The cats run and hide; the cows in fields stop chewing and turn their heads; flocks of crows fly out of the trees; the deer feasting in Sue’s garden bolt. They know something very bad is about to happen: an earthquake, a tornado, a tsunami. We humans miss the signs; we sit here until it is almost upon us but even we can hear this before we see it. Suddenly it appears. It makes the turn right onto our dirt road and heads straight at us. The concussion waves are so powerful dishes start to shake and the plaster rattles. It is a 2001 blue Chevy compact driven by Spike, the nineteen-year-old son of one of the neighbors. To call it a car is silly. It is a giant speaker on wheels. Spike’s head smacks the back of the headrest over and over as he drives past us. The only sound that escapes the car is a booty-shaking bass. What must it sound like inside that tiny car? The sound may be so powerful in such an enclosed space that his chromosomes may actually split apart, making it impossible for him to father children.
