It’s 5:53 in the morning, and I’m driving a car-full of my drunk friends home. Upon Carlos’ earlier insistence, Pink Floyd is blaring over the speakers. After twenty minutes of being on the road, I suddenly get the feeling that I’m the only one who’s still digging the music. I look to my right and see Fish in the passenger seat, fast asleep. I take a look over my right shoulder and notice Francisco and Mel, who have both passed out as well. Then I chance a quick look over my left shoulder and check up on Carlos, who has his eyes closed, and his head resting against the window. It’s at this surreal moment, at this surreal hour of the early morning, when I nearly convince myself that I’m driving with four stiffs in the car. So I glance over both of my shoulders again — this time more deliberately and theatrically — and I think to myself, “I actually did it. I killed them all.”
Lonely car rides home are the best.
