The light is red, he drifts toward my channel. The bastard’s asleep in his ‘67 Ford Pickup so I blast the horn, he jerks and stops. That dog is hunting rabbit. I have switched channels and whisper to God as I discover he has also switched channels when the trailer goes by, storming through the next red at perhaps 60. He is big drunk.
Going to lunch, I roll up behind a ‘70’s Chevy pickup, rusted out, with no original paint left, camper top on the bed swamped with chaotically piled junk ready to come out the back. He floors it on the green, and his cargo rolls in volatile heaves. I do not whisper.
Late, after all of the day’s activity, a late-model, white Chevy, twice as high as I am, with a special tire package, comes at me hard with intention to run me off the road. He is vigorously waving, perhaps being a smart ass, but I am whispering to God again.
I am sitting there worried about the rain, which sure seems a bit too heavy.