We were in Seattle when they found the Peruvian in the trunk of our white Dodge Challenger. We insisted he was only there because the backseat was overflowing with poets and anarchists. The Peruvian’s head was half-shaved and he swore this was common practice back where he was from. We promised we were new here and pointed to the California plates.
They asked us why we’d been dancing in traffic and arguing loudly about the worth of performative rhetoric in various bars, submarine shops and organic grocery stores since we’d rolled into town. We explained that our driver had lost her glasses, and since then it had been nothing but green smoothies, peanut butter and banana sandwiches, Tom Waits dance parties, and nine fifty-dollar boozehound ne’er do well professional academicians shacked up in a hippie mansion near the interstate that used to be a day care center.
If only we hadn’t rented that pearl-toothed muscle car, we commiserated afterwards. All the Nissans we could have chosen were at least five-person backseaters.