Hero

Miss America and I are cruising in the cherry hooptie, northbound on I-35 through San Marcos.

From the back seat, Miss America's small voice sings her made-up melodies: I eat my gwreen beans, cuz they gimme big mussos. Cars are fa-a-ast, bikes are slo-o-ow.

While I concentrate on the road ahead, Miss America's lyrics and tunes continue flowing: I get dust on my sammich, and princess dances unda da moon, an' she drops it like it's ho-o-o-ot.

One of my eyelids twitches.

The hits just keep coming. Then I hear the strains of an eighties tune, but without Bonnie Tyler's rasp. The small voice in my back seat croons: I need a hero . . .

As soon as I hear the tune, I join in, and both of us belt out:  I'm holding out for a hero till the end of the night. He's gotta be strong and he's gotta be . . .

This is where I forget the words, but Miss America does not. He's gotta be strong an' he's gotta be fast, or he's not gettin' nothing toni-i-i-ight. I need a hero-o-o!

I spit out my Diet Coke and practically run the hooptie off the road. Holy shit!
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