“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Rosa says scowling as George comes driving up in his battlewagon.
I affectionately call George’s ’79 Thunderbird the battlewagon or battle cruiser.
I then smiled at George sitting behind the wheel of that big old boat of a car. Bluish smoke was belching from the exhaust pipe and George had the biggest, goofiest grin on his face as he pulled into the fire lane in front of the shopping center as a cheap cigar dangled from between his lips.
“Come here,” George mouthed and waved as I walked up to that rusty old ’79 Thunderbird.
“How did you get this piece of shit running?” I say as I sit down in the passenger’s seat.
“Where there is a will, there is a way my pale little buddy,” George says, proud of putting that piece of junk back on the road. “Let’s go for a ride.”
I could smell alcohol on George’s breath.
“I think I will sit this one out,” I say. “I am on my ninth life as far as drinking and driving is concerned.”
“Well, I am off to make the big bucks,” George replies as I get out of the car after only sitting a moment and he drives off to look for braver patrons than I for his fly-by-night taxi service.
It was good to see George back on the road again, despite the imminent threat of a drinking and driving charge. I wondered what he had to do to get that car running. I walked back over and sat down next to Rosa once again.
“He’s gonna get a DUI,” Rosa says, glibly.
“I know,” I reply. “But what can you do?”
“I ought to go call the police right now about the drunk driving son of a bitch,” Rosa says.
Rosa dislikes George. They are like oil and water.
“Be nice,” I say. “It will happen sooner or later without your help.”
“Did you go to A.A. last night?” Rosa then asks, changing the subject.
“No, I was being lazy last night,” I reply. “I didn’t feel like getting out of the house.”
“You are not the lazy type,” Rosa says. “You walk everywhere which I think is stupid since you have a damn nice car and money for gas.”
“Well, you are just a bundle of joy and inspiration today,” I say, sarcastically. “Who pissed in your cheerios this morning?”
“PMS,” Rosa says with a smirk.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned or experiencing PMS, I think as I sit there, wary of what Rosa would say next.
I used to think women used PMS as an excuse just to be a bitch, but changed my mind after being married for two years. My ex-wife had a definite Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde transformation that time every month. Rachel would cry at the smallest setback or little thing, and would grow so emotional. You could often find me in the woods camping when PMS time would roll around. Mother Nature was a far kinder beast to bear than my ex-wife when she was ovulating. It seems Rosa is a woman after all despite that burly, rough, and masculine exterior.