I enjoy you. I’ve enjoyed our time together.
I’ve enjoyed staring at the back of your low-riding Buick in traffic, your license plate telling the world you’re physically disabled… or is it mentally disabled? Because you are only going 40 miles per hour. And your children are bouncing around in the back seat, throwing things. And you have your hand up in the air, fingers open, as if to catch something, fingers grasping air… but you wait for several minutes before finally one of your children tosses something at you. A puppet? A stuffed raccoon?
You take it and throw it on the seat next to you. That’s that, I think. Now we can get to the business of driving.
Because now it’s time to merge onto I-94 while you comb your long, 1970s locks with a brush. I suppose it does make your hair look better. Silky instead of a snarled mess.
Brushing, brushing… swerving. Swerving… you merge. I have to merge behind you. I want so badly to get away from you. No offense. I understand. Two kids, a broken down Buick, those disabilities to contend with. I get ready to make my move to the next lane to the left and then… your enormous, laborious red signal light comes on. You want to get over too! In front of me. Maybe you want our little caravan to go on just a little while longer. You feel safe with me behind you.
But no. I step on the gas. Sorry, you’re not getting in front of me again. I look over as I pass by your car. You are so short. Your glasses are so enormous. Like big magnifying glasses strapped to your face.
How do you ever get anywhere?