Notes from The Road

Selfie Witness Protection

Just witnessed my first-ever "duck-face, car/driving selfie" in-person.

To wit:

Red light. Gentle stop. My peripheral vision has picked up on some movement coming from a Black Suburban.

I let out a dry sniff, wrap my arm around the passenger's seat and let my gaze wander casually to the right.

Quintessential bleached-blonde beater -- not particularly cute, not particularly heinous-looking -- is jerkin' and gyrating around in her seat like she's dodgin' jabs from Muhammad Ali, her self-cocked iPhone catching all kinds of different poses and angles as it clicks-clicks-clicks away.

My forehead is pinching shut.

She's twitching her lips and eyebrows recklessly as an imaginary photographer barks: "Give me happy, baby! No, now pain! And anguish! Now you're strolling, now you're strolling, just havin' a stroll on The Boardwalk..."

She continues to fire off selfies as she lurches out into the intersection, rolling one wheel onto the curb, then off again -- the Suburban bobbles back into the right lane.

A driver behind me palms his horn twice. The light is now green.

I let my foot off the brake and try to un-furrow my brow as I watch her pull into a Walgreens.

I'm trying to make sense of it.

I'm trying, Ringo. I'm trying real hard.

But I can't.

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