10 Interesting Things About Getting Sandwiched In Public

Note: I recently had the supreme joy of being Car #2 in a 3-car meeting of metal. My thoughts on the matter, some more relevant than others…

1. I didn’t get to finish my date with Ryan Seacrest.

Mainly because he just happens to be on my favored radio station during my normal commute home, I was listening to Ryan once again attempt to stir up excitement about the upcoming Top 5 Songs of the Day. I rarely agree with the voted-on choices, but I do get a slight thrill when the billions of teenagers clicking on his website actually rally around an older song of some merit instead of the latest rap song about taking your clothes off for no reason.

It’s the small things in life that satisfy me.

Anyway, Ryan was personally inviting me to try the latest acne product while I sat at a stoplight, staring at the red orb and using my mental powers to turn it green, when, suddenly, something was unceremoniously shoved up my ass.

This certainly got my attention. Ryan was put on hold, and I never found out the Top 5 for that day. This keeps me awake at night.

2. The sinking feeling that something completely annoying has just taken place.

Due to my many years of public schooling, I quickly surmised that someone had just rammed my car from behind, thus causing me to rudely violate the driver in front of me. I glanced in the rearview mirror and spied a totally-surprised face. I looked through the front windshield and into that driver’s rearview, and spied a totally-pissed-off face. She was MAD. I just hoped that she understood the laws of physics and realized that I was an innocent lamb in the great scheme of things. As I always am. I repeat this to myself every day.

We all hopped out of our cars. Driver #1 appeared ready to castrate Driver #3. (Yay!) Driver #3 appeared shifty, suspicious and gassy. (Aw, hell. He was one of those.) Over the roar of traffic in the other lanes, we made hand motions that we should all pull off the main road into a convenient entrance to a business that appeared to be closed. We all hopped back into our cars. (Just breathe. So far, so good.)

3. People suck.

Clearly, there had just been an accident, but you wouldn’t know it from the rude offspring of the devil racing past us on all sides. We were in the left lane of two lanes heading south. We had to get in the right lane and then into that parking area. Just a few feet away, basically. But it took five minutes before Driver #1 could even zip across, and she barely made it.

My turn. Non-stop stream of racing cars in the right lane, not a gap in sight. I actually got out of my car, and started motioning for people to stop and let me over.

One of the drivers actually flipped me off.

Really? I got back in my car before somebody pulled a gun. Hours later, I floored it into a reasonable gap, plenty of room, and still got an angry honk. Eventually, Driver #3 made it across as well. This was starting to be SO not worth it.

4. Small gifts arrive in surprising packages.

We got out of our cars once again. Driver #1 immediately began using her phone to take pictures of the damage. Oh, good idea. I followed suit, not really knowing what I should capture but not wanting to be left out of the fun.

Snappage done, Driver #1 then requested insurance verification forms. I happily handed mine to her. She held out her hand to Driver #3. He refused (See? I knew he was shifty.), saying he would give the info to me, because he hit me, but not to her, because I’m responsible for her.

She put her hands on her hips. “This is ALL your fault. I know. I work for an insurance agency."

I immediately got out my phone and sent a group “thank you” text to all known gods and deities.

5. Grace CAN happen under fire.

Driver #1 then insisted that we call the police because Shifty wasn’t playing nice. (Good idea!) Then she glanced at her phone, sighed, and asked me to call, because her battery was dying. (Uh oh. I hate calling people. Especially the police.)

But I sucked it up, and dialed 3-1-1, the number you’re supposed to use in Dallas for non-emergencies. (Nobody was bleeding, right?) I was presented with a recording, wherein it was explained that if I wished to arrange for trash pick-up, I should press 3. If there was an issue with my city sewage, number 4 was the desired option.

What the hell? This was going nowhere.

I hung up and called 9-1-1. A dispatcher answered, and then my phone immediately dropped the call.

