They collect in little puddles, standing about five feet away from the rental car and they look at the four of us like we're something in the fucking zoo, or an exhibit of the car Jayne Mansfield got beheaded in. You can take your pick. I start screaming at them to get me out of the car, because I can't move anything and the thing wrapped around my chest is killing me. And I ain't talking figuratively. But they've all watched too many sixty second spots, where the questions are always easy and the answers come thick and fast. Release the safety catch at the front, they keep saying. It should be under the dash. Either the car never fucking had one to begin with, or it's now part of what probably looks like a Giacometti from the outside, so this is a big help. This starts some major fucking head scratching. They all stand around some more, and I keep screaming: I'm calling them all cocksuckers and motherfuckers, I'm threatening to come back with a 9mm later on and blow their brains out, but it doesn't do any good. Finally some old lady comes out with a great whacking kitchen knife, and some guy with a tattooed tear leaking out the corner of his eye takes it from her and starts sawing away at the strap through the broken window. He stops and clears the glass with the toe of his Pumas and carries on with the sawing. It seems to take about a half a century and, while I'm waiting, I stare at the tear on his face.
It happens