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So picture this. Me, howling across the bridge in this nearly-new Buick I got minutes before from Bobby’s chop shop special order? Stolen car, windows down, Halloween wind, pinballing through traffic like I deserve this car, this life. You’ve seen it. My girl drives it now? Power everything? Fenders like cheerleader thighs? I skid sideways into the only space in line at the tolls and, shit, I’m in the Ticket Sales lane. Here’s the thing: I’ve got a screwdriver jammed in the ignition, I’ve got a Pennsy plate on the back, Jersey on the front until the paperwork should clear. I hang a dirty rag on the wiper handle to hide the ignition from the toll collector and shit myself. Who, Bobby? He’s just what you’d expect: sleeveless black Metallica tee shirt, Mister T starter set around his neck, calls me Boss, calls everybody Boss. Pulling down three four hundred grand tax free, most of it going to speedballs and paying off cops, has no actual boss. There’d be photos for the DMV, some with body parts removed to document how we “salvaged” it, others with a reset camera date and the parts put back on. Then last November a sting operation shut our Bobby boy down for good. They’d been videotaping him. Made the local news. Don’t I come to see the back of my own head on TV one night, taking the door off a Buick. Beautiful car. Wife wouldn’t drive it ‘til I made her something out of a key blank to start it with. But when I pay the toll and roll up the windows, I see backwards writing on the glass in yellow: DNUOPMI. Bobby’s little joke. I floor it away from that toll booth and start listening for sirens behind me. Funny guy.

Copyright © December 15, 2006