the fan turns into overdrive, blowing a fresh gust of icy air into the cabin. the meter ticks over. five dollars, forty-five cents. waiting in the cool comfort; outside the road becomes a river. some blame the pollutants of the industrial age, others say it is going to be a hot one. the necessity people feel to explore and express the blatantly obvious.
a noise like a small yapping dog. persistant, directed. wind down the window. a voice, shouting.
'come up the fucking driveway!'
absent minded disbelief.
'i'm sorry?'
'drive up here! what's wrong with you?'
it must be the heat. tethers are shortened in the heat. a new world order of illogical thought takes grip in the human mind when the heat is on.
'i won't drive up there. it's private property.'
'you bloody will drive up here. my mother is not going to walk down that incline in this heat.'
it is hot. it is a steep driveway; another reason not to drive up. the not-so-young-but-not-so-old mother has walked this incline many times previous.
'what's the problem? just drive the car up here, and save my mother the walk!'
it is hot. it is a steep driveway. there are people waiting. people shall walk into cars. people who are waiting in the heat. and it is hot.
'we haven't got all day you know!'
slowly back this up the driveway. just creep on it. it is a narrow driveway. it is steep. these damned automatics. they don't have the holding power of the manual. just a little on the accelerator.
over the crest and the car slips, the reverse gear re-engages.
the tyre slips over the lip of the driveway. steering, for an instant, is lost.
slightly oversteered. foot placed on the breaks.
the car rests on the mailbox.
'what in hell's name are you doing?'
into drive; off the mailbox. another piece of council housing trashed.
'are you going to pay for that mailbox? why did you come up so quickly for?'
crawl down the driveway.
'hey, where are you going? my mother needs to go to the plaza! i need your licence details! where are you going?'
another job blares into the radio. turn the volume down.
'i don't need your fare. off to another job.'
window rolls up. fan blasts again. meter resets to zero.
angry, red-faced woman, scrunches-up her fand to resemble her face.
that dog is barking again.
all works presented herein are 'threewords' with the exception of reposted videos duly titled.