Never Leave Your Blizzard Unguarded

This pickup in front of me is a two-door, but it’s got a back seat. If you’ve been in a pickup’s back seat, you know there’s not much to it. Anyone tall enough to ride a rollercoaster has to turn their feet, maybe even their legs, to one side. There’s a seatbelt back there, but I wouldn’t bet on its usefulness. I’ve felt more security from your average fortune cookie message than from the seatbelt in the back of a truck.

There’s a guy in the back seat. I suspect he’s tall, because he’s turned completely sideways. He’s laughing, a lot. The guys in the front seats are too, but Backseat is really cracking up. I’ve lived a life of making jokes from the back seat, so I recognize immediately that Backseat is the one making everyone laugh. The timing is off, from his laugh to theirs, and his gestures are classic, “And then…” and “Get this…”, big hands all over the place, back and forth.

Backseat’s wearing a red bandanna, like maybe he just came from the groomer, or from robbing a saloon. At a light I normally make a left, I instead slow to a stop behind them, because Backseat has made an interesting move. He’s popped open the little, hinged triangle of window available to the rear passenger, and is holding one finger up inside—this gesture telling me and his buddies, “Oh yeah? Fuckin’ watch me”. The other hand exits the window, holding what by all accounts would be a medium Blizzard from Dairy Queen, and places it on the roof of the truck. Inside, they’re calling his bluff, so he lets go, leaving the Oreo Blizzard (I’m filling in blanks here, but come on) out there by itself, for however many seconds remain before the green light. The guy shotgun is freaking out. It’s his Blizzard. Backseat reaches back out, and forward, and knocks on his buddy’s window, because…duh. The front window rolls down, a new hand emerges, and the Blizzard returns to its home, up front, where, if a Blizzard had legs, it could surely stretch them out.

Backseat, as you can imagine, is laughing so hard he’s doubled over on his tiny bench. For just a second, a foot rises into view. I follow through the light, but then catch the next left. For all I know, the next block was funnier, or contained revenge from the shotgun. This much is true: You better respect your jokers in the back seat, especially if you have ice cream you don’t plan on sharing.