The Other Shoe

Layoffs began at my job today.

The possibility of layoffs was announced a short 6 weeks ago and today they're happening. Last month's announcement sparked a rare and somber morning conversation on the van.

Neo-Pompadour was driving, I was riding shotgun, and Dora squeezed her torso between the two front seats. In hushed tones we all shared the bits of gossip we'd heard, speculated on who would be the first to go, and criticized management for letting it come to this.

"What do you think is going to happen?" Dora asked.

When no one answered, she lifted her coffee and sank back into her seat.

"I know one thing," said Neo-Pompadour, "I'm going to enjoy sleeping in!"

Cue the polite, strained laughter.

"Well, if it does happen, we'll all meet for coffee and donuts while we go through the want ads." Then it was quiet and Neo-Pompadour stared straight ahead.

And I wondered, looking at the amber glow of the instrument panel reflect on his face, how long it will be before we're wiping powdered sugar off the classifieds.

For all the poor bastards going home with pink slips in their pockets - may I never join your ranks - an anthem for these times:

Daylight Sav...zzzzz

I respect you Mr. Franklin, I just don't have to like you right now. Your Daylight Saving scheme can be a bitter pill to swallow. It caused this morning's driver to veer moodily from lane to lane and narrowly avoid two rear end collisions.

It caused me to lie awake in bed 45 minutes before my alarm went off because I was paranoid about being late for work.

As my mind drifted from thought to thought, I recalled an old friend. Our long friendship ended abruptly and poorly. I remembered the Dear Jane letter he sent me years ago, a litany of petty grievances that was to be the last I heard from him.

I wondered if I still had the letter. It didn't seem like something I would throw away. It's good to hang on to some of the signposts from your life: not just the birthday cards and well wishes, but some cringe-inducing memorabilia that reminds you that you can be a real bastard.

After less looking than I anticipated, I found the letter. It hadn't packed the emotional sting I remembered. But it was, curiously, dated exactly 5 years to the day.

What bizarre confluence of events lead me to rediscover this letter exactly 5 years after it was written, I can't say. It probably has less to do with the twisted inner workings of my psyche and more to do losing out on a few hours of sleep.

Left Behind

Early on in in my vanpooling, my biggest fear was being left in the city with no way home. So far, it hasn't happened. To me, that is.

Last Thursday, Minh was at the wheel. Minh, whose obsession with finding shortcuts means that I'm never quite sure from which direction she will appear when she picks me up.

She barely rolls to a stop as I jump in. We sit through three cycles of a traffic light and Minh's right eye twitches along with each click of the van's turn signal.

When she finally clears the intersection, she veers away from our normal route.

"What about Neo Pompadour?" I ask mildly.

"Ooh, I never see this bridge before!" gushed Minh. And that was that.

She made the rest of her pick ups and pointed the van homeward. I was stretched out on the rear bench with earbuds tightly in place thumbing through a library book when my phone rang.

It was a number I didn't recognize so, of course, I didn't answer it.

A minute or so ticked by before I became vaguely aware of some excitement at the front of the van.

I popped out my headphones in time to hear, "...forgot Neo Pompadour!"

After the initial shock, the vannies started to laugh. "Poor Neo Pompadour," someone jeered. There was a chorus of questions and blame before Minh accused me: "vAnnie! How could you let me forget him???"

To which I responded, "I asked you about him. And you said 'Ooh, I'll take this short cut!'"

More laughter.

"What kind of unit are you running, Minh?" I asked, "We don't leave a man behind."

More laughter.

The laughter subsided as we u-turned back into traffic, but it stopped completely when everyone mentally calculated the additional commute time this oversight would cause.

I've always thought the expression about cutting tension with a knife was dumb. That is until I felt the dread welling up inside me, my lungs straining to breathe air as thick as Velveeta watching Neo Pompadour approach the van.

He looked sweaty. Sweaty and pissed. No one dared look at him, except me: "H-h-h-hey Neo Pompadour," I stuttered.

With eyes full of rage, yet tinged with disappointment he said, "I tried calling you vAnnie."

Great. So now I feel guilty and partially responsible for The Incident. It's my fault that Minh is easily distracted and can't take a decent head count.

I settled back into my seat, turned the pages of my book as quietly as I could and thought about how one day he'll see the humor in all this.

The rest of us do.

Regressing

It's been brought to my attention that I am not making the best start to the new year.

