3 2002 |
I glanced in my mirror at the rusting Caddilac behind me. A tired woman was in the driver's seat, and a man in his early 20s was the passenger. He sat low in his seat, knees on the dashboard, holding his cigarette like a joint. She was placing the order, he was just sitting there.
Once she finished and pulled away from the microphone he became animated, jesturing angrily. Swear words are the easiest when reading lips: "fucking...this shit...and THEN...crap...fuck...when he...shit...fucking..." She just stared emptily at my car's bumper, before resting her head in her hand, looking at the floor.
The line moved up while she was trying to ignore her passenger; he was further angered that their car hadn't followed along with everyone else. She said something, but I don't think he heard. He continued with his tirade, up until I had my food and was pulling away.