Wednesday, April 23, 2008

wing zone

I pull up behind a light blue Taurus. The light turns green but the car just sits for a moment then slowly, achingly, accelerates. I pass the car but we end up at the same stop light, in two separate lanes. A "Wing Zone" sign has been slapped hastily on the roof of the car, and a hairy arm rests on the ledge of the window. We travel through a series of stoplights together. I arrive at every one first and the wing zone car hangs back, indifferent to the color of the light.
I guess what the Wing Zone must look like by the obnoxious font of the logo. A dirty little place in a crummy strip mall, a couple regulars with ensueing heart problems and an old stereo playing classic rock with an undertone of fuzz.
As I turn left on my street, I see the arm in my rear view, enjoying a little bit of sun before heading back to clean the fryer.

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