I am walking. It is cold. I lean into the wind, walking and walking and walking. I am trying to walk out of the current Erin, with whom I am disgusted, and into some new Erin.
I am a weird little figure, wrapped in layers and scarves. I wear large sunglasses and big nerdy headphones that cushion my ears from the considerable ambiant noise. There is not enough time and miles in the universe to reveal the impossibile new Erin. She eludes me. This frustrating reality spills over me. I talk to myself and gesture cartoonishly at no one like an oblivious mental patient.
A full-size white Oldsmobile, circa 1987 pulls up to the light of the intersection I am approaching. The driver's side window opens. The driver, a man, somewhere between 65 and 75-years-old and not unlike the Ron Mueck sculpture shown just below this post, opens his window to the 25 degrees and wind. He puts his forearem out and pumps it vigorously while yelling at me, "Shake it baby! Shake it!"
I stop. I turn to face him. My eyes shift left and right. "Shake it, baby," he repeats.
I salute him.
He turns left and drives into his future.
I walk. I shake it.