This is Texas, after all. My friend, a screenwriter, once wrote a scene in which a character in a small Texas town can’t figure out which white truck is his, trying door after door. Around the table in Hollywood, the producers didn’t get the joke. And now it’s too late for that joke, all the truck drivers pressing their automatic locks, the beeping and flashing leading the way. Today it was almost too late for me too, a white truck gunning it past my shoulder as I crossed South Congress. So close the strangers behind me gasped aloud. So close I reared back and adrenaline flushed my body. White truck, my life is still worth more than your rush. White truck, if you’d taken it slowly you’d have seen, further up the road, a house where the artists made all the eyes doubled.
January 12, 2016