I have wild dreams of becoming a famous writer. Occasionally, I muster up enough determination to crawl out of my laziness to jot short vignettes that I imagine could become smashing short stories. Hah delusions.
Anyway, I noticed I haven't written anything worthwhile in ages and although Lafayette manned the fort ably, I need to pitch in too.
So enjoy this vignette that will, in due time, become the next best Los Angeles novel:
My normal honk-to-mile frequency is around 2. 2.53, to be technical. But today I was easily approaching the freakishly astronomical realm of 10 honks per mile. I felt a sweet, deep jolt of savage satisfaction as my sweaty fist hit the vinyl expanse on the middle of the steering wheel. The oblong Toyota logo shuddered, almost in resonance with the loud honk that reverberated across the freeway, bouncing off fenders, plexiglass and tricked up wheels. It was loud and emphatic, proudly showcasing my frustration, vehemence and desperation.
The four-oh-five didn't seem to care one bit. Maintaining an enviable zen-like calm, it inched forward, like the download bar in a dial-up connection. Like a trickle of soothing rainwater making its way on a harsh, rough rock. A four-car pileup had the singular misfortune of meeting planned construction about forty minutes ago and the ensuing hookup had led to the chaos we were in.
My fist hit again. The logo shuddered, releasing yet another long wail. Dammit, not as satisfying as last time. The honk was beginning to lose its utility. The law of diminishing returns rearing its ugly head, I thought. I could almost imagine that grandiose tenet of basic economics cackling at my plight. Smug bastard.
I peered through the birdshit-spattered windshield, the imaginary fumes of my anger obscuring my vision. There was some movement through the driver window in the car in front of me. A human hand rose through the portal, rising through the hot air with steady confidence. It settled at an even height and through the clenched fist arose The Finger. It leered at my anger, an act of cold defiance. My lips contorted in a half-smile (the wry kind). Life of the four-oh-five, as usual.