When the patchwork of ethnic groceries and chain stores shrunk in the rearview mirror, when maples and pines shrouded Dundee road on either side, in the cop-free, wooded zone between the jurisdictions of Wheeling and Northbrook, Jay, like instinct pressed the button on the door of his pick-up, letting the sunshine-fortified air blast through his window with a whistle. Then, he dug in his pocket for his joint, the first joint of the morning, his only real reason for waking and only way to ensure his peaceful passage through his Saturday shift as file-boy at North Shore Construction. Smoking the joint guaranteed this would not be the day he stapled his fingers together for fun or scooped his own feces into the coffee pot.

Jay flicked a lighter with his thumb, while gripping the wheel with his other hand. The wind snuffed out the flame. He glanced at the rearview mirror, then from one side to the other. Traffic was light. No cops in sight. He flicked the lighter again.

“Piece a shit.” He muttered, the joint still wedged between his lips. He crossed his eyes to focus on the still not burning tip. He flicked the lighter again. The weak blue flame barely kissed the paper.

“What the fuck?” He let the wheel go and cupped his driving hand around his cheek, to shield the joint from the breeze. The truck bucked and pulled beneath the feeble guidance of his knees, like an angry Spanish bull. He flicked the lighter again as a lock of his hair slid down his forehead to blindfold him. His kneecaps lost their grip on the steering wheel, as he neared the first red traffic light of Northbrook. An over-fed, retired couple in matching Hawaiian shirts waddled side-by-side in the crosswalk.

“Honey, you’ve got a blop of sunscreen on your shoulder.” the woman said to her husband. Both of them stopped and stared at the man’s pink, puffy arm. The woman extended her pointer-finger, swollen like a fancy sausage, to flick the offending pile of goo from his shoulder. It was a nurturing gesture.

The grill of Jay’s truck bounced against the cushion of their ample stomachs. Jay heard a cartoon “boing” sound in his head as he watched their fleshy torsos launch airborne against a backdrop of sky and strip mall. Their arms and legs spun like propellers filled with cellulite, their fingers clutching madly at the air.

Jay didn’t realize he’d hit the breaks until he heard the squeak of rubber. Or was that the woman screaming? His joint was lit. He sucked it calmly as the bodies tumbled onto one another, as they had once years ago in a meeting of fevered, fatty newly wed genitals.

“Dude, it’s like Grand Theft Auto.” Jay laughed to himself. He blinked. His eyes were dry not only from the smoke, but from his staring at the heap of suburban dung on the pavement in front of him, a lump of ham wrapped in Hawaiian floral. A puddle of red formed around it. Jay wondered which and who’s orifice it was gushing from. When he heard the sirens whining in the distance, he chucked the lit joint out his window and felt a little guilty for wasting good bud.