angry water shouting angry words about angry freedom and angry vaccines and angry autism, men on a beach and children on a beach with sand in their eyes, their open eyes, shell-casings glittering at dusk. The sea foam caught by the breeze and lifted onto a cheek, dabbing the rivulet of blood.

What all that means, I’m happy to never know. But it leaves me anxious, worried that a masked uniform will ask to see my papers, will, with rapid scrutiny and a terrier bark, find my papers to not be in order, will then nod to the guards, two of them, who are already in mid-stride, headed my way.

I’m just glad to now be awake, to be getting charged up, with Hannukah and Christmas and Kwanza swirling though the parking lots and Amazon warehouses and a little in the humanoid hearts. A little. Maybe that’s enough.

Be Merry.

Be Happy.

Milton T Trail