Bose, Tom

Digital Commons @ Butler University

26 ]\L\ N uscm [,TShow anyone could eat hot dogs on a day like this.But suddenly the juleps, hot dogs, and thirst were forgotten asthe sharp, clear notes of a bugle sounded above the dull murmur ofthe crowds swarming in the infield. The notes spilled out into the hotair with precise, staccato rhythm. "Ta- Ta-ta, ta, ta- Ta." Even asthey played, the crowd's murmuring grew greater, and multitudes ofbrightly hued race fans moved toward the track. Stripes, plaids,checks, polka-dots melted into a solid sea of excited humanity swarm-ing toward the rail. Folding chairs, blankets, and food wereabandoned for the more immediate interest at hand. The man asleepshoved his racing form aside, arose and roused the drunk beforemoving on. The latter staggered up to join the thousands preparingto watch the race.To assure myself a view of the track, I wedged between awoman standing on a bright red cooler and a gentleman loaded withmovie equipment. It was impossible to stand upright, squarely facingthe fence that separated us f rom the rail, so I pushed myself insideways and crouched as if preparing to sit. The man beside meunintentionally swung around, his camera banging my head andsending me face first into the cool, wire fence. Though my headstung from the blow and my back ached from the cramped position,it was all worth it to see that track-brown, smooth, and fast.As I crouched there, hemmed in on three sides, I could see themobile starting-gate rumble across the track to park in my view.The padded doors were open and ready for the horses to enter atpost time. The people on the roof tops across the wall were cheeringexcitedly. The television cameras on top of the grandstand wereturned on the main attractions, the race horses. Then the firstthoroughbred, dark, slender and spirited, pranced into view. Thesilk-clad jockey perched high on his back. The sweet haunting melodyof "My Old Kentucky Home" floated through the sunlit air andabove the hushed voices of the thousands gathered along the track.It was then that I became part of that sea of faceless thousands whomelted into the bright and gaudy scenery of Churchill Downs. TheKentucky Derby would soon begin.My Unpretentious, Beautiful BugTom BoseI1\:\1 A SUBVERSIVE threat to the American economy. In an economy!)aseci on periodical. obsolescence, freq~l~nt major breakthroughs111 progress, and rapid turnover a few citizens refuse to cooperate.These individuals of questionable allegiance find it unbearably diffi-cult to part with the olel and embrace the new. In an unsympatheticsociety a few people become attached to a possession, while theforward looking majority eagerly scraps the outmoded or outdatedand purchases the very latest and most advanced. As a member ofthe persecuted minority, I have developed a deep attachment to a littleI~·--MANUSCRIPTS 27black automobile that a calloused member of the majority decidedto cast away four years ago.. It is absurd that anyone should become emotionally attached tohis means of transportation, yet I often find myself willing to defendmy little black bug against the most severe criticism. From themoment I first saw it, I felt a paternal tenderness for the bug as Igazed at it parked in a crowded two-car garage next to an evil-looking Detroit monster. The unwanted little three-year-old BritishAustin sedan squatted on its worn treads as if it hael been evictedby an unsympathetic landlord. My compassion was so great that Idisregarded any serious thought and soon adopted the bug.Perhaps in the mind of a coldhearted accountant I made a mis-take. To date some three hundred fifty dollars have been spent onmaintenance, and an itemized list of maintenance and repairs coverstwo full pages in my records. The market value fell from over sixhundred to under two hundred dollars within one year. As a seven-year-old British car it often must do without the proper replacementpart, or else I must pay premium prices for the special, seldomstocked items it frequently needs, such as sixty-dollar-per-pair shockabsorbers. Yet knowledgeable people confidently tell me these littleBritish automobiles easily last over one hundred thousand miles andsave money in the long run. II so, I can confidently expect sevenmore years of feuding with the dealership and constructing home-made replacement parts. My bug often may not run "jet smooth,"may not be powered by a "super torque" engine, and may not give methis year's "get up and go" feeling, but I am heartened wheneverI see a certain seldom-serviced, dilapidated old 1942 grancladdy tomy bug still plodding clown the street on a majority of its fourcylinders.My little black bug sports an immaculate red interior withleather seats that can be equalled only in a high-priced luxury ~ar.Both inside and out she is not pretentious but genuinely beau~lf~lland finished in detail. At a stop light more powerful cars, and It 15hard to find a car that does not have more horsepower, acceleratepast my buz and take advantase which has helped develop a deepinferiority ~omplex. Despite t11~many jokes she hears about thesquirrels who run on peanuts under her hood, my bug churns alongat eighty-five miles per hour if given enough room. Like a person. ofsmall stature, she makes up for her size by her ni111blene~s, fll1dl11~holes and making maneuvers in traffic that leave the brutlsh Detroitmonsters envious; People often laugh at her storage tray beneathher dash, but after they see how handy it is for feet or books theywonder why their car is not equipped with a similar. feature. Al-though very modest, my bug wears a flawless coat of paint that seemsto become more beautiful as she matures. Like the woman who doesnot overly expose her beauty but keeps it to herself, my little bugholds her head high whenever a stranger makes jest of her, for sheknows she radiates a charm and beauty for those who can see through28 MANUSCRIPTSher superficially plain appearance and remain to become acquaintedwith her.She has her faults, just as no human being is perfect. As manypeople are prepar~d and ready £.or a task except at the moment theyare needed, my little bug provides warmth and comfort from .herheater in the summer, but in the winter the heater struggles vainlyto warm the cold air. As any person might favor a leg or an ankleor an injured arm, my bug favors her second gear, for the propertouch is needed to shift into second without a protest, a rebukeperhaps, from her gearbox. She has defects in her personality, ~utnow that I know her well I respect her for her modesty. I admireher unpretentious design combined with her deepseated beauty. Andif some winter day when I drove her to class her heater vigorouslypoured forth warm air, anel she made not a protest as I gingerlyshifted her into second gear, she would not be the same car..:A Memory of SilenceJohn GreeneAs I. STOOD before that high wall of age-worn stone, a nervouschill passed through my body. The gate, two wooden doorsdarkened by weather and age, cracked open at exactly twelveo'clock. There, in the warm sunlight of a summer afternoon, stooda monument of peace, Catholic Christianity, and silence. The gateshut behind me, and at once I felt as though I were far removedfrom the world I had just left. The tall buildings which faced meseemed as silent as death itself, for from none of the open windowsdid I hear the angry shouts of impatience, or the clanging andbanging of slamming doors, or even the rustling of papers by thefingers of a tired and bleary-eyed student. The quiet was frighteningat first, but as the purpose of my coming here arose in my mind,the peace of these surroundings seemed at least proper, and evenmagnificent. I thought to myself, "So this is that other world, theworld of the Trappist monk-how beautifully simple it is. For threedays it's going to be my world too."Immediately, I was taken to my room, which was quite smallbut nevertheless very cool anel comfortable. Beneath the large Frenchwir~dow overlook,il:g a multi-colored flower garden, was my bed,which was surprisingly soft and inviting. At the foot of the bedstood a high desk made of some light wood and stained with alight-oak varnish, Opposite the window was a sink, and above thata towel rack, mostly covered by two white, fluffy towels. The wallswere a pastel blt~e w~lich, when the sun shone brightly, cast a lighttint over everything 111 the room. Hangino. on the wall at the headof my bed was a large cross with a plast~r of Paris corpse of thecrucified Jesus on it. That crucifix, unadorned yet modern inartistic design, suggested to me the austere but never stagnant lifeof the Trappists: as they live in simplicity and silence, they also grow

My Unpretentious, Beautiful Bug

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My Unpretentious, Beautiful Bug

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