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. It’s mid-March in Milwaukee, warm enough to open the car windows but still cold enough to warrant the “Go Panthers” hoodie I “borrowed” from my roommate a week or so ago. The sun tries to beat its way through the clouds, which are done pissing rain and ready to move on, and the branches of trees pretending to give shelter to the road.
The speedometer reads 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!” Thankfully my turn is only a block away.
North Hollywood Avenue is marked by a change from the light red brick apartment complexes of Milwaukee to the spacious homes of Whitefish Bay. I hate driving through here. On Fairmount Avenue there is 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 behind $200 strollers that hold their cute Aryan babies. Maybe the women are discussing their affairs with their husbands’ business partners. Suburbia at its finest!
They probably 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 a single line from the song playing on the radio enters my mind: “Round and round my head she goes/ In the good dreams though she wears no clothes.” Isn’t that the truth?
A couple of blocks down my Dodge pulls into the driveway of my Armenian landlord’s cream colored two story villa. Rent is two weeks late. I’ve been dodging him for the last week and a half. If he didn’t over-inflate the cost of his shitty Riverwest properties, rent might be on time regularly. Based on his beautiful, and very expensive, home he could easily afford for my rent to be a few days late.
Back on North Hollywood I turn left when I reach Santa Monica and contemplate going to work or skipping out. It’s the first nice day of the year; no one should be subjected to sitting in a cubicle all day. On a day like this if I’m going to be indoors I should be at home. I’ll make a decision when I reach Capitol Drive.