Little B.I.T.T. Had No Clue
By D. Cashon Klein
I was, thinking about how I was going
to pay my electric bill when the a**hole behind me leaned on his big horn. I
had caught the end of the green arrow in the left turn lane. I decided that
thinking about my electric bill was more productive than joining the many cars
already sitting in the intersection that would soon be blocking the cross-traffic
when the light changed, so I stopped. I am not one to run with lemmings. I
prefer to jump off my own cliffs, thank you very much.
I knew that the very loud horn
belonged to a man. I needed no visual proof of this. Still, I wanted to put a
face to the a**hole, so I looked in my rearview mirror, the rearview mirror of
my small, modest, fuel efficient car. The only thing I could see was a huge,
chrome grill. Again, the horn sounded, only this time non-stop. The pen I keep
handy to write down songs that come to mind to use in a compilation CD that I’m
putting together for my funeral, vibrated off the cup holder and rattled to the
floor.
This guy had no clue who he was
dealing with. Men don’t scare me. Big trucks don’t intimidate me. The green
turn arrow had been red since before my pen took a dive. The cars were still
jammed in the Intersection, their people ducking down in shame as the cross
traffic honked in three part harmony at them. Mr. Tonka Truck wanted me to pull
into the intersection with them.
Oh, this guy was going to hear from me.
See, this is the thing; at that point I really didn’t care if he had a
gun and would shoot me. I was praying he’d get a clear shot so I’d die fast.
If I had to choose life among a**holes such as Tonka Truck Man and death, well,
death seemed like the hands-down favorite.
So the arrow turned green and l
cruised, ever so slowly, around into the far left lane. He chose the middle
lane to attempt further intimidation. We drove nose to nose. We were creeping
along below the speed limit. He was staring down at me. He was all red in the
face, his thick neck draped in chains. He reminded me of Burl Ives on steroids.
We approached another light.
Right about this time I was wishing I
had finished my compilation death CD. I hadn’t written any instructions down
about this CD, or the fact that I wanted to give it as a lovely parting gift at
my memorial service. So, after Mr. Burl Ives Tonka Truck blew me away, someone
was going to find a very strange list of sloppily scrawled, random songs in my
glove compartment.
We were at the light. I decided l had
time to perform a perky “puppet show” with the longest fingers on each of my
hands. I made them jab and jump and dance… all for his benefit. It was entirely
visual because our windows were still up and the sound effects could not be
heard. I was thinking my little presentation was reminiscent of Punch and Judy.
Burl was lowering his window. I
lowered my passenger side window so he could get a better shot.
“Why didn’t you PULL OUT!?” he
yelled, his neck veins bulging.
“WHERE DID YOU EXPECT ME TO GO, YOU F ******
MORON!?” I replied. I saw terror in
his eyes. His window went up. The light changed. He pulled into the furthest
lane and turned at the next street.
You might expect that this would be
the end of it. You would be wrong. A couple of days later l needed to make some
prints off of a picture disc. I went to my friendly, neighborhood drug store
and attempted to use the handy do-it-yourself machine. The machine talks. It
says repeatedly, “You can do it yourself!”
I wasn’t having any luck with myself,
so I went looking for a photo person. A man was crouched behind the counter
tidying a shelf.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Can you help me
make prints?”
Mr. Burl Ives Tonka Truck rose to his
full five-feet-four and replied, “Sure, no problem!”
We looked at each other. We knew who
we were. We both decided to pretend that we didn’t.
The B.I.T.T. (Burl Ives Tonka Truck) helps
me frequently with my photo needs. He’s really quite knowledgeable and friendly.
Maybe he suffers from the dog-on-a-leash syndrome. You know, the dog’s real
nice when he’s just trotting around free, but as soon as you snap that leash
on, he’s barking at everyone. My sister had a cocker Iike that.
So I was thinking I might even ask the
B.I. T. T. to copy my compilation memorial CD, although I genuinely hope I won’t
need it any time soon.
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety
Harbor resident.
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