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I am hungry.
Jordan looks at me and says, Would you please stop whining?
I can't, I say, I'm a whiner. It's my purpose in life. Some people go to the moon or cure cancer. I whine.
Jordan smiles and says, Well, at least your humor is back.
Humor? I say.
We're about a block from my apartment, and the load has been slowly lifting off me. Maybe it's the endorphines, result of the walk, that have cleared my head from those thoughts. Maybe it's just the realization that thinking about whatever might happen will never be even in the neighborhood of actually seeing it happen. You crack your brain in two thinking about what the hell to do about a particular situation and then something else happens, something that renders useless all your reasoning. And then you can't think, you just act, and what's left later is looking back and wondering, How did that happen?
There's bound to be some food in my apartment. And, food or no food, my apartment will be better than the McDonald's.
Suddenly, as we are approaching the corner, I hear a sound, a clanking, and a strange low rumble. It's coming from around the corner. My feverish imagination goes wild, imagining all sorts of things: a car, its engine broken, with a Just Married sign on top of the dashboard dragging a load of empty cans behind; a boy playing his own private game; the brain of my boss, who's broken free and is now roaming the streets looking for prey, or maybe some extra brain cells to power up once and for all the Rationality module.
I stop. Jordan stops and says, What?
The sound gets louder. Jordan still doesn't react. I begin to doubt my sanity. I wonder, when you're crazy do you realize you're crazy?
Do you hear that? I say.
Jordan says, What, the clanking?
I nod.
Yeah, she says, So what? In this city, anything can happen.
The sound gets louder. And louder. Like a sick symphony, feeding on itself, a symphony of metal and rumbling.
Then it slows down, lowers its volume. What...?
Then I see it, turning the corner.
There is this old man, with a smile from ear to ear on his face, a tinfoil hat with little wings on each side. He has a steering wheel in his hands, and he turns it this way and that way, making small course corrections. The shopping cart is strapped to his waist, and he is carrying it around. The cart is, I think, the same he had yesterday, but now it has a license plate attached to its front, and all sorts of tiny metal signs that say 16 valve, Turbo, 2.2 litre, and things like that. On one hand he has a small horn. He is making engine sounds with his mouth, revving up or down as he navigates through his personal highway on the streetwalk.
I know him.
I start walking again, as does Jordan, and I can see she is looking at the man with interest. As we walk past him, I say, Moving up in the world, eh? And he smiles a silent yes back at me, and he honks the horn. He is happy with his shopping-cart-racing-car.
And then it hits me. I know, I know why I'm not happy.
I say to Jordan, Wanna know why I'm not happy?
She says, Yeah.
I point back at the old man, getting smaller behind us, and I say, I don't have that.
As we cross the street she shakes her head, and smiles. Then she says, I'll get you one of those if you like.
Don't worry, I say, I didn't mean the cart. But I think I can manage.
Then Jordan stops, and I stop too. I am about to say something when I realize we're standing outside my apartment.
We're here.
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8:48:17 PM 
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