This past Saturday I saw two young men dancing in the trunk of a car. I was seated at a red light, bored and waiting for the night to end. After heckling several pedestrians, and telling one man in a spandex shirt “Your brother’s going to be pissed that you stretched out his favorite shirt,” Tony and I turned our attention to a thumping car in a long line of traffic.
They were stopped at a red light trying to push their way into the fortress of lights and bars that is Timeworld when the entire car began shaking. The car looked like a human bouquet with arms and legs and fingers flopping out of the windows. It was some macabre psycho’s dream driving down the street.
“I bet there are people in the trunk,” Tony chuckled. As if he had said some magic words, some incantation reserved only for films and fairy tales, the trunk popped open at a break in the thumping techno and two young men with died hair began flopping and gyrating on the floor of the Kia. I say it was their car, but clearly they were only passengers. And we were grateful spectators as they danced towards the bars and the nightclubs where they would finally stand on two feet.