CarF*ckers

I wanted desert, so I gathered together a random assortment of friends who were glum and tired, coming down after the ecstacy they took at a rave last night. We wanted not merely pie, but a House of Pies, so we drove up Vermont. I hit a pothole and saw my speedometer drop from forty to zero. I'm still moving, I thought, but slowing down.

"Why are you going so slowly?" Jessi asks.

I put on my blinker and pulled onto the next side street, and she just lay down and died. The tow truck came in a record-setting five minutes. The driver looked at it and told me that gas wasn't getting to the engine, so she needed to be taken to the shop. I smiled and nodded—he's the one driving that truck.

So she was dropped off in the deserted Pep Boys parking lot, just waiting to be vandalized. And the four of us shuffled away as nonchalant as when we'd entered the car. Somehow it just seemed so blasé, so we got some coffee and waddled home.