Right now I'm sitting at my desk staring at a damaged yellow road dot for inspiration. This is no ordinary road dot, so it sits prominently in front of the others in my collection. I'll call this road dot The Bastard from here on out, just to make this story a bit less complicated.
I met The Bastard in January, just a few weeks before my birthday. I had just left the office to grab a bite to eat and was cruising down a side street when I came upon The Bastard, looking smug between the yellow lines of asphalt. The middle of this small street that ran between two industrial parks - and which had been my favorite shortcut to Taco Bell - was missing a few of The Bastard's cousins. It was my daily ritual of popping The Bastard's cousins off the asphalt on my way to lunch, which had left the road looking like the losing side of a game of Connect Four. Every other road dot was missing, and between the ones that remained on the asphalt were shiny black reminders of my conquests. I had been playing this game of scrape-and-pop for months now, each trip to Taco Bell becoming more and more destructive. For some reason, when I turned onto this street each day, I avoided the first road dot I saw. I avoided it the way most surfers avoid the first big wave in a set. I'm not exactly sure why I never attempted to pop The Bastard before. Maybe I deemed it bad luck or maybe I was just driving a little further down the street, out of sight and away from the main road before doing some Van Damage. Whatever the reasons were, I left them in check at the office that day. Yes, I was feeling a bit saucy that afternoon, and I was ready for some good draggin'. The sun was out, the ragtop was open for the first time since Christmas, and I was in good spirits. I even had a little Average White Band in the CD player for theme music. As I turned onto the street, I eyed my victim and visualized my attack plan. Front of the truck up so I could turn, back down for pure draggin' style, and disco music bumpin' just loud enough so that the undocumented workers hanging out on the corner and local college students waiting for the buscould hear me coming. I was ready.
Truthfully, I was pretty relaxed because I had pulled this move a dozen times before. The theme music was different, but the result would be the same: one broken road dot flinging onto the sidewalk behind my truck. I would pick it up on the way home from lunch, like I always do.
I rounded the corner and eyed my target. The Bastard sat waiting, not moving an inch. It glared at me, its yellow reflector gleaming at me as if to say, "Go ahead punk, make my day." I turned up the Average White Band just as I passed the bus stop and laid my truck out. The ladies in waiting who normally just smile at my antics swooned as I nodded in their direction. They knew that something big was about to go down. The Bastard was about to fall. With one hand on the wheel and the other pointing at The Bastard, I accelerated to 40 mph and aimed my right-side rocker straight for the heart of The Bastard: its reflector. The edges of my rockers were dull from many sessions of draggin' at shows, cruises, and lunch breaks. Each gash had a story to tell to whoever was thoughtful enough to listen. Not right now, though; they had bigger fish to fry. The right rocker hit The Bastard with all its might, and I smiled a knowing smile. Though I didn't hear the familiar popping sound that accompanied my usual executions, I still looked behind me to see The Bastard's trajectory.