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One arm cocked against the driver’s side window laidback to signal it’s okay I’m cool I got this the other arm relaxed a finger barely touching the steering wheel it’s all cruise control baby chillin’ shooting down the 405 cool Driving.
Not like the bad old days when it was slow crawling 15 25 if I’m lucky miles per hour both hands tensed grabbing the steering wheel in a headlock fingers turning purple teeth clenched inside my jaw crawling north in a time bomb powered by the best Japanese minds up the 405 the 10 to LaBrea over Wilshire landing in Hollyweird jazz sing-along on the radio while anonymous phone screamers scream into Talk Radio lamenting an America that never existed and this is the real America past Gardena Compton South Central Pico-Union stay in your lane do not turn your head is that a gun in your hand or are you just happy to see me while you shoot across four lanes searching for exits and shortcuts anything to still the boredom of sneaking over thirty miles of concrete and asphalt and steel and painted lines no one is going anywhere a long line of machine-carrying robots (like me) who dance (like me) the same dance when there was once a thrill to driving a car to take you anywhere you want or need a fantasized freedom wrapped in metal and an engineering wonder before road rage and rush hours and HOV lanes and clogged arteries that will drop a heart attack on me while I gobble breakfast in one hand and 185-degree coffee in the other and the steering wheel is wedged between my knees.
That was then cool driving now no Jazz no Talk Radio no rush hour just the feel of power under and around me laidback while the wind massages me through open windows and my arm is cocked against the driver’s side window as if to signal it’s okay I’m cool I got this the other arm relaxed a finger barely touching the steering wheel it’s all cruise control baby chillin’ and i’m shooting down the 405 Cool Driving.