The Complete Drive-In

2

Hot, sticky morning with the convertible’s tape deck blasting Sleepy LaBeef who’s singing something about how he’s a boogie-woogie man, jetting along with the top down, doing about ninety plus, me in the front seat, Steve at the wheel, bugs on the windshield, Grace, Bob and Crier in the back. Crier strapped in with a seat belt, leaning to the left, head partly out the window, hair standing up like wire, eyelids blown back by the wind, eyes glassy as cheap beads, pecker in his pocket, the tip of it shriveling and turning brown.

“Oh no,” Grace says, “the fire’s all right. It isn’t too big. No sir. Just right. I’m in front of it. No problem. It’s not too close to the truck. Ol’ Bob’s got it under control. Ol’ Bob’s got it by the balls. Ol’ Bob-”

“Shut up, will you,” Bob says.

Steve sings along with Sleepy LaBeef. New bugs hit the windshield. Outside the scenery is changing. More popcorn bags and garish posters lying about, blowing up as we jet by. The trees are starting to fill with film. Broken TV sets and fragments of antennas clutter the side of the road. Crier’s pecker continues to wither.

Steve moves the convertible up to a hundred and it’s rocking a little. The sun is glinting off the hood and the tires are whining: I hope no one is standing in the road. All seats are taken.