So, what is it about a car? Clearly, it is a window-filled world through which anyone can peak. And yet, people inside act like there is a brick wall between their boogar-probing finger and the viewing public.
I have seen people behind the wheel who treat their rear view like a bathroom mirror, applying mascara and lipstick, picking food from their teeth, checking to see if the bleeding has ebbed on their chin. I have seen people treat their car like a kitchen table, spreading out the paper on the steering wheel, propping their feet through an opened window while they chat on the phone.
I am absolutely certain that I have done appalling things in my car, confident that I have not been seen. Or heard. Or smelled.
Take tonight, for example. Allison had just finished cheering at a volleyball game and needed a ride home. I hopped in and headed her way. Earlier today, I'd had half a runza and some chicken tikka madres and, so, I was taking advantage of the cushy injection chamber that is a car's seat, farting furiously all the way down Randolph.
By the time I'd reached the last light before Lincoln High, it dawned on me that one of Allison's friends just might need a ride home. In the gas chamber.
Had I been able to flap the doors and still stay on the road, I'm pretty sure I would have. Instead, I activated every electronic window device at my disposal, all the while, encouraging Hobbes the Hobo dog to breathe extra heavily, that I might shift some of the blame.
As I pulled up to the dark lot, spotted with lively teens sharing laughs, I eased up on the pedal, taking a bit longer than usual to pull up to the school. Just in case. Sure enough, Allison leaned her head into the window and asked if her friend Rachel could have a ride. When she didn't renig, I figured the coast--I mean the air--was clear.
I was still a little gassy on the ride home, but I pinched, like a good parent should do. Like my own parents did for the 19 years I lived with them, God love 'em.
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