I blame my brother for regifting a copy of Twilight, which I held away from my person, between index finger and thumb until finally succumbing to my angsty inner 'tween/curious librarian and read the whole series.

And then admitted to people that I read it.

I blame my better half for giving me 8 gigs worth of memory for my phone which has caused me to lower the bar content-wise and include "Material Girl" on my playlist.*

I blame the looming spectre of my thirtieth year for sending me out to purchase bright yellow Wayfarers since my days of trend hopping are, sadly, numbered.

I blame myself for letting my brains waste away to mush during my vacation.

I blame my job for forcing me out of the pop culture gutter I've been merrily wallowing in for the past two weeks. But, now it's time to get back to work.

*Doubleplusungood for engaging in head nodding whilst song was playing.

Advertising, Schmadvertising

Of late I have noticed billboard-style advertisements on the sides of school buses.

Silly me, I assumed the ads were flogging tickets for school sporting events or were about the school's purported intellectual superiority (evidenced by overuse of the word 'excellence').

No. The ad I saw this morning was advertising a local day care. I'm sure the ads for Henessey and McDonald's are forthcoming.

This reminds me of the charmingly titled Simpsons episode, Grift of the Magi, wherein a bankrupt Springfield Elementary is purchased by a toy company. Said toy company omits traditional book learning and instead uses students for marketing research.

A horrifying example of corporate greed and consumerism, or simply an idea ahead of its time?

But just when I'm ready to wag my finger and consider this another nail in the coffin of Western civilization, the Universe balances out.

Behold the following Humanist holiday ad that will be plastered on the side of D.C. buses through December:

God I love Christmas.

Hail to the Chief

My feelings of exuberance incarnate:



I tried to stay awake, to remain alert for this monumental event that will be forever seared on the consciousness of my generation.

I entertained notions of popping champagne bottles when the election was called, crafting a meal consisting of only Democrat blue food, calling my father-in-law to say, "Ha!"

But I just couldn't do it, shotgunning 3 cans of Diet Coke only bought me about 20 minutes and I was fast asleep long before the last polls closed.

I arose the next morning to a new America. An America that pulled it's head out of it's collective arse and elected Barack Hussein Obama the 44th president of these United States. I hope for great things.

Pack your shit, George.

My People

Today my employer hosted an information session featuring the good people from Houston Metro, the goal of which was to get more citizens to drink the mass transit Kool-Aid.

The modest turnout was comprised of mostly late middle aged folks with a disproportionately high number of bald spots, including women.

I describe them thusly: whiny and dim.

For example, "My vanpool captain [editorial aside: Yes, 'vanpool captain'] is always changing the rates on me, I never know how much to pay."

Following a lengthy discussion (and slide show) about creating a commuter account to pay metro fees on a pre-tax basis, "Is this account pre-tax?"

And my personal favorite:

"My metro card's busted."

All this while a woman in the second row gave a play-by-play of the events to someone over the phone.

After spending an hour with other people's vannies, I have a new found gratitude for my own relatively low-key group, even if they do irk me from time to time.

Undecided

David Sedaris on undecided voters:

I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?

To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”

To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

Amortization

I'm having too many brushes lately with the Death's half-cousin thorough marriage, the Angel of Maim.

A short two days ago, I was sideswiped not only by a teen with a newly minted driver's license in his Camaro but also by the cliché of getting hit by a teen driving a Camaro.

For those of you keeping score, that means that both of the adults in my household have been in a car accident in the past three weeks.

The only modes of transportation we have left are a lawnmower and a treadmill but I am too fearful to use either.

I spent the next day looking up my available vacation time and happened upon my Accidental Death and Dismemberment insurance. This threw me into a tailspin: Is my coverage sufficient? How would I look missing a few digits or a whole arm? Would I get one of those cool robot appendages and take up competitive arm wrestling?

The cherry on this cake of mortality came today when my Best Gay left a message to say that he and his beloved are planning their wills and, "In the event we should die tomorrow in a fiery car crash, will you and [vAnnie's spouse] take care of our dog? Ugh, it's pledge week on NPR. God I hate pledge week. Call me."

In times like these all you can do is get (and by 'get' I mean 'sing') Laid. I believe that it is good for the soul to air drum until your rotator cuff smarts and your throat is parched from all the falsetto.