Terrific. Now there were going to be screaming ambulances and fire trucks racing to the scene of the non-event. I called back, and this time the line held. I apologized if this wasn’t the right thing to do, but there had been an accident, and I was trying to report it.

The dispatcher was an angel. (Thank you, anonymous person with the 9-1-1 service in Irving, Texas.) She politely began taking all the information, which turned out to be quite a lot. I gave makes and models for all the cars, I gave tag numbers, I even had to run down the road and identify the closest intersection. The other two drivers started to squirm a bit, because I talked for a very long time. Good. Let them think I somehow had the inside track here, even though I had no idea what I was doing.

Then the dispatcher asked if an officer was really necessary. Without injury, there was no need. “Well, we have one gentleman who refuses to share his information with everybody.”

“I’ll have somebody there in minutes.”

Loved her.

6. The truth always comes out.

When I informed the others that an officer was on the way, Driver #3 paled considerably, and then said the officer would just tell us to exchange info and leave, so we should just do that instead of wait for him. Then he slipped and uttered that “the last time it took them 40 minutes to get here”. The last time? Bastard. This obviously wasn’t his first time at the rodeo.

7. And then there was more truth.

While we waited, with Driver #1 pacing up and down and glaring at Driver #3 and his stupid death-car, #3 pulled me to the side. “If you can just get an estimate, I can write you a check.”

Oh? So you don’t want your insurance company to know about this? Little bit of trouble there, mister? With my outside voice, I appeared to be sympathetic. With my inside voice, I did a high-five and a double-herky. He’s got a responsibility history, and hopefully this would all come down on him, even though, technically, I could be held accountable for hitting Driver #1. One of those idiotic, dumb-ass laws that make no sense.

8. Authority figures can be quite pleasing, even outside of sexual role-playing.

A squad car pulled up, and out hopped a fine-looking gentlemen. He immediately took control of the situation, explaining what we needed to do and how. When Driver #3 weakly balked at sharing his info, Police Man basically got in his face. EVERYONE will share everything. And I’ll watch while you do it.

I hearted this Police Man immensely. Glancing to my side, I noticed that Driver #1 appeared to be aroused as well. Back off, sister. He’s mine.

9. Penmanship can fail you at critical times.

For whatever reason, I had thrown a memo pad in my car at some point back in the day, so I had plenty of pages with which to capture details. I wrote down everything that I could, even pointless things like “Driver #1 has lime-green toenails” and “Driver #3 has the ugliest shoes known to mankind”.

I was even kind to Driver #3, letting him borrow some of my empty pages, even though I already hated him.

But as we were gathering things up, I flipped through my notes and realized that half the things I had scrawled were totally unreadable. It looked like I had suffered a series of seizures during the recon mission. Hell, maybe I had. Oh well, at least those policy numbers were crystal clear. Assuming they were real.

10. In the end, fakeness prevails.

The Police Man finally drove away, giving off a little blip of his siren before pulling out into traffic. Not sure why he did that, but Driver #1 appeared to have a small orgasm when he did this, so it’s all good.

Then we all shook hands, and I expressed hope that the rest of the day would be fine indeed for all of us. I didn’t mean it, especially for Driver #3 and his shiftiness, but you gotta turn the lemons into lemonade whenever you can. Right?

Oak Cliff Confidential: Chapter 29

  Alejandro clattered back through the screen door. “Um, Sharon, would you mind stepping outside with me?”

  She glanced up at him, heart still pounding. “Why do you want me to do that? Panic attack here. Don’t really feel like going for a stroll.”

  Alejandro nodded. “Understood. But I have something to tell you, and you’ll probably want some air.”

  “I don’t want air!” snapped Sharon. “I want my pills. Did you get them or not?”

  Alejandro sighed (we’re not counting his). “I can’t get the pills because I can’t get to the car. It’s gone.”

  Sharon bolted out of her chair. “What do you mean it’s gone?” Then she thundered out the screen door, across the porch, and down the steps. There were sounds of some obstruction being kicked out of the way, and therefore no longer an issue.

