I walked down a sloped sidewalk on a weekday morning. The sun was out and heating up the big city.
Something above me, in the parking lot of a sushi restaurant, arrested my attention. I stopped and looked up and saw a young woman atop a dumpster emptying the contents of a coffee carafe. Then she dropped the carafe in the dumpster and jumped off into some shrubbery. A seconds later she materialized onto the sidewalk a few feet away from me.
She dressed in a black sports bra, black yoga pants and black boots. Her black hair was covered with a green and white paisley bandanna. She wore heart-shaped, rose-tinted sunglasses. She twitched the unmistakable vibe of a meth miscreant happy with the prospect of potential mayhem.
The woman paid me no mind. She hustled over to a public electric scooter that was laden with an astonishing amount of gear ingeniously strapped to the scooter with rope and bungee cords. She strapped on a backpack, fired up the scooter, and also fired on some audio device because music instantly blasted out of speaker stashed somewhere in her gear.
I heard a rapper rap: My dick is hard as an elephant’s ivory tusk.
The woman rapped along with the song and rocketed the scooter out into the street. I watched her zig and zag and weave and wind behind a car. I heard her rap about a hard dick as she zoomed away out of sight.
I laughed. How could I not? Wherever she was going, she appeared a lot happier than I felt, but I was now just a bit happier. Elephants are like that.