The cool breeze rushes through the window of my ’97 Dodge Neon, ushering in the clean refreshing scent of post-rain air from earlier this morning as I drive down Santa Monica Boulevard. It’s mid-March in Milwaukee, surprisingly warm enough to open the car windows, but still cold enough to warrant the “Go Panthers” hoodie I bought from the campus merch shop a week or so ago. The sun plays peekaboo through the clouds done pissing rain and ready to move on and the branches of trees pretending to give shelter to the road I’m driving on.
I look down at my speedometer: 25 MPH. The speed limit is 30. The Sunfire in front of me has a bumper sticker on its back left bumper that reads “You Just Got Passed By A Girl!” I want to shout at her, “You ain’t passin’ no one at this speed, honey!” I want to pass her myself, but as we pass The Pet Outpost, I realize my turn is only a block away.
The turn down North Hollywood Avenue is marked by a change from the light red brick apartment complexes of Milwaukee to the beautiful spacious homes of Whitefish Bay. I hate driving through here. It’s like a commercial for everything you could ever want but can never have.
As I pass by Fairmount Avenue I see a beautiful two story brown brick home that, even though it sits on less than an acre of land, could still be described as sprawling. On the corner of Henry Clay, two voluptuous women in loose tanks and yoga pants stand in front of $200 strollers that hold their cute little Aryan babies. Suburbia at its finest! I like to think that the women are discussing their affairs with their husbands’ business partners; it helps break up the monotony of their perfection.
A couple of blocks down I reach the cream colored two story villa of my Armenian landlord. I’m two weeks late on rent, and I’ve been dodging him for the last week and a half. Of course, if he didn’t over-inflate the cost of his shitty Riverwest properties I might be on time with my rent regularly. Looking up at his beautiful house as I drop the rent check in the mailbox I think he could easily afford for me to be a few days late on the rent.
I drive back the way I came on North Hollywood and see the two Scandinavian broads still chatting it up on the corner of Henry Clay. I’m fairly certain they go jogging, running or walking every morning to regain the bodies they had when they were head cheerleaders at Hot Body High. The impulse to yell, “It ain’t happenin’, ladies,” comes and goes as I hear a single line from the song playing on the radio: “Round and round my head she goes/ In the good dreams though she wears no clothes.” Isn’t that the truth? I think to myself.
I reach Santa Monica and hang a left. Once again I’m stuck behind some porker doing twenty-five. No, wait, they’re doing twenty. It appears to be an old lady who most likely can’t see above the steering wheel of her equally old Buick station wagon. Luckily, I’m distracted with the thought of whether to go to work or go home.
It’s the first nice day of the year; I shouldn’t be subjected to sitting at work all day. On a day like this if I’m going to be indoors I should be at home. I’ll wait till I reach Capitol Drive before I make a decision. We’ll see which way the winds take me.