  Alejandro looked at the rest of the room. “And that’s why I wanted her to come outside before I told her. So I could grab her and keep her from running off all wild-eyed like that.”

  “She sure moves fast for an old lady,” commented April, finally locating her blouse on top of a bookshelf and slipping back into it. “Anybody seen my pants?”

  Theresa hopped up, went to the fridge in the kitchen, opened the freezer section, and pulled out the clothing in question. She handed them to April. “You said you wanted them to feel really good when you put them back on. We didn’t question you.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I like to feel the cold zipper.” April pulled on the pants and shivered slightly. “Yep, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Well,” said Alejandro from the door. “Guess I better go make sure Her Highness isn’t on the phone with the President, ordering a military strike.” He made his way out of the house, down the sidewalk and around the corner, where he found Sharon sitting on the stretch of curb where the car had been parked. “Told you,” he muttered, joining her on the curb.

  Apparently Sharon had stopped off at a bar on the hike around the corner, because she still had her glass and it looked suspiciously full. She took a sip. “Well, not sure what to do now. Can’t go to the police. Or can we? See, still don’t know the rules.”

  Alejandro took her glass and rewarded himself with a healthy gulp. “It depends on who took it. If some jerk just took it for the parts, that’s one thing. But if your little friend on the phone had someone grab it, then yeah, we just gotta sit here until they bring it back. Assuming that’s the plan.”

  Sharon pulled out her pack of cigarettes and selected one. “So we just wait a little bit. Fine, I can do that. Until I get bored. You know what happens when I get bored.”

  “I would imagine,” said Alejandro dryly, “that most of the county is aware of your entertainment requirements.” He pulled out a lighter and lit Sharon’s waving cigarette. “How did you manage to bring both your drink and your cigs with you on this little spree. I didn’t see you grab either one.”

  “I’m a professional,” shrugged Sharon. “You of all people should know how many times I’ve had to grab my crap and run when a party gets raided. It’s instinct after a while.” She blew out a plume of smoke. “Speaking of you knowing, how long have we been together, Alejandro? Ten years, at least, if my alcohol-soaked brain is still functioning.”

  He nodded. “Yep. Something like that. Of course, we should probably subtract a few years for all those times that you got pissed off and sent me away.”

  Sharon took another sip. “I always ask you back, Alejandro, you know that. Momma just gets in a mood and needs to be alone. Or dry out. Or get out of the court case. Or figure out who I married and why. It gets complicated when you can basically do whatever you want.”

  Alejandro chuckled. “Are you complaining about having more money than you know what to do with? I can’t imagine you being poor. Or actually having to work for a living. People would die.”

  Sharon agreed. “I can’t stand not getting what I want. I don’t know how these other people do it. Which is why this whole “game” thing is completely on my nerves. I’m not in control, and it makes me cranky.” She stabbed out her cigarette on the concrete as if to prove her peevishness, and then immediately pulled out another. “So anyway, Alejandro,” she said, leaning in to accept his light, “are you being totally honest with me, not knowing anything about this Game?”

  “Completely,” he confirmed. “I had no idea such a thing was going on. And since we’re being honest, I don’t really understand why you’re putting up with it. You can walk away, you know. In the end, this has nothing to do with you.”

  Sharon contemplated as she blew out more smoke. “You’re right. This isn’t like me. But for some reason I-” Sharon suddenly realized there was something lying next to her on the curb. She snatched it up and studied it. It was the plastic bottle with her prescription for Lorazepam. She turned and shoved it in Alejandro’s face. “THIS is what I’m talking about. How do these people, Alistair or whoever, how do they know so much about me? They take my car, but they leave my meds because they know I’m going to freak out. It’s insane!”

  Alejandro studied her. “By ‘insane’, do you mean this is fascinating enough to you that you’re going to put up with the loss of control? Have they sucked you in?”

  Sharon made a disgusted noise. “Hexom was right. They knew it would get to me. I want to figure this out. I have to figure this out. Just to prove… I don’t know. To prove I can do it, I guess.”

