Golden Mean #2

The dusk was coming down and some of the early adopters on the road were beginning to use headlights. I’d driven exactly 395 kilometres of the 408 kilometre journey when suddenly: Entrance at Right of car (stage left?)
Bang!
There was just a moment when I could see it looking in my direction with a kind of "that's very weird" look on its narrow face. Then it was sucked under the car. Kaboomumumumumumum, rolling under the car like a bass drum. Then it was gone and we were just left with the percussion of trailing car bits on the road.
I hitched the final thirteen kilometres into town and got a tow truck driver who’d been about to sit down to dinner. “No problem”, he said, “it was only stew.”
“Oh.”
We drove in silence back out to the car. "Mate", the driver eventually said to me, "I’ll bet you were goin’ too slow."
"I was doing about ninety,” I said.
"Yeah. Too slow. My missus has hit a few doin’ ninety, and I know people doin’ 120 and 130 hit em. But you go at 100 and you never hit ‘em. Never. Guaranteed. I've told the wife that.”
He left it with me to think about awhile before continuing. “If you're goin less than 100 they catch up to you, if you're goin faster you catch up to them".
“Oh”, I said. We went quiet, and then spotting the car on the shoulder of the road up ahead, I said, “there it is.”
We pulled up alongside. The car looked all the more forlorn for being smashed up and yet full of the promise suggested by the fishing rods and camping gear in the back.
Later, I told my cousin the tow truck driver’s advice about the golden speed to avoid Kangaroos. I embroidered it a little bit and called it “the golden mean”.
“Sound like bullshit”, he said.
“He’s the local tow-truck driver”, I said. “He’d know.”
“Still sounds like bullshit to me. Did he say that it was specific to Eastern Grey Kangaroos or does it hold true for Reds as well?”
“I don’t know,” I said.” I didn’t ask.”
“The Golden Mean”, my cousin laughed. “That’s bullshit!”

Golden Mean #1

We’d gotten sick of the sixties rock in the glove box of Dad’s car and so for the last hour we’d been listening to an audio book of Animal Farm. We listened quietly, every now and then remarking something about Orwell, politics, or the severity of the drought that left the country all yellows and browns.
“Dry as…”, My cousin said at one point.
The dusk was coming down and some of the early adopters were beginning to use headlights as Major offered a “point to be settled.”
“Comrades," he said, " The wild creatures, such as rats and rabbits--are they our friends or our enemies?” Putting the question to a vote, “Are rats comrades?”
I wouldn’t have remembered the phrase except that it was exactly at this moment, after 395 kilometres of a 408 kilometre journey, that suddenly: Entrance Right of car (stage left?)
Bang!
There was just a moment when I could see it looking in my direction with a kind of "that's very weird" look on its narrow face. Then it was sucked under the car. Kaboomumumumumumum, rolling under the car like a bass drum. Then it was gone and we were just left with the percussion of trailing car bits on the road.
I hitched the final thirteen kilometres into town and got a tow truck driver who’d been about to sit down to dinner. “No problem”, he said, “it was only stew.”
“Oh.”
It was well and truly dark now as we drove silently back out to the car. "Mate", the driver eventually said to me, "I’ll bet you were goin’ too slow."
"I was doing about ninety,” I said.
"Yeah. Too slow. My missus has hit a few doin’ ninety, and I know people doin’ 120 and 130 hit em. But you go at 100 and you never hit ‘em. Never. Guaranteed. I've told the wife that.”
He left it with me to think about awhile before continuing. “If you're goin less than 100 they catch up to you, if you're goin faster you catch up to them".
“Oh”, I said. We went quiet, and then spotting the car on the shoulder of the road up ahead, I said, “there it is.”
We pulled up alongside. The car looked all the more forlorn for being smashed up and yet full of the promise suggested by the fishing rods and camping gear in the back.
“Yep. That looks like it”, said the driver. He jumped out and got to work getting the truck ready, attaching the chains and dropping the tray into place.
I could tell my cousin had smoked a pipe by the way he smiled while the car winched its way onto the truck, screeching metal against the raised metal tray. I don’t know why the observation pissed me off.
Later, in a room above the only pub that would have us, I told Keith the tow truck driver’s advice about the golden speed to avoid Kangaroos. I embroidered it a little bit and called it “the golden mean”.
“Sound like bullshit”, he said.
“He’s the local tow-truck driver”, I said. “He’d know.”
“Still sounds like bullshit to me. Did he say that it was specific to Eastern Grey Kangaroos or does it hold true for Reds as well?”
“I don’t know,” I said.” I didn’t ask.”