Seven forty-five. I'm marooned dead center in bumper-to-bumper L.A. rush hour traffic, an oxymoron if there ever was one, and I can't get that stupid fucking song out of my head. It wouldn't be so bad if my radio hadn't croaked last week; it wouldn't be so bad if the sun was shining; it wouldn't be so bad if I was inching my way to a job that mattered. But it did, it isn't, and I'm not.
My windshield wipers are acting like accomplices bent on driving me mad, suspiciously beating time to the offending tune. And there's a bobble-head guy in the souped up Beemer two lanes to the right with windows rattling so hard that they're sure to fall out from mega-volume mystery music. I wonder if Beemer-boy is going to a job that matters. Who the hell cares when it pays enough to buy an import with a working stereo?
A brunette two cars to the left is eating her breakfast, talking on her cell phone, and applying her make-up; the ultimate multi-tasker. I'll bet she's a whiz at the office and in bed. Now she's yelling at whoever's on the other end of the phone. Shit. Bobble-head's stereo is so loud I can't hear the conversation, and here I am stuck in the middle with the screamer and the Beemer. I hate this song. Get me off this damn freeway or let me meet the guardrail, God. But if I must be jailed in this metal and exhaust wasteland, at least allow me to be privy to the intimacies of my fellow inmates.
Great. Right on cue. I can hear Her booming reply, "This is God laughing. Would lane number four please inch forward so Stepford Mom and Rug Rats in their shiny, gas guzzling SUV can entertain the crab in lane three?" Mom's sucking down a grande double espresso while imploring Johnny to leave Suzy alone. He's not listening because Mom's trying to reason and compromise when what he needs is a good swat. But that would damage his self-esteem, so in the meantime, little Suzy gets terrorized 'cuz she's strapped into the car seat. Suzy's gonna need an analyst someday to sort through all the repressed memories of her brother's torture and her mother's indifference.
Eight forty-five. I'm tired of playing fantasy tag, with people's lives. Maybe I should ask the multi-tasker if I can use her phone to call work. Maybe I should invite the Beemer guy for a beer. Maybe I should spank Johnny.
Instead I grab my spiky green hair, and scream, "I have got to get out and stretch my legs!" The brunette stares at me, mumbles something into the cell, then flips it shut. Beemer boy is oblivious. Little Johnny takes it as license to scream, too. He's gotta pee. He's gotta pee bad, Mommy.
My car hasn't moved for over an hour, so I'm getting out. I don't give a shit what they'll say, or that it's raining. Why the hell is it raining in L.A. anyway?
"What are you doing, bitch?"
"Are you crazy?"
"Mommy, I'm gonna pee my pants!"
I park my ass on the guardrail, face turned skyward. Horns start honking. I'm not listening. I'm singing that stupid fucking song in the rain.