You Need SCOPE

I am in the backseat of my mom’s 65 Mustang with my brother Andy, pretending to take a trip to Arizona. We’re bouncing around on the tan seat, talking about what we see on the way. Sometimes we sit in the front seats, one of turning the wheel and leaning into the turn, the other one leaning along as we pass each roadrunner and saguaro cactus on our way to the exotic land of extended family, people we see only every couple of years, but with whom we instantly fall into comfortable synchronicity. These people always have Popsicles in their freezers.

But Andy and I have wearied of the front seat, and have decamped to the back, when we realize that this is the perfect vantage point from which to observe and critique the neighborhood. Conveniently, our neighbor across the street pulls up, parks and exits his car and stoops to reach in and remove items from his trunk. Andy, recognizing the possibilities of our anonymity, yells out the window,

“You need SCOPE in your BUTT!”

We fall to the floor of the car to hide, giggling madly at the wit, buoyed by the heady danger of saying such a shocking and hilarious thing to not only a grown-up, but a neighbor. We lie there for a long time after he has gone inside, laughing on those tan seats, pleased and proud.