Smack

I was driving down the city drag past the parking lots of retail stores which, by inter-generational contract, are show rooms for the engines of cars of young men who own engines inside these cars you might not otherwise be privy to see.

Naturally, when the peak of the unmuffled and gigantic lion’s fart crescendo from my 1991 Ford Tempo reached the loose wad of their stunted and undiscriminating senses, they, as was perfectly excusable, climbed beneath their engines in fear and drank in shame the coolant made available to them through their similarly embarrassed automobiles. They drank this, (but who is to judge?), until they could no longer hear the taunting roar of my he-sled remorselessly belly-laughing in the depths of their shallow and demasculanitized souls. They then continued to drink, (again, who is to judge them, who!), until their organs failed and their quivering bodies ceased to support the, at best, innocuous existences previously placing daily demands on their weary and vulgarly-maintained bodies. “I think this is for the best,” one young man wrote his family before he passed. “I think, yes, I think it’s for the best.”

Anywho, it was also about this time that Akon’s giddy Carlton-dance anthem “Smack that Ass” came onto the radio. “I feel you creepin’, I can see you from my shadow,” Akon sings to notify the woman-vampire who, if not already infatuated by the R & B eagle-eye, will find it difficult to reject an early autumn’s ride in exotic automobile. “Wanna jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo?“ Of course she does. Alright, at this point, Akon has the woman-vampire in the car and, though she may seem naive, don’t mistake her for being easy — not just any slyly worded proposition is going to get this bitch naked. “Maybe go to my place and just kick it, like Tae Bo?” Masterful! Now, I know she seems enticed, but be cautious. Wait for it … wait for it … Now! “And possibly bend you over?” Excellent. Akon, you are homefree as a bum, so there’s No sense in couching your desires in courtesies any longer. Be straightforward with the lady, goddamn you. “Look back and watch me smack that, all on the floor/ Smack that, give me some more/ Smack that, ’till you get sore/ Smack that, oooh.”

“Is this real?” my girlfriend asked. “Is it ever,” I said. “Seriously?” she said. “Yes,” I said. “But we don’t have to listen to it if you don’t want.” She didn’t want. I didn’t want. No one, I would hope, would want to listen to Akon’s bizzaro weepy pervert on-air mangasm. “Oh-oh-ohh-ohhh!” Ahhh! I saw it! I saw his face singing that part — all scrunched and intent.

Well, I tell you what, my excuse for listening to the song was that I wanted to hear if he really did, at one point, suggest returning to his residence and kicking it “like Tae Bo”. Okay, I don’t know what else he could have been saying, but I’m bad when it comes to that kind of thing (i.e. listening comprehension). I’ll tell you what, I was happy as an evangelical with lobbying power when I finally figured out who this “Jacob” all the rappers were referring to was. Still, how can someone who sung about the hardships of prison life write such a bewilderingly gay lyric? ……... Ohhh, okay. Yeah … yeah. Oh, okay, yeah, yes. Yes, I get it. I get it.

As I was hypothetically responding to this hypothetical question from a hypothetical detractor, I, at the same instant, attempted to change lanes. I stress that this was only an attempt because, though I took the strictest of precautions by glancing in my driver’s side mirror, there was a car in the other lane in the approximate space where I wanted to move my car. Due to the inconvenient properties of matter, however, two automobiles cannot share the same space at the same time. Believe me, I’ve tried, and I might have inadvertently tried again with some degree of success if my girlfriend wouldn’t have alerted me that “there’s a car in the other lane … a car IN THE OTHER LANE!”

It’s bad enough coming close to an accident that probably wouldn’t have resulted in serious injury. What’s worse, though, is waiting for the person you almost ran hit to get pissed enough to work up the courage to accelerate and scowl at you as they pass. Luckily, this person had tinted windows, so I didn’t know if there was scowling involved in the process or not. But even as he passed, I felt like yelling something out the window like, “Sorry about almost just killing you! Sorry! Yeah, seriously. Just didn’t see you there, I guess. Could I, um, offer you a gift certificate to a restaurant or something?”

But this guy, whoever the fuck he though he was, didn’t want a masterfully prepared meal from his neighborhood Chilli’s. No. He wanted something else. He wanted not to be driving beside a guy who almost ran into him. Asshole. I realize you may find this hard to believe, but not only did this guy drive around me, he went around me and then pulled in front of me — right in front of me. To make “a point” or something, I guess. “Not driving beside your dumbass anymore,” he shouted over his car shoulder in car language. “Good. Fuck you!” I returned in car angst.

Anyway, the point is that I was going to Borders on a Friday night because I’m an extremely exciting person. Being an extremely exciting person, people are subconsciously and magnetically drawn to meet me at Borders on a Friday night. Sure enough, right there drinking heavily-creamed coffee was a girl I knew from a consumer mathematics class in high school.

Honestly, I don’t want to say there was a debate in my head (where else would it be?) about whether or not to talk to her. That was never an option. Her birthday, after all, was on September 11th, and I was not up for faking bereavement with someone I didn’t want to talk to in the first place.

I did ask myself, however, “Do I hate this girl?” No, I don’t hate her, I thought. I just don’t foresee it desirable to talk to her ever about anything. “Would I be sad if she died?” Yes, I believe I would be sad. She’d be a good person to have a clean chat and a moral outrage with when I was old.

Also, I don’t think it’s her time. Plus, I know I’ll need her around someday to confirm for posterity how devastating 9/11 was for me. “It was horrible, horr-i-ble!!!” I’ll yell at my grandchildren. “But don’t get it in your heads that change is good, because it’s not. Hey. Hey!!! K48T7, I’m talking to you, hot shot. Slow down, why don’t you? Slow down and show some goddamn respect.”