I can tell the type of day I’m about to have by my morning coffee.
I promise I’m not crazy—it really does happen like that! Lattes are good, cappuccinos are bad, and the Java Bean’s experiments are unpredictable. I knew asking for the “Bulletproof Coffee” was gonna make this day a weird one. Who puts butter in coffee?
There’s no traffic on Main Street right now—that never happens—so I don’t have to wait for the light to change for me to get back to the parking lot. I have an extra five minutes, now. Today might actually be pretty okay—not latte good, but okay. I’m just starting to think that maybe Taylor was right about the butter adding “an extra shot of energy,” when I see it.
This ugly, yellow punch buggy parked right in front of my car. It’s bright as the sun, and new enough, I suppose, but I don’t appreciate it in front of my baby. I try to make my way around the car’s tacky eyelashes, and because the yellow eyesore is a convertible, I can’t help but look inside. It’s got those disgusting leather seats—the ones that probably start to sweat on a hot day like this—and those pretentious little steering wheel covers. When I see the solar-powered sunflower, I figure I’m probably dealing with some teenage girl. The backside is absolutely covered in bumper stickers, but it all seems to center around one in particular: My other car is a Tardis.
All these spaces and this Whovian had the nerve to back in.
I can barely get to my car, so I know I have no hope of getting my car out. Maybe, if I weren’t at an angle, this might’ve been different. But I don’t like to waste time straightening out. All I can think about is getting in my car and finding something I can write on.
Five extra minutes later, I have my pen and Biology notebook. There’s no room for me to write where I’m at, so I shimmy back out to the front of the yellow bug and begin my letter:
My Dear Doctor,
Your other car may be a Tardis, but the piece of crap you’ve chosen to drive today is—
“Excuse me,” someone shouts behind me, which makes my pen jerk down three lines.
I turn to see a man headed my way, and he’s all Ray Bans, sweater vests, and scuffed up Chukkas. Three long strides and one good once-over later, he says, “What are you doing to my car?”
“Your car?” I’m surprised, but only for a second. “You realize you blocked me in, right?”
He clearly does, because the anger on his face suddenly gives way to timidity. “Oh yeah, I’m sorry about that. I thought I’d be quick enough to finish what I was doing and beat you back.”
“Well,” I say, “you weren’t.” He’s almost a full head taller than me, but in that moment, I feel twice as big as he is. At least I do until I try to cross my arms and knock my notebook out of my hands.
He bends down to pick up my notebook and begins to read my note. I jut out my chin and try to look as intimidating as I can—it’s not like I would’ve actually left the note now that he’s here.
He chuckles and pushes his hair back with one hand as he shakes his head. When he does this, I can see how thin his black hair is, and notice the prominent widow’s peak that he should’ve kept covered. Finally, he looks back at me and hands me my notebook. “Seriously? You were going to write me an angry letter?”
It sounds childish when he says it out loud, but I don’t back down. “You weren’t here.”
He moves around me to get into his car, and I notice how small he suddenly looks. It’s probably because he looks like a Ken doll some little girl shoved into Barbie’s Hot Rod. “Well, I’m here now. Look! I’m even moving my ‘piece of crap.’ Don’t want you to write me another crippling letter.”
I back up so he doesn’t have the chance to run over my foot. I can’t tell if he actually finds this amusing or not, but I know I’m bristling from his last comment. “Do you really squeeze yourself into this tiny thing every day?”
He flashes a smile that is just crooked enough to bring some type of balance to his long face. “Not every day. Most days I take the Tardis.”
