-Checkpoint-
$35 to fill up was a personal best.
Never have I paid so much for roadwarrior juice. My tank was full, and my cheeks were flushed with anticipation. 'Cause if you get what you pay for, this rush hour journey would have to be one of the finest I'd taken.
The engine indicator light went off. This is good news, inspection is nigh. (No, the car isn't fixed, it just isn't as noticeably broken.
Don't try to upset my even keel with talk of the future.) I just crested that hill and didn't watch the pumps recede.
Country.
Until the mechanic's garage crops up. Followed by the body shop. And the detailer. That scenery fast became a strip mall for automobiles only.
Just before the drive-thru, every car stopped dead.
In place of a median, the closest drivers spot a pair of neon-vested middle-aged women too broad to squeeze between the lanes squeezing between the lanes, toting buckets of money. The drivers creep their eyes to the left to see preteen daughters sitting on the low wall with signs propped on their knees that read "support our cheerleading squad." These signs are supporting their preteen heads, and the cardboard prints deep into the flesh of their throats.
Say what you will about young people, but don't judge every child by the way they work a checkpoint. If these girls grew up in Liberia, they would never think of pressing their duties onto their elders. By now every last one would have learned how to haggle over bribes, to clean an automatic rifle, and to smoke just enough joints to keep the Commander's mandatory psychotic drugs at bay. (But not so many to forget the lines to his anthem - a torture-till-death offense.)
Glad you're here, yes?
Never have I paid so much for roadwarrior juice. My tank was full, and my cheeks were flushed with anticipation. 'Cause if you get what you pay for, this rush hour journey would have to be one of the finest I'd taken.
The engine indicator light went off. This is good news, inspection is nigh. (No, the car isn't fixed, it just isn't as noticeably broken.
Don't try to upset my even keel with talk of the future.) I just crested that hill and didn't watch the pumps recede.
Country.
Until the mechanic's garage crops up. Followed by the body shop. And the detailer. That scenery fast became a strip mall for automobiles only.
Just before the drive-thru, every car stopped dead.
In place of a median, the closest drivers spot a pair of neon-vested middle-aged women too broad to squeeze between the lanes squeezing between the lanes, toting buckets of money. The drivers creep their eyes to the left to see preteen daughters sitting on the low wall with signs propped on their knees that read "support our cheerleading squad." These signs are supporting their preteen heads, and the cardboard prints deep into the flesh of their throats.
Say what you will about young people, but don't judge every child by the way they work a checkpoint. If these girls grew up in Liberia, they would never think of pressing their duties onto their elders. By now every last one would have learned how to haggle over bribes, to clean an automatic rifle, and to smoke just enough joints to keep the Commander's mandatory psychotic drugs at bay. (But not so many to forget the lines to his anthem - a torture-till-death offense.)
Glad you're here, yes?
posted by Benedict | 2:09 PM
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