“Holy Jesus Fucking Christ!” he says.
He’s learned to blaspheme in strange and original ways.
It’s sort of like a sociologically induced form of Tourettes—only manifests in times of crisis.
I stomp the break pedal like a cockroach,—that is to say, like the break pedal is a cockroach. I am not a cockroach—swerve, and wake up a bit.
He is now fuming because I almost just killed us both.
I am now fuming because I am forced to reset the cruise control.
Fade.
I grew up on this road
Back when my parents weren’t sure if what they were feeling was love or contentment or inertia—or even if there was a difference between the three.
I’m one part Phoenix and one part Orange County
I’m used to things like smog and over-crowded schools and lousy hockey teams.
And big fucking parking lots.
Fade.
We stop into a Burger King because our gas tank is full and our patience is empty
We are restless
The fries—those fucking French Fries—come in medium, large, or king-size.
What happened to “small?” When did “small” go away? Medium is the new small.
The definition of “medium” has been changed by those corporate bastards. I never really liked these multi-national enterprises, but now they’re fucking with my language. They’re distorting my passion.
Fade.
Flies splatter against the windshield, morphing to white stains, minor hindrances, slight nuisances to the driver. Their casket is a small-town windshield cleaner in some run-down gas station. They will spend an eternity at a midpoint. And I can sympathize.
Fade.
“Slow down, I think I see a cop,” he says.
His “cop” is a small white car with the hood popped:
Sweaty and miserable by the side of the road.
Enforcing road-signs is of no concern to these people.
Fade.
I am small in a medium disguise
I am windshield remnants
I am stranded with my hood up
I am that long, straight line on the chart after the mountain of love and affection has dissipated.
And this road
I own this road
This road belongs to me
I am this road.
[Back to the Station]