The Ride to the Function
I once rode with someone I knew to a function.
That is, by someone I knew, I mean someone I had never met once in my life, and by "function," my meaning is inconsequential to the story and the reader need know nothing more about it.
I sat across from him on the massive front bench seat of the old 1970's sedan, an ocean of Navajo-print fabric separating us as the irked-looking dingo gazed forward, his eyes locked on the road.
"Yes, sandwiches are nice," he said impassively, his hand moving deftly to counter the old car's wayward drift toward the oncoming lane.
"I beg your pardon?" I said.
"I said 'sandwiches are nice," the dingo said, chewing on the words.
"All very well and good, but where did that come from?"
"Sandwiches are food, they come from a freezer."
Not once did the dingo look my way, nor did his tone change even as his demeanor shifted imperceptibly.
"I never said anything about sandwiches," I replied, trying to kill this meaningless conversation.
"Yes you did, a moment ago. Something about sandwiches at the function, I shouldn't wonder. But you definitely mentioned them."
"There will be no food at the function."
"Then why am I driving you there?"
"I was told you were someone I knew."
"That is correct."
"Then should it matter why we are going to the function?"
"Should it?" The dingo reached to his cupholder and reached for an old, faded plastic cup that had once held a 44 oz. Cola, some years ago and had never left the cupholder since. It was now empty, and he tipped it toward his lips and drank deep of its emptiness.
A traffic signal loomed large ahead, and its beacon went red. The car ground to a halt, the vast nose diving perhaps a full foot.
It was then that the rear door open and a battered cat in an old, filthy coat seated herself in the vast rear seat, gazing forward as impassively as the dingo beside me.
The dingo never once reacted, but took off from the traffic signal as planned.
"Sir... Sir... We have a passenger."
"Do we?"
"Indeed we do."
"And she is in this car with us, now?"
"I saw her get in, sir."
"Then I reckon she is meant to be here. Stop asking stupid questions and let me drive."
I turned to the passenger. "Are you meant to be here?"
"No." Her fixed gaze never once wavered to meet mine as she said this.
In silence we continued, until at last we came to yet another traffic signal and stopped.
The cat quietly opened the door and left the car, but in her place an equally-haggard fox, one of my age and size but far leaner and more hungry than I, sat down and pulled the heavy door shut.
"Sir... Sir... We have a passenger."
"Do we?" "Indeed we do."
"And he is in this car with us, now?"
"I saw him get in, sir."
"Then I reckon he is meant to be here. Stop asking stupid questions and let me drive."
I turned to the passenger. "Are you meant to be here?"
"No." His fixed gaze never once wavered to meet mine as he said this.
Thus it was for a full evening, the passengers came and went at each successive red light, and not a soul within the car spoke again of the function.