Where I am is sitting on the curb in front of my house, smoking a cigarette.
I watch as two men from across the street, dressed in cowboy hats and bolo ties, walk towards an old blue pickup truck.
I watch as this pickup truck rolls it's windows up and turns the radio on.
Sitting outside, smoking my cigarette, I listen as a steady thumb and bump come from this blue pickup truck.
This steady thump and bump is followed by a woman's voice, singing the same words and phrases, over and over again, in a loop.
Suddenly, there's a break in the music, a silence. During this silence, a voice under a cowboy hat yells from inside the truck, "Wait for it..." This is followed by a thunderous crash of distorted beats and buzzing noises.
The blue pickup truck starts to shake and the two cowboys wave their arms up and down.
Oil and Vinegar.
Sugar and Salt
Cowboys and Techno music.
I flick my cigarette into the street and wish Ms. River was here.
To witness this with me.
To sit on the curb next to me.
To watch cowboy hats and bolo ties listen to techno music.
To have someone sit and crack the fuck up with me.
Ms. River taps on the breaks with her foot and slams on the horn with her hand.
"Fucker!" She says. Followed by "Moron!"
I flick my cigarette out of the passenger side window and laugh.
"Get 'em!" I say.
WHERE we are is on I-215, heading east towards Henderson. The asphalt still shines from an earlier rainfall, and Ms. River's personality continues to glow with every mile marker we pass.
Ms. River, she throws both of her hands up in the air and says "Would you fucking go?" Followed by "Please?"
"Get 'em!" I say again.
River looks over at me, over at the smile on face and says, "Shut the fuck up!" Followed by "Jerk!"
This is what common society would call, "Road Rage".
This is what Ms. River would call, "Driving."
Placing her left hand on her forehead, she shakes her head and says, "Fucking Morons."
This what I would call, "Riding in a car with Ms. River."
To be quite honest, I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's that moment when the angry become the adorable.
Ms. River honks on her horn and extends her middle finger and yells. She does this while I light another cigarette and laugh.
It's that moment when I become the asshole in the passenger seat.
"It's not funny!" River says.
"Yes it is." I say
"You fucking love it." She says.
WHAT I'm doing is holding a cell phone.
Ms. River yells and shouts on the other end, saying phrases like, "Would you fucking go?" and "Hurry the fuck up and drive, please!"
I don't hear the horn honk, but even over the phone I can sense her middle finger extending upright, giving a nice "fuck you!" towards today's vehicular victim.
I pinch the phone between my ear and shoulder and spread raspberry jam over a piece of white bread.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I'm trying to fucking drive!" She says. "But apparently, this fucker doesn't want to."
WHEN I open the passenger door to River's car, the sunset begins to rise over the hood of her silver Honda sedan.
It's the day after Thanksgiving, Black Friday and Ms. River hasn't had her coffee yet.
Maggie Mcaggie jumps into the front passenger seat, sits and waits for me to close the door behind her. I walk around to the rear, drivers side door, open and take my place
Maggie Mcaggie, or Mcgags as River calls her, watches as I walk from front passenger side, to the rear driver side door and take my place.
Maggie's look say's
"Ha!"
Her looks says
"Look at me!"
Her looks says
"I'm the one in front!" Followed by "Mother Fucker!"
River, Mcgags and I take off down the parking lot towards the entrance/exit to the complex.
Just out of the entrance, pokes the hood of a green Ford Taurus.
The three of us sit, and idle behind a blinking right turn signal.
Compact cars, four door sedans and lifted up pickup trucks continue to pass by, in front of us. One by one, these cars drive by, on their way to discount prices and long checkout lines.
Finally, we spot a break in traffic.
The three of us continue to sit and idle, watching as holiday cheer and door buster prices continue to roll on by.
Ms. River curls her fingers around the steering wheel and separates each word with a slight pause.
"This...is...fucking...retarded!" She says.
The snap of a car horn comes from underneath the sunlight hood.
"Move!" River says. "Fuckster!"
I pop my head up from the back seat. "I love it when you say that word."
"What word?" She says "Fuckster?"
"Yes." I say, "Fuckster."
River lays on her horn again and shouts, "Fucking... go!" Followed by "Must...get...coffee."
WHO I'm talking to is Brent Newbry. Brent is the Director of Sales for Lodging and Dynamics, a hospitality company based out of Salt Lake.
I stand in front of the Bellegio, in front of it's man-made pond and tell Brent I hope he has a safe drive down from Salt Lake City.
A large group of tourists stand behind me and watch as a large fountain dances to a Shania Twain song.
A silver Honda crosses through the intersection of Flamingo and Las Vegas Blvd, headed towards me and Shania Twain.
I step towards the curb and wave my hand, like I'm signaling a taxi.
"Hi." I say.
I tell my cell phone I'll be there at 6:30, at the Marriott in Henderson.
Inside the car, Ms. River throws a pack of Marlboro cigarettes on my lap.
"Nobody knows how to fucking drive in this town." She says.
I unwrap the cellophane from my flip top box of cigarettes.
"How was your day?" I ask.
"Fucking busy." She says.
We drive around the block, and head back towards Flamingo.
River tells me "this person" and "that person" have been blowing up her phone all day. Asking her to do "this thing" and "that thing."
"Don't people understand that I'm fucking busy!" She says.
We continue to move down Flamingo, zigzagging from one lane to another. Feeling a sudden urge to smoke I pull a Marlboro from my flip top box and light it.
"Sorry you've had a rough day" I say.
River's fingers curl tight around the steering wheel, holding our lives at ten and two, she says, " Fucker!"
Her middle finger extends an inch from the front window. "Suck a fuck!" She says.
WHY I laugh, it's because some asshole has blocked River and I from moving into the right lane.
Why I laugh is because River doesn't give a fuck. She moves forward, finding a small gap in between this asshole's car and the car ahead of him, she wedges her silver Honda in front of the asshole, in front of his extended middle finger and shouts of rage.
This asshole, he rolls down his window and yells, "Really? He says "You're gonna fucking block me like that?"
I roll the passenger side window down and poke my head halfway out of the car.
"Really?" I say "You're gonna let something like this ruin whole fucking night?" I say "You're gonna get that worked up over something like this?" I say "Whatever makes you happy man."
This asshole, the one behind the wheel of his black Cadillac Escalade, his arm reaches down and his hand grabs his inside door handle.
This is when I think
"Oh fuck"
This is when I think
"He's gonna get out the car."
This is when I think
"Please let me at least get one good punch in, in front of my girlfriend."
This is when a hand from the passenger seat of his black SUV reaches over and rests on this assholes shoulder.
After a moment of silence, the traffic begins to move and River and I speed away, in front of the asshole with the rational wife.
Where I am is sitting on a curb, lighting another cigarette, wishing Ms. River was here. The funny thing about River and I, is we make the world our theater. We find a way to find amusement wherever we go.
We dance in streets and run through grocery stores. We yell random things at random people and shoot random streetlights with our fingers. We make love in random places like public bathrooms and outside patios. The thing that isn't random about River and I, is River and I.
Sitting on the curb in front of my house, I wish River was here. Watching the world together, with open eyes and open hearts.
Three more days...
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