It’s always the small, shit box cars, plastered with more stickers than a dive bar bathroom that drive around just to piss everybody else off. While others are on their way to work, or to drop their kids off at school, the outdated rust buckets fumble around town, laughing at the rest of us while taking up space.
Coexist, the sticker read. Yeah, right. Some blue haired, embryonic provocateur wouldn’t let me pass, even though she watched me try in her rearview mirror, more than once. Every time I sped up, so did she. Then, when I was forced to dip back behind her, she’d crawl to 7 mph under the speed limit, watching my reaction in her inverse.
I was frustrated, but I wouldn’t let her savor her successful snookering attempts. Instead, I turned my attention to the radio, hoping she didn’t slam on the brakes whenever I looked away. With the large spread of stickers on the back of her car, not one of them promoted the fact that she was an asshole, even though she was. Then again, anybody who has that many stickers on their bumper and doesn’t drive a NASCAR is, in fact, an asshole.
“I brake check for fun,” one of her stickers read. Asshole.
When she wouldn’t let me pass, I wished I had a faster car, or a lawn dart to throw at her tire. She seemed like the type of person to get a rise out of having the middle finger hurled her way, like a comedian begging to be heckled so they could go into their underwear and throw lumps of shit back at the crowd.
Another sticker noted, “0.0”, with a caption underneath that read, I don’t run. It was referring to the marathoners and half marathoners that post their mileage in sticker form on the backs of their cars.
By the size of the over baked loaf in the front seat, I assumed that she was being honest when expressing her dispassion for running. It’s been awhile since I’ve been for a jog myself. I don’t even run from my problems anymore.
The Grateful Dead skull on the back windshield, placed next to the floating head of a cartoon cat was a nice juxtaposition, and showed that although she was indeed a miserable bitch, she had a feminine side. Since we were crawling at 23 miles per hour, in a 35 mile an hour zone I might add, I had the chance to read all of the vinyl proclamations aloud as I drove behind the lopsided 2005 Nissan Sentra that had been holding up traffic for miles. Stickers splashed the back bumper like spilled paint, but most were plastered on the window. Did they make the car go any faster?, I wondered. Then, I looked at the speedometer. 26 mph.
Nope.
The neon colored South of the Border bumper cover was a nice touch, even though the driver didn’t strike me as somebody who necessarily had fun at parties. She seemed more like the type of person to show up just to complain about the other guests. The type to rearrange somebody else’s bookshelf by the colors of the spine and not by any practical means, like Author’s last name, or genre. She seemed like the type to come over for dinner, just to peel the labels off of the canned goods as a cruel joke.
Just like the 500 miles of South of the Border billboards that clutter the highway, this blue haired restive feigned jollity, each sticker boasting her fun side. But inside the park, it was desolate and abandoned. I imagined that the inside of the dozy Nissan in was the same way, empty without a fervour for life.
I’m sure years ago, when the theme park was operational, it was a place to keep the kids entertained for a day, or quiet for the second half of a road trip. Now, it’s merely a cautionary tale like the, “Baby up in this bitch,” decal hanging ironically next to a pride flag.
“Can we gooo please?!,” I yelled, white knuckling the steering wheel. “Did your mother not breastfeed you as a kid?!”
Needing to calm down, I used the example in front of me as a metaphor to take life slower. She clearly wasn’t going to let me pass her, and besides running her off the road, I didn’t have any options other than that. A long, deep inhale calmed my nerves temporarily. A second sharper breathe helped as well.
Next to one of the scratched off vinyls in the back windshield, read, “I wish I had my dogs life.”
Me too, I whispered under my breath.
The dog park had been flooded recently so I haven’t had the chance to take Iggy out for a run. In fact, it’s been almost a week since we’ve left the house due to the enduring torrential rains, and I imagined the park was just a lake by now. Once the Nissan pulled off, slower than normal to get the last laugh, I rushed home and let Iggy out of his cage.
At the dog park, there were four new makeshift ponds, two of them connected at the top, resembling a conjoined kidney bean, or a butt. The ruinous result from three days of rainfall, left only the brave, and the stupid, to bring their pets to the dog park. It was now an acre long mud puddle with pine needles and piles of shit, alongside some chewed up dog toys.
“Hello,” I said to the other dummies brave souls.
Upon arrival, we didn’t even make it through the first doggie door before Ralph came lumbering over, begging for us to come in. The dog was massive, and I assumed his name was chosen from the movie, Rampage. The coal colored dog was gigantic, not as tall, but longer than a Great Dane. He was easily eight-feet long at any given stride and could’ve jumped the fence with ease if he chose to do so. The dog, more convincingly a wolf, jumped in one of the puddles that I mentioned earlier as if it were an Olympic sport. He’d run the length of the park, dodging followers like a flag footballer protecting their pennant, and then would belly flop into the giant puddle, splashing loudly for the judges. Iggy followed along, no matter how much I yelled at him.
“Nooo! God damn it,” I shouted, counting the extra minutes being added to Iggy’s bath time with every dive.
The main judge, the wolf’s owner, was unimpressed. Dressed for the beach, he was 20-something and clearly uninterested in being at the park. He had his arms folded on the picnic table, head resting on the backs of his hands, and mouth agape as he analyzed his shoe. In between puddle jumps from the pups, I’d turn to the pretzel-armed man, still reticent and turned off. Is there a full moon out today?, I thought.
After staring at his soccer cleat for the better part of 10 minutes, I was beginning to assume it was a prank. I even looked around the park for hidden cameras. As I peered closer, there was a phone sitting inside of the shoe, making it so that he didn’t have to hold the device as he caught up on his daily Netflix programming.
Meanwhile, my dog was mimicking his, doing laps around the park, before splashing in the brown water to a 0.0 score. Since I forgot to bring a towel, we stayed at the park for an additional 30 minutes to let the mud dry enough to shake off like sand. It didn’t work though. Once Iggy hopped in the Jeep, he shook off the puddle water, saturating the leather and dashboard with a veneer of mud. I just wanted to take a hot bath, but instead, had to go home and wash my pup.
I wish I had my dogs life.
I feel you, while we go about our lives my dog comes to me, does her little peep coupled with puppy eyes to remind me it's her dinnertime. She's had a long day mopping about, contemplating life, rolling in the grass and add her decor to our house, gather dust and dirt wherever she goes to bring flavor to our floor. Also, it takes a lot of time to make those drool, a lot of fuel too. So she comes to me, pleads her case, to go to the kitchen and make dinner just for her.
Lovely piece, quite relatable. Love the sarcasm too.
Awwww sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve my animals