Satan's Mile?

I never pay much attention to the odometer in my work truck.
Until the other day.
There it was, staring at me. 66663?
Are you superstitious?
Me? Not really, but who really wants to drive Satan's mile?
I'd rather not.
Maybe I watched the Omen movies one too many times.
But it was standing between me and some really good barbecue for lunch.
So with hands firmly on the steering wheel I carefully dodged a road filled
with soccer moms in escallades on cell phones, pickup truck contractors scribbling on bits of paper while on cell phone, a virtual blizzard of potential energy zipping by me.

66666 arrived just as I reached the take-out window.



The olfactory joy of barbecue sitting in my passenger seat distracted
me enough to forget the odometer all the way back to work.
I made it.
Lunch was wickedly good.
Superstitious?
Nope, not a bit.


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