It's Raining Men

A significant portion of the vanpool population is female, male riders are definitely in the minority. My vanpool has recently upped the testosterone level with the return of Generic White Guy and the addition of Rider to be Named Later.

Generic White Guy had been missing for at least three months now (granted, it took me about a month to notice his absence). I desperately tried to overhear the hushed tones the other ladies used when talking about him, but all I could gather is that he had surgery and was facing a long recovery.

This was his first week back and it was good to see him. He looks somewhat worse for the wear, a little fragile and extra pale, but in high spirits. I thought my heart would literally rip in two when we picked him up at the end of his first day back and I watched him stumble and nearly fall while trying to hoist himself into the van.

Someone tried to make a joke out of it, something along the lines of, "We all know you're ready to get home, but pace yourself! Har-Har!" But I think everyone in the van just wanted to give him a hug.

The other fellow is a vanpool first: Young. Younger than me. Young. On all of my vanpools, I have been at least a decade or two younger than the other vannies. I've caught the new guy looking at me the way I know I look at him, a look that says, "What are you doing here?"

It's kind of like getting caught enjoying something you know is lame. You feel a little ashamed and a little self conscious and feel a little hate for the person who discovered you.

Unfortunately, the whippersnapper has yet to reveal himself. He's quiet and unobtrusive, cloaked in the rumpled anti-style of the heterosexual man in his early twenties. The only catty thing I have on him is that he needs a haircut.

I know Generic White Guy won't let me down, as soon as he gets to feeling better he'll be reading aloud what's on sale at the grocery store and commenting on weather patters and gas mileage, but the new guy is still a mystery.

Morning Fatalism

A petite middle aged Asian woman recently joined the vanpool. She is relentlessly cheerful and with her heavy accent, sounds exactly like the Laotian neighbor Minh on King of the Hill.

So, Minh it is.

A few weeks after joining the van, Minh started asking questions about becoming a driver. She wanted to know about the route, where to park the van, and qualifications for becoming a driver.

As it turns out, a pulse and a valid driver's license are the only requirements.

Two days after submitting her paperwork, it was Minh's turn to take the wheel. She told everyone that she was going to practice driving the van around the parking lot over the weekend to "get the feeling of things" but admitted as she was backing out of the parking space that she never got around to it.

She successfully reversed about two feet before stomping on the brakes and asking how much more room she had to back up. Gap Lady rode shotgun to provide moral support and directional assistance. After a twelve-point three-point turn, we coasted toward an intersection.

The light at the intersection was red. It was red as we approached it. It was red as Minh kept a steady foot on the gas. It was red when the van filled with the sound of about seven people gasping. It was red as Minh sailed through it. It was red as horns honked and oncoming drivers swerved. And it was still red while my fellow vannies hustled into their seat belts.

For a woman who got a little cagey about backing out of a parking space, Minh's devil-may-care attitude for intersections was surprising.

"We're going to have to have a talk about what the colors mean," said Gap Lady with a strained voice.

"What? Oh. Yeah," smiled Minh knowingly.

For the duration of the trip she puttered along at 45 mph, hugging the right edge of the far right lane. But when a cement truck in front of her began kicking up road debris, Minh made the only lane change of the drive.

As soon as she was safely ensconced in the center lane, a triumphant Minh pumped her fist in the air.

"Congratulations!" beamed Gap Lady.

This is woman I entrusted with my safe passage to work.

The Hits Keep Coming

An open letter to the woman who rear ended my husband at a stop light this morning.

Dear Fleshwaste,

I can certainly appreciate that the intricacies of piloting a motor vehicle are difficult. What will all the staying awake and occasionally looking at the road, it is indeed a taxing activity.

I also suspect there are additional challenges associated with driving a vehicle the size of a Stegosaurus.

After living in Houston these past five years, I have become largely inured to the antics of my fellow drivers - I have minimal expectations of you.

You have every right to drive your behemoth vehicle, take up multiple parking spaces, bully small car drivers, and behave as a general menace.

But please, for sweet Christ's sake, keep your goddamned foot on the brake.

Sincerely,

vAnnie

You see gentle readers, when my spouse got out of his car to assess the damage, the woman who hit him meekly said, "I didn't have my foot on the pedal."

She didn't have her foot on the pedal of a vehicle that, according to the manufacturer's website, weighs in at 5,928 pounds.

The best part? We purchased our brand new car 6 days ago.

Worst. Song. Ever.

