Switching lanes at eighty without a signal, you bite the Baby Ruth to the wrapper, snap fingers, press play and shout, “Yeah! I don’t care what people say—Nugent’s got balls!” Raising your voice to compete with “Cat Scratch Fever” you ask, “Did you hear what that cocksucker Davis said to me? God, he jerks me.” You’re pointing out the window. “Is that a guy?”
Knoxville spreads ugly and gray below the overpass. A man as tiny as a bug falls between skyscrapers, arms and legs flailing, and then he’s gone. I almost wonder if I’ve imagined him or if he’s just another insect on the windshield, but you’re smiling and I have the urge to say Don’t.
“O.K., I know I didn’t just see a dude fall off a fucking building!” You whoop and punch the ceiling.
“They’re going to have to resurface the road,” I say. “That guy’s applesauce.” I force a grin as cars whip past.