Smooth Operator

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I was sitting on a bench in front of Kroger, minding my own business, when I was rudely interrupted by one of those low-rider things. It stopped right in front of me, and despite my better judgement I forced myself to take a good long look at it. It was one of those damned "pimp-rides" (somebody please tell me how many fat, white trash pimps there are), with the low-profile tires that decimate mileage, top speed, and engine longevity. It was lowered so close to the ground that it was stuck on the speed bump -- ah, so that's why it was stopped. The car and driver claimed to be "smooth operators" in blue lettering across the front windshield.

As the car scraped back and forth over the three inch high speed bump, a Pinto rocketed past with its horn blaring, followed by an AMC Gremlin and a rust-bucket Volkswagen bus. Finally, with a great gasp from the laboring engine, the car screeched over the speed bump and shuddered into motion. As it cruised past me and my "Big K" on the bench, I could both feel and hear the stereo thumping. The resounding vibrations indicated a set of cheap Pyle Driver subwoofers in the back, and yet it was the only redeeming feature on the entire vehicle. The dark tinted windows successfully masked the fat bastard who was undoubtedly driving the car. A snarl of disgust crossed my face as the car drove past, a whole mess of red-walled tires, massive and inefficient rear spoiler, thirteen fake cell-phone antennas, and a "Mr. Pimp" license plate. Smooth operators, indeed.

Suddenly, a fat hairy arm shattered the driver's side window with a crash. Odd. Muffled shouting could be heard over the poundin' stereo, and the car skidded to a halt. The passenger door flew open -- backwards -- and a massive young woman with a tragic weight problem rolled out of the car as it stood by the curb, struggling to pull her shirt back down. Yes, I was frightened too. The "big" dude sitting in the synthetic leather (cool!) driver's seat was rubbing his sweaty face, where, perhaps, the girl had slapped him one. He began to yell strings of obscenities at no one in particular. Pimp, huh?

I watched the festivities with some interest as the lovely pair shouted insults back and forth. The girl ended the conversation by slamming her door obscenely hard, causing two of the fake antennas to pop off. She then stormed into the grocery store, probably for some fried chicken or something. It was obviously true love that brought these two together. The rather large, rather ugly, determinedly inbred driver got out of his chillin' ride and waddled around to grab the two antennas that fell off the car into his thick digits. Then he somehow got back into the car. Someone told me in a science class that liquids and solids can't compress. Well, this guy fooled 'em all. As the car pulled away, I noticed that the back window had been replaced with a trendy garbage bag, complete with chrome duct tape trim. It brought me a smile. I mused for a moment on the true meaning of the word "cool", trying to apply the word to the slammed car, its k-rad driver, and the hot babe that it had carried.

It didn't work.

My "Big-K" was empty and my 15 minutes were up. I rose from my seat on the bench, and walked back into the store to continue bagging groceries for $4.25 an hour.

Peace.
Andrew W. (Sometime 1997)

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