Dour Hour

I finish up my lunch and head out to the car. I light a cigarette and come around the parking lot of the Wendy's, headed towards my haunt - the mid-day oasis for young moms and the jobless - the shopping center and its Wal-mart.

As I pass the pet store, the freshly-installed, plastic speed bumps slow me down and afford me a view of the denizens there. Mostly sloths and retirees. Old men with POW hats, bird-lovers - the worst - and other apparent haggard nobodies.

I'm the worst, though. Slowly driving past windows, staring at the people doing their thing, waiting to see some old broad with a nice rack or a fat ass. I slow down and wait for a woman to walk past with her baby carriage. As another car approaches I imagine it barreling past, knocking her down, sprawled out on the pavement.

I feel the need to judge others before they do the same to me. I hate who I am on my days off. But I'm not much better during the workaday week.