Accelerator

The man in front of us leaned out his door and spat. The radio boohooed, "I'm wearing my crying shoes." What the hell does that mean? I wondered, as the blonde beside me, eyes shut, heels propped on the dash, slapped her thighs, and bawled, "Crying shoes! I'm wearing my crying shoes."                      "This light's going to last forever," I said. "Let's steal a car!" she answered, eyes glistening. Scuffed bucks rested on the drilled-out brake and accelerator. They were my shoes. I had a car. We were in it. Or was that her point—I was boredom itself? The spitter wheeled into Burger King, stood, and one hand on the roof, spat compactly watching it. "Steal a car? How about a movie?" "What are you, the only white man left in the world?" "No, there's me and whoever's singing that goddamn song. And that dude spitting on his shoes. But that's it. That's all of us." Violins slid in lard across the song's sad bridge, and true to spoony music's low simpering allure, I hummed along in her silence until, with my right crying shoe, I pegged the accelerator. The tires rose on haggard rubber, screaming against the engine's scream, one song obliterating the other, and the V-8 forging forward banged us back.