Dad
[size=50]…[/size]Beneath the wool stocking cap, my father’s face tightens and flashes red. He slams his palm on the horn, nearly lifting himself.
[size=50]…[/size]“Bitch,” he roars, “that light won’t get no goddamn greener!”
[size=50]…[/size]The car ahead crawls into an absent stroll while, on both sides, traffic whizzes by. My father tightens. His body contorts and his lips quiver as he sprays the steering wheel with a light cascade of spittle. “What the fuck is she doing?” he squeals, nearly in tears, “look at her! Look at the goddamn idiot!” I begin to fear that he will come unwound, his appendages bouncing about the cab like loose springs.
[size=50]…[/size]Finally, the car turns off. My father pile-drives the gas and our pickup releases a growl as it darts forward, teetering sideways as we shift lanes. The car my father shifts to avoid swoops towards us and disappears. When my hands begin to cramp, I realize how tightly I am gripping the dash, my taunt arms pushing me into the seat.
[size=50]…[/size]“The clock!” my father blurts.
[size=50]…[/size]I look back to find it wavering on the makeshift sling, its elaborate carvings seemingly untouched. When I tell him, he snickers. He lifts the stocking cap and uses it to wipe the sweat off of his bald head, replaces it, then starts to chatter, contentedly, yet forceful:
[size=50]…[/size]“Yeah son, that’s how you stay out of wrecks: drive like a fucking madman. Make those other cocksuckers stay out of your way.”