It Could Always Be Worse

We're late and men of his stature should never drive with their knees. I'm already sick and we've only made two left turns out of the driveway. He puts his drink in the cup holder and then he's doing his thing; he's digging a hole to china with one hand while the other keeps his cigarette in check.

"What are you looking for?"

"Don't you worry. Just sit back and relax, baby."

How do I relax when he's still searching with his hands and lurching with his knees? Once again, he's taking the scenic route. The one with all the curves. He hands me his cigarette.

"Hold this."

That's when he comes up with a couple of BC powders.

"Oh, great. You have a headache?"

"Nope. I take two of these everyday, as a precaution. Don't they say a couple of aspirin a day are good for you?"

"No. Just one aspirin and preferably enteric coated, is what they recommend but not at your age. Thirty-seven is too..."

"Well, then I'm double good and double young."

Then he turns and looks straight at me, pours the powder into his mouth and washes it down with a flourish. His knees keep us between the ditches.

"No, you're not. Why won't you listen? That stuff will erode your stomach lining and you don't need the caffeine."

He won't stop looking at me. I can't look away. His eyes widen, then they grin.

"Well, it could be cocaine. How would you like that?"



Touché.