I've been a vannie for some time now and during my tenure I have overheard a lot of truly awful music.

Despite my Texas residency, I am not a fan of country music. Twangy nasal crooning is not my idea of music. I prefer my music loud, angry, and unintelligible.

All of the van drivers prefer country music. The single notable exception is Neo Pompadour who listens to sports coverage on the AM dial. Lately, there has been some pressure for me to assume some driving responsibilities and while I shudder at the prospect of holding the lives of fifteen people in my hands, I am intrigued by the possibility of total radio control.

Most country music is easy enough to ignore: tunes about women wronged due to a cheatin', fightin', or boozin' man, ditties about cowpokes in love, and song after song about pick up trucks. But when a song called Watching You by Randy Atkins came on the radio, I considered throwing myself through the van window and into oncoming traffic.

This song is beyond awful, a mash of all the hokey crap that is this genre's stock and trade:

Twang?
Check.

Precocious towhead?
Check.

Shout out to McDonalds?
Check.

Guitar playing in a field of hay?
Check.

Reference to the Almighty?
Check.

Four wheelers?
You betcha.

I'll leave it up to you to form your own opinion, just don't say vAnnie didn't warn you. I'll also encourage you to take a bathroom break first, lest you let loose on your favorite desk chair due to an uncontrollable giggle fit caused by the phrase, "orange drank."

Adventures with Ike

I'm a north Texas kind of gal. In the parlance of natural disasters: I speak tornado, not hurricane. Tornadoes come hard, fast, and unannounced.

Hurricanes do not.

Hurricanes come after a week (or more) of conjecture, doom, and foreboding which builds to a crescendo of hysteria.

News of the impending hurricane sent citizens in droves to their local megamarts in search of supplies. My hurricane preparedness list failed to include ice or batteries, but chocolate soymilk made it to the top of the list. It's good to know that in an emergency type situation, I tend toward junk food and perishables.

Ike closed in on Houston and as the wind picked up the power at home flickered before finally shutting off completely.

Power was not restored until 82 sweat-soaked hours later.

It was so hot during the outage that I courted mental collapse.

So hot that I went through the 5 stages of grief:

Denial - "It's not so bad! I'll just step outside or stop moving around so much, maybe splash a little water on my face."
Anger - "I cannot f@#$ing believe how hot it is in here!It's hot. I'm hot. So hot."
Bargaining - "I would give up television for a year if the air conditioner would just come back on.Television and Netflix for one year. And going to the movies. Ooh, it's always so nice and cool at the movie theater..."
Depression - "Whatever. I don't care about the heat anymore, it doesn't matter. Nothing does."
Acceptance - "So that's it then. Electricity is gone forever and we the survivors are left to rebuild humanity lest we slide back into prehistoric darkness."

Once Ike passed, it was time for damage assessment. Apart from the lime tree in the backyard flung on it's side, a few missing shingles, and a fence now resembling a mouthful of crooked teeth, the homestead was unscathed.

Not so for some of our neighbors. A walk around the neighborhood revealed many downed trees, damaged roofs, and missing fences.

The best and most unexpected thing about hurricane aftermath was how my neighborhood came alive. In the absence of the usual creature comforts, my neighbors were walking outside, talking to each other, helping each other.

It gave me some small measure of hope that we aren't on a crash course to hell with every man out for himself. That even without cell phones and satellite television, we can still connect with each other.

And then power was restored and the people went back inside and the windows were closed and the street was quiet again.

The errant shingles and tree branches have finally made it into the trash and the lime tree was replanted. Should the tree make it, we'll call him Ike. Then maybe in the spring we'll buy a lemon tree and name it Dick or Tina.

Dora, Dora, Dora

There's been some van drama recently, and the blame can be placed squarely on Dora's shoulders.

Evidently, Dora was recently promoted and her schedule has changed. Which means that accommodating her new schedule has become the responsibility of every other person on the van. After we made our final pick up last week, she floats the idea of changing the pick up and drop off routes and insists that she be at her desk no later than 7:15 a.m.

Well, gee, princess, I'd like to crowd surf into my office every morning where a feast of calorie-free biscuits with gravy and non-annoying coworkers are waiting for me. But that ain't gonna happen either.

Dora's plan went over (to borrow a phrase from my brother), "like a turd in a punchbowl." And poor Wizened Crone (who has recently taken over the Van Mother role) it was on her to diplomatically explain that not only was Dora's suggestion rubbish, but would be massively inconvenient to, oh, everyone.

