The Wind Howls

I look at the temperature gauge in my truck. It's 83F outside. It's also half past midnight. The harshest summer isn't here yet, but the winds are. The wind howls with an other-worldly fury.

East on Pyle a motorcycle weaves through traffic and slams on its brakes directly in front of me. He gets a close look at my grill as he takes a right into a housing development. Too bad my reflexes are faster than my irritation - I almost had a new hood ornament.

Driving north on Spencer I catch the tail end of a green onto St. Rose. I push the transmission down from third into second while accelerating. Push hard on the gas and jerk the wheel left. Suddenly I'm in a nice drift. Turn the wheel right and keep pushing. The truck straightens and I'm in the middle lane of St. Rose. Third gear. Fourth. Fifth. And ease into sixth.

I get onto 215 West, headed for 95. Traffic is light, I'm averaging about 85. I'd do more, but I'm already fighting the gusting wind pretty hard. The grated concrete road surface doesn't help. I probably look a little drunk. So be it.

Onto 95 North. Again traffic is light. Let my foot off the gas and coast onto the Russell Road exit. I pass by an accident - it looks minor, everyone appears okay. Keep going...

Right onto Russell. As I'm about up to the intersection where I had my last accident the single oncoming car begins flashing its high beams. Why? Police speed trap? Accident? Boredom. Paranoia jabs me in the kidneys for the next mile. But it's nothing. Boredom.

Left onto Boulder Highway. I'm in the left lane. Someone in the middle lane wants into my lane. He doesn't have room ahead of me. So he slows to get behind me. I turn into the left turn lane for Tropicana and he passes by, still in the middle lane. Maybe it's a She. On an outcall. That would explain the confusion. Prostitutes are not known for their navigational skills.

I get onto Tropicana, then turn into the Albertson's parking lot. It's almost 1:00 AM on a Saturday morning. This should be fun.

Pass by the goth sitting on the corner looking very angsty. I remember being fifteen. I'm not feeling pity.

I get my waffles, Red Bull, and Power Bars (tomorrow's breakfast). I pass by the group wandering around in a meth daze. They don't seem to be holding any food, but they're wandering intently. Nothing I want to get involved in.

There's a stoner trying to get a store employee to help him find a particular flavor of ice cream. He can't remember the name of it. Or the brand. Marijuana rots the brain, kids.

At the checkstand just paying for some items is a john, with his hooker in tow. Yes, it's that obvious.

Behind them is the kid with the fake ID buying alcohol. That's obvious too. But it's just believable enough that the clerk lets him by. He's got plausible denyability.

I pay for my food and head for the exit door. At the Coin Star machine is what looks like a younger, slightly gothier version of Penn and Teller. It's deinifetly time for some sleep.

I get home, the cats are fine. The dog, however, has killed a mouse. Good dingo, I say, as I toss it in the trash. At least one of the animals earns its food.