The teen love is a happily busy little being, which means she’s in need of safe transport, time and again, day or night. Last night was one of those times. And I was happy to be her late-night cabby.
So happy. No worries. Not now.
You see, earlier in the morning, I’d received a telephone call from her teacher, letting me know that they’d been in an auto accident, and that everyone was all right. The show would go on. Bravo!
Now I kept in close text contact.
Finally! They were 10 miles out. I hopped into the auto and carefully headed down the dark hill, brights on. What’s that glittering in the middle of the road? A beer bottle standing straight up?
Judgment was standing now too.
No bother, I’d stop and pick up the beer bottle for its recycling adventure on the way home. I didn’t want to be a late late-night cabby. The teen love was expecting me and I would be there for her.
The lot was dark and deserted.
Whoops! They were actually 20 miles out now. And sorry! No worries, I’ll just read a little on my little phone here. (Note to self: Take new and not-so-improved eyeglasses in for a re-lens experience.)
What’s that shadowy figure?
An alley cat struts past, completely unconcerned with this quiet eeriness. He’s safe on his turf while I double-check that the doors are locked. Isn’t it strange that being alone can reach such extremes?
This time the shadow’s big.
A young man in a hoodie sulks past, hands tucked into its muff on this chilly spring night. I make up his story right there on the spot. It’s a sad, short tale. And just when its climax is about to be resolved…
Did that cop just do a doughnut?
Yes, after speeding into the lot and scaring the sweet bejesus out of me. The snark rises up to cover up for the scaredy-cat so I jest, What is it with cops and doughnuts? I’m a lone-woman stand up now.
Quick script: Good evening, officer.
I’ll just crack the window a bit, in case of a worse-case scenario. But he doesn’t mosey on over. Another car pulls in, an unmarked vehicle. And then some teens pour out. Thanks pour out too.
And lickety-split, they all soon split.
I rarely loiter or lurk about in dark lots late at night. Is this what a small-town-America Saturday night is like? I recall reading the police reports in the local rag and realize it’s typically worse, way funnier.
This time it’s them pulling into the lot.
As we’re traveling along the dark and deserted road home, complete with a dramatic retelling of the day’s events, I suddenly spy an uninvited guest. It’s a tailgater. And I mean a really good tailgater.
It’s an accident just waiting to happen.
I tap on the brake pedal, quickly yet gently, just enough to kindly signal by way of brake light, “Give us some space here, please and thanks.” Pops taught me that one many-a-year ago. I miss him.
But now the tailgater’s closing in on me.
Now it’s turned insult upon possible-injury. The defensive-driver road warrior within me awakens. Cuss! All sorts of thoughts race through my mind while I think of a new problem-solving stratagem.
So I brake harder, with a little heave-ho!
Double cuss! She (possibly a sexist assumption, based solely on a quick glance at her raised middle finger) advances her attack. I quickly wonder if she’s the one who stood the beer bottle so proudly.
I pull over. She speeds into the darkness.
Our adventure ends well, as I notice some other and kinder driver has already retrieved the beer bottle. He or she deserves the 5₵ refund and my gratitude, sent out into this dark yet starry night.
And so we’re tucked into the loving fold.