So how does Dora retaliate?

She changes the clock on the van.

It has been previously addressed that the van clock runs s-l-o-w. But all the vannies have compensated by showing up a few minutes late. Last week, by pure chance, I found myself arriving to the van a few minutes early, or so I thought. When the clock read 6:30, less than a minute after I got on, our half empty van left. Rather, I should say our half empty van left about 6 people behind.

The next morning, having forgotten about the clock being moved, I drove into the parking lot in time to see my van pulling away. Instead of admitting defeat, I gunned my puny 4 cylinders and caught up to the van. The murderous glint in my eyes as I took my seat prompted Wizened Crone to say, "Everyone adjust your time because someone has changed the clock in the van."

Someone? Someone!?!? Often times in adult life, I find myself hopelessly frustrated by the lack of directness in the world. How's about something along the lines of, "Dora? Yes, you. Your little clock stunt has pissed everyone off. In time we will get over it, but right now everyone thinks your a selfish ass."

Although, Karmic justice reigns supreme: since changing the clock, Dora has missed the van three times. Which reminds us all that no one fiddles with van destiny and gets away with it.

The Wheels on the Van

This week marked the return of school buses, long commute times, and sardine-like van accommodations. In the early morning mugginess, the van has been swarming with mosquitoes. Which means the cabin is filled with sounds of random slaps and thuds as we try to massacre the wee varmints. Ahh, Texas.

The beginning of the summer was met with much happiness from fellow vannies because, according to them, traffic is significantly reduced during summer months. I dismissed this advice as wishful thinking, but have since come to realize that, sweet God, were they right.

The first week back is especially heinous as the roadways are clogged with folks who have been on vacation rather than commuting (and whose driving skills have not improved from lack of use).

Summer has drawn to a close and with it the carefree days of driving my own car or hitching early rides home. So, gentle readers, tuck in and buckle up for another long season of vannie antics.

The Newest Vannie

There are some new faces on the vanpool these days and one of these faces sure does like to talk.

I was on the fence about this woman in the beginning. She was confident, which was a point in her favor, but she took the front passenger seat too many times during her first few weeks on the van, which turned me off. I was on the vanpool for at least 6 months before I dared sit in that seat.

The front passenger seat is as close as a vanpool rider will get to the warm towels, champagne and toasted nuts treatment. The semi-private front seat is the Concorde, resplendent with headrest, legroom, radio access, lumbar support, and personalized climate control. It is, quite simply, divine.

No newbie, not even a newbie with brass ones and an insatiable appetite for communication, can rightfully occupy the Holy Grail of vanpool seating.

I've been torn coming up with an appropriate moniker for this woman. I was considering the wordy and unimaginative (and thus completely appropriate) alias of She Who Can't Not Talk but ruled it out because I don't want to have to type that over and over. And over, because something tells me this woman is going to be giving me lots of material.

So, I've settled on Gabby. It's short and to the point, and fits her like the gag I occasionally imagine stuffing into her mouth.

It's been a while since I cast the The Vanpool Chronicles Show. Let me welcome Gabby and say that while I know we won't be going out for pints or painting each other's toenails anytime soon, I am appreciative of her supporting role in The Vanpool Chronicles.

As the newest addition to the stable of memorable vanpool personalities, Gabby will be played by Chatty Cathy.

On Location: Whole Foods

Owing to an expanding list of work-related tasks that require me to have access to a vehicle and recent uneventful van activity, I've been doing alot of my own driving lately.

On a whim, I thought I could use my lunch break to pick up a few items at Whole Foods. After exiting the parking garage, I was met with heavy road congestion thanks to Houston's ever-present construction. In retrospect, this was the first of many signs for me to turn around and spend my lunch hour quietly resting my head on my desk.

Twenty-five minutes later and 3.28 miles down the road, I finally squeeze into a parking space. I grab my enviro-friendly canvas tote from the back seat and pass through the sliding glass doors. It is my sincerest hope to purchase four items and be on my way in less than 10 minutes.

Sigh.

The patrons on this particular afternoon can be described thusly: old and un-fucking-believably-slow or young and hipsterish with an aura of unflappable superiority.

