Their relationship was undistinguishable.
Smoking. Between puffs of tobacco stained teeth, she spew the words, “It’s Private” onto the Taller One next to her. When my ease dropping gaze met the Taller One’s, she winked and nodded in the direction of the overbearing decrepit limousine that was paralleling up to the curb. I could almost hear what would have been the beeping noise of a semi as the red lights signaled its arrival like Amanda Wingfield in an old chipped chariot Limousine. It could never be a Limo, Limo is slick and smooth, quick. Limousine lingers on your lips like wisps of tobacco smoke, long enough to make you uncomfortable.
On the bumper, as prophesized, the word “Private” was written out with letter blocks that you find in hardware stores next to the “For Sale” and “Beware of Dog.” The “Private” tires were about to bust; the rubber was falling off the strings of bone that held them together. It was too dark to see the driver but his silhouette was a masterpiece of skill. Upon his head there was a driving cap and along the dashboard was a row of trinkets, McDonalds toys all lined up, ready aim fire. The booze was the only things with class left in it. Perfectly cut clean crystal, sterilized and plastic wrapped glasses perched in the side window. On the cigarette burned seat, under the 87 year old Italian man, were two Scotts to go with the scotch, Scotty dogs embroidered blue on pillows. At the feet of the man were piles of crumpled papers.
I noticed the gray hair under the driving cap of the African American driver as he got out of his Ben Hur coffin. He smiled to someone in a memory long ago as he opened the door for his passenger. But the comfort of his movements, the familiarity with which the passenger exited the Limousine…they walked together to the hardware store like old war buddies from the civil rights days, not saying a thing and yet saying everything. And then the driver came back and stood his historic place, by the Limousine, squinting his eyes in the sun.
I could see, in the glint of sun that reflected off his whites, that their relationship was undistinguishable.
On the bumper, as prophesized, the word “Private” was written out with letter blocks that you find in hardware stores next to the “For Sale” and “Beware of Dog.” The “Private” tires were about to bust; the rubber was falling off the strings of bone that held them together. It was too dark to see the driver but his silhouette was a masterpiece of skill. Upon his head there was a driving cap and along the dashboard was a row of trinkets, McDonalds toys all lined up, ready aim fire. The booze was the only things with class left in it. Perfectly cut clean crystal, sterilized and plastic wrapped glasses perched in the side window. On the cigarette burned seat, under the 87 year old Italian man, were two Scotts to go with the scotch, Scotty dogs embroidered blue on pillows. At the feet of the man were piles of crumpled papers.
I noticed the gray hair under the driving cap of the African American driver as he got out of his Ben Hur coffin. He smiled to someone in a memory long ago as he opened the door for his passenger. But the comfort of his movements, the familiarity with which the passenger exited the Limousine…they walked together to the hardware store like old war buddies from the civil rights days, not saying a thing and yet saying everything. And then the driver came back and stood his historic place, by the Limousine, squinting his eyes in the sun.
I could see, in the glint of sun that reflected off his whites, that their relationship was undistinguishable.