  Alejandro took another drink from Sharon’s lemonade. “Figured so. And that means I’m in it, too. You want my advice?”

  “Sure,” said Sharon. “I completely trust you. You’ve always looked out for me, even when I was being a total nutcase and not listening to reason.”

  Alejandro gently nodded. “So listen to me now. Don’t trust Hexom.”

  Sharon was surprised by this. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because there’s something not right there. He has a different agenda. And I don’t think that agenda has your best interests in mind. Just a feeling.”

  Sharon considered this. “I can’t say that I haven’t felt that. He’s fun, and on some level, I really like him. But…”

  “He lies,” finished Alejandro. “I’m just not sure about what. Or why.”

  There was a commotion behind them and suddenly April strolled up. “What are you bitches doing out here? Sitting on a curb? That’s not right.” But it was right enough that she didn’t have any problem plopping down beside them. “The lesbians are boring when Alejandro is not there. I’m not sure what the connection is. So why are we sitting out here?”

  “Thinking of ways to kill you,” said Sharon. “We’re up to 142. Nervous?”

  “Not at all,” said April. “Do you not understand how many people plot my death every day?  I’m not scared.” She took a slug from her own drink. “No, really. Why are we just sitting here? How is this helping get the car back? Because eventually my ass needs to go home.”

  “Well,” muttered Alejandro. “Your wish has been granted.” He was gazing down the street.

  Sharon and April turned to look in the same direction.

  Sharon’s car was rolling this way.

  It pulled up to the curb.

  The driver rolled the window down.

  Sharon gasped. “Hexom?”



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Oak Cliff Confidential: Chapter 18

  Theresa Thomas stood on her front porch, hands on her hips. “I said, what the hell do you people want, standin’ there like morons. You people deaf?”

  Hexom, Alejandro and April looked at Sharon. She looked at them, not really impressed that they were choosing not to speak for once in their lives. She sighed (number 41) and stepped forward. “Theresa? It’s Sharon. From high school.”

  Theresa squinted, because the eyes go after 40. “Sharon? Sharon Horizons? Oh my God, girl! It is SO good to see you!” She pulled out something that had been tucked into the back of her pants and tossed it on a nearby deck chair that had seen better days. It looked like a handgun, but we won’t dwell on that right at the moment. Theresa began to stomp down the steep, rickety stairs leading up to the porch.

  “She seems rather excited,” breathed Hexom. “I thought you hated each other.”

  “We did,” Sharon breathed back. “Or at least I hated her. Maybe I misunderstood something. I was still a virgin, then, you know. It’s a different mindset.”

  Alejandro made a guttural noise indicating that he had thought Sharon must have surrendered the pink in pre-school.

  Theresa clattered down the sidewalk and threw her arms around Sharon. “I have really missed you, you have no idea..” (Sharon’s startled expression confirmed the not knowing.) “So anyway, who are your nice little friends? Do I know them?”

  “No!” said Hexom, Alejandro and April in unison.

  Sharon gave them all a look that clearly indicated she was going to cut them if they didn’t play nice, then made introductions. “The gay one is Hexom, the muscled one is Alejandro, and the slut is April.”

  Theresa nodded her head. “Got it. Would you all like some lemonade? I just made a fresh batch. With real lemon crystals out of a can.”

  “That would be wonderful,” said Sharon, hand poised to slap down any disagreement from the peanut gallery.

  “Great!” trilled Theresa. “Let’s jump on up to the porch, and I’ll run inside for some glasses.”  She turned and scurried forth.

  April looked at Sharon. “I’m not in the mood for white trash.”

  Sharon looked at April. “I don’t care. Get you skinny ass up on the porch and act like Jesus has called you to be here. There is something going on and I intend to find out exactly what it is. She’s being too nice, considering what happened at the Zucchini Festival in 1985, and I need to figure this out.”