And now, an aside:

I loathe hippies, hicks, and SUV's. I hate men who wear sportcoats with jeans or any manner of a shoe tassel. I hate velour tracksuits and high fructose corn syrup. I hate people who mumble, randomly sing in public, ride their brakes or stand to close to me in the greeting card aisle. I hate cutesy ringtones, teenagers, the assholes invariably sitting behind me at a movie or standing in front of me in line. I hate hangnails, perms, and working for a living. And I Hate. People. Who. Stare.

Enter two Gen Y-ers accessorized within an inch of their lives from the top of their kitschy white framed sunglasses down to the last hole worn through their Vans slip ons.

Let it be said their is nothing inherently interesting about a woman on her lunch break buying a loaf of bread and a box of veggie burgers.

But this did not stop these two, who stared at me as though I asked the cashier for a price check on enriched uranium.

At first I tried to ignore them, then shuffled uncomfortably in my place, then turned my back towards them, but still their damn stares were boring holes through me. Unable to stand it any longer, I turned around to face them. We locked eyes the way villains do in action movies and then, and then...nothing.

Obviously, I hadn't thought my feeble retaliation through.

So there I was, staring at someone because they were staring at me. Feeling (and looking) like a total ass. The cashier held my bag out to me and I arched my eyebrow mysteriously at the two youths (because, if you already look like an wanker, you might as well go big or go home), turned on my heel and left, to spend the drive back wondering why I even ventured out in the first place.

Eddie Does Houston

Last evening I remembered why, considering all the traffic, Republicans, and pollution, I live so close to the fourth largest city in the U.S.

Two words: Eddie. Izzard.

I have only recently come around to his comedic stylings and I fell for him instantly. You see, he embodies several of the attributes I most cherish. He's erudite, profane, and gay (maybe not gay, but anyone who refers to himself as an "Executive Transvestite" is a least gayish). Oh, and British.

I was looking forward to seeing him swan onto the stage wearing something glittery and with eyeliner that could be seen even from the cheap seats. But, instead he appeared in jeans, coattails (or as I dream he would say, "a frock coat"), and what appeared to be boots.

If he was pandering to his audience with the boots, I'll give him a pass. But I'm going to have to take issue if he was trying to fit in. I reject this notion that people who live in Texas are these quaint caricatures who drive horses and wear cowboy hats. A place where all the men look like Kinky Friedman and all the women like Mary Kay.

Eddie riffed on Intelligent Design ("I have only two problems with the concept, the first is the 'intelligence' part. The second is the 'design' part"), summed up Darwin's theory of evolution ("Monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, you!"), and said that if Obama is elected president, then Americans can stop pretending to be Canadian when vacationing in Europe.

My librarian heart beat wildly when, upon failing to recall the Nazi who coined the term dyslexia (because only a Nazi would be sadistic enough to spell the word as such), he reached into his back pocket for his new iPhone and began searching through Wikipedia. I couldn't tear my eyes off him as he made the act of answering a reference question - entertaining.

I would love to go paddle boating over martinis with Eddie, or let him talk me into getting bad highlights. Hell, I'd settle for fetching him cups of Earl Grey or steam ironing his gowns.

In any event, I'll see him the next time he comes to town. Until then- Cheers, mate.

Vannies - 1, Upturned Collars - 0

While I am on the roller coaster ride that will deliver me soon enough to the big "3-0" I'm certainly not feeling old, but definitely am feeling the ever-widening gulf between me and the twenty-somethings set.

Case in point: as we pulled up to the first stoplight of our morning commute, Gap Lady gestures to the young man in the lane next to us and says, "Huh. We were next to this same guy yesterday."

All the vannies turned their heads to catch a glimpse of the whippersnapper. And there he was, in all his glory, stuffing his mouth with what looked to be a breakfast sandwich the size of a brick, a crooked baseball hat perched so high on his head that it looked like a Little House on the Prairie bonnet, and finally, a popped collar - standard issue worn by knobs the world over.

There was a moment of silence as we all took him in.

Then there was laughter. Laughter because he looked like a douchebag. Laughter at the stupidity of youth. Laughter that made us feel better than being some stupid kid getting laughed at by a van full of people who take a van to work. Just, laughter.

The light changed and he sped away from us, surely burning from being the obvious target of a group of middle aged working stiffs.

I would like to believe that we reached him, that we pulled him back from the abyss of fatty breakfast foods and pointless hat accessorizing and that maybe, just maybe, he'd put his goddamned collar down.