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“Are you crazy?! Do you know who I am? Do you know who you’re messing with? Do you know the things I’ve done? Do you know what kind of car I drive?”
“I do,” said a voice in the crowd. “I know the things you’ve done. I know all the things you’ve done. And I know exactly what kind of car you drive. It’s a wannabe, piece of shit, hoopty beater of a muscle car.”
“Piece of shit?! It’s a vintage 1983 Ford Mustang Convertible with original leather seat…”
/> Tyler stopped short, recognizing the face attached to the voice. “Oh, Officer Cole, it’s you. Um… How are you doing today?”
“It’s a piece of shit and a road hazard,” continued Officer Cole as he made his way toward Tyler.
“Aw, come on. Why you gotta attack my ride like that?”
“I should have known if there was one problem I was going to have to deal with today you’d be at the center of it.”
Tyler ran his fingers through his hair and tried to regain his composure. “Now, Officer Cole that’s not fair. We were all just talking.”
“I heard yelling.”
“Well it’s loud. We were just shouting over the crowd.”
Then a loud, tinny, buzzery kind of sound cut through the conversation. BEEEEEEEP!!!
“What’s going on here?”
Heads turned, people moved and the Mayor rolled up. The extraordinarily large Mayor. All three hundred and fifty-two pounds of him propped up on his ubiquitous, top of the line, customized, cobalt blue, limited edition, Rascal Ventura scooter. His finger still perched over the horn/buzzer.
“What’s going on here?” he asked again as he scooted his way into the thick of things. His right hand man, Patrick, following close behind. Holding a paper plate full of fried calamari and a handful of napkins.
“Nothing sir, it’s over now,” said Officer Cole. “Nothing going on here, right guys?”
“That’s right. It’s all good,” Tyler answered quickly.
“Yeah, well, break it up,” said the Mayor. “You’re disturbing the peace and interrupting the flow of traffic. People can’t get to where they want to go.” Then he strained his neck and looked around. “Patrick?”
“Yes sir,” said Patrick, appearing at the Mayor’s side.
“Give me another bite will you.”
Patrick offered the Mayor the calamari. The plate was slick with tomato, grease and lemon, but the Mayor didn’t care. He just grabbed a whole handful of rings and tentacles and popped them in his mouth.
A drop of sauce hit his shirt on the way in, mixing and mingling with the smorgasbord of stains and flavors already there. “Oh, that’s good,” he said. And then, “When is the cheesesteak judging?”
“In a couple of hours,” said Patrick, offering a napkin.
“Hmmm… That long? Maybe we should get another snack.”
“Whatever you like sir.”
Then Whomp! Someone slapped Tyler upside the head.
“Ouch!”
“What’s going on? You causing trouble again? Is he causing trouble again?”
“Probably,” answered Officer Cole.
“What did I tell you about causing trouble today?” demanded Cap.
Cap was the owner of Cap’s cheesesteaks and Tyler’s father, though he only liked to acknowledge one of those two things. Then he slapped Tyler again, right upside the head. Which, no doubt hurt. Cap was a big guy. He worked twenty years in construction hauling bricks before he opened Cap’s, and if he smacked you, you definitely felt it.
