Slaw

Gail at Exit something-or-other on Route 80 east toward South Bend warns us not to order the slaw she claims is pink and nasty. After hauling over a stack of pancakes plus theme and variations on bacon and eggs by just the one cook ("I'm here by myself, and he gets off at one"), she brings a tiny paper sauce cup the kind you get ketchup in and has us taste the stuff. It's really bad, tastes dangerous, we say, and she holds forth on why in the world would the company insist on putting and keeping on the menu this vile side disguised as food.  Tomorrow will be Christmas, and so far this trip has taken us about a third of the way to hell. The person at the wheel has pivoted from fun to unrequested performance art in response to a mild suggestion that he put his foot down on the accelerator to match the traffic flow. Prompting a burst of invective, more scat than song, as if a warped requiescat qua command performance proclaiming that the whole carload should stop playing dead the driver declares is but a fraction of true death. But you can feel our spirits die. I blame myself for not reaching into his pocket to remove both gun and silencer while the rental car keeps cranking along the highway of Midwestern snowless winter gray that puts me back in a headlock I thought was past. I feel him shoring up proof he has been wronged and await next steps of no apology ahead of the lingering pretense when signing all missives love, or much love, a reflex to erase each spoonful of the past.