Satan's Girl and the Flaming Mexican

We got started late for a number of reasons. The first was that the steering of my buddy’s car required “adjustment” because, although it had been fixed the day before, turning the wheel created bothersome noises. Metal grinding against metal noises that made you think bits and pieces were being left behind on the roadway. “But it’s perfectly safe,” the shop owner assured us.
My friend’s car is a secondhand but classy model. I like it better than his brand new car that was destroyed several months back by what we have taken to call The Flaming Mexican. Actually, it was the van the Mexican was driving that was aflame. The Flaming Mexican drove the van down Van Nuys Boulevard then veered into a nearly empty parking lot. Of all the spaces he could have stopped, he picked the one just behind my friend’s new car, whereupon he leapt out, made a quick call on his cell and beat cheeks. My friend was watching a matinee when cops entered, calling out his name. By then his car was black and smoking. Witnesses were able to ID the Mexican, and wouldn’t you know? He was an illegal alien who didn’t have insurance. As events transpired, the investigating officer discovered where The Flaming Mexican lived but said, “I got a thousand of these cases on my desk already. Nothing is going to happen.”

When I first heard this tragic story, the only thing I could think to say was, “Other than that how did you like the show?” In the heat of loss that didn’t go down well, but the friendship survived. Thus there we were, getting a late start, waiting for documented workers to fix the replacement car that hadn’t been fixed properly the day before. Afterwards we had to take my friend’s dog to a horse ranch outside of town. We took a wrong turn and needed to get back on the freeway.

It was at the intersection to the on-ramp where we spotted a teenage girl wearing a pullover. There was a stop sign but no light. More notable was the pullover: it was decorated with a sequenced pentagram cut nearly in half by a zipper pulled low. I’m not really attracted to teenage girls, but whether feminists want to admit it or not, men do notice what females wear, and most of us process the information sexually. So I made the editorial comment, “No tits.” When my friend turned to look, the girl started to wave us through the intersection with a casual flick or two of the hand, like she knew what she was doing. The driver of the car in the adjoining lane must have thought so too because, as we went straight, he turned left. We exchanged bumpers. Everyone was a gentleman about it, including the motorcycle cop who was right there to take it all in.

Four men, one girl. We didn't stand a chance.

Once we were on the open road sans dog, my friend mused, “Do you realize how many instances, changes in plans, traffic patterns led up to that one girl being at that exact spot the same time we were?”

It has been over ten days since the incident, and it occurs to me now there had to be some free will involved. Rather than focusing on the zipper, I could have more clearly thought about the significance of the pentagram and prayed for the girl’s immortal soul. My pal could have picked a different repair shop. Heck, he could have spent a few extra bucks and taken in the six o’clock show.