  Hexom and Alejandro wisely chose to save their own grievances for another time. The quartet trooped up the stairs and tried to make themselves comfortable in the mismatched array of deck chairs on the expansive porch. They managed to remain calm when odd sounds came from inside the house indicating that perhaps a wrecking ball had just slammed into the kitchen, resulting in broken glass and a realignment of the foundation.

  The screen door slammed open again and Theresa marched forth, lugging a chipped tray containing a pitcher of yellowish water and several glasses. She distributed the wares, pouring and such, then finally dropped into one of the still-vacant chairs. “Sorry about the noise. Damn cats always park in the wrong places. Now,” she shifted around in her chair to face Sharon. “What the hell brings you back around here today? Not that I’m complainin’.”

  Sharon took a deep breath. “Well, I’m glad that you asked that. And to be honest, I don’t really know.” She took a sip of her lemonade, which was amazingly tasty considering the absence of real lemons. “You see, I’m involved in this…game… where I have to follow clues and figure out a mystery that a very creative person has concocted.”

  Sharon’s secret phone rang.

  She whipped it out and hit a button. “Don’t mess with me right now, Roboto. I don’t know the rules. Bite it.” She tucked the phone back into her overstuffed satchel purse, then smiled brightly at her hostess as if nothing untoward had happened.

  Theresa sloshed her drink a bit as she squirmed in her seat. “Roboto? Like the Styx song?”

  “Oh Madonna, help us through the darkness,” muttered Hexom. “She knows lyrics to Styx songs. This has got to be one of the circles of hell.”

  Theresa frowned, then looked at Sharon. “Does the gay one not understand that I can hear everything he’s saying?”

  Sharon shot Hexom a withering glance. “Oh, he understands. He’s just a complete idiot that’s about to die.”

  “Well,” said Theresa. “Then use this.” She snatched up the object she had previously tossed aside, which was indeed a handgun. “There’s not much of a kick. You’ll be fine.”

  Sharon seriously considered the offer, then declined. “He is SO not worth the effort. So tell me, Theresa. What have you been up to since we graduated from high school?”

  Theresa brightened. “Oh. Well, I moved to Odessa and accepted my lesbianism.”

  Crickets chirped. Okay, maybe they didn’t, because it was still daylight and they weren‘t out yet, but you get the idea. Even April, bored out of her skull and eyeing a swarthy mechanic at the auto shop across the street, broke off the lusting and turned to Martina Navratilova Thomas.

  “Really?” asked Sharon. “You had to go to West Texas to figure that out? Was it the dry, dusty heat?”

  “Maybe,” agreed Theresa. “Not a whole lot to do out there, so there’s plenty of time to figure out your sexuality. I finally saw the light one night at Taco Villa, when a woman with pendulous breasts gave me extra fries with my overstuffed burrito.”

  Not only did the crickets stop chirping, they took their own lives.

  Hexom leaned forward. “Are you serious with this?”

  “Oh, yes,” nodded Theresa. “There’s a certain clarity that comes from draft beer and fresh salsa.”

  Well, who could really argue with that?

  Perhaps April, who leaned forward as well. “Okay, I don’t normally talk around country people, because they still have hoods and ropes, but I gotta ask. Why haven’t you changed your hairstyle in 25 years?”

  Theresa smiled. “I haven’t changed it because it works for me. Stick with what you know. And,” she said, her smile broadening, “I was hoping that someone would come back to me, see me for what I am, know that I’m still the same girl, but finally realize what they’ve been missing.”

  Sharon had a foreboding sense that this conversation was not going in a direction that she had anticipated. “What exactly do you mean by that, Theresa?”

  Theresa placed a hand on Sharon’s curvaceous thigh. “You, Sharon. I’ve always wanted you since the day my greased pig Brian ran down Jefferson Boulevard.”

  The crickets would have stopped chirping again, but they were already dead.

  “Oh my,” said Hexom, setting aside his lemonade. “The imagery is delicious. Do tell us more.”


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