*****

Warren stopped and stared as the golf cart sped past his picture window. God, he really hated Arthur, zipping around the neighborhood in his new black golf cart. How many people can he get on that thing? There must be 15 people hanging off the cart. “Goddamn clown car, that’s what that is,” he muttered aloud, thinking morosely to his own lonely white cart. it was sitting in the two-car garage, parked next to the trash barrels where the evidence of his frustrating morning had been hastily dumped. His thought of his wife’s Buick, parked next to his cart. He imagined her oversized Gucci sunglasses sitting on the passenger seat, and discarded gum wrappers absent-mindedly littering the floor.

Warren walked into the garage through the laundry room and looked down dumbly at the gray tank she drove around the island. “It makes me feel safe,” she would say when he complained about the working class image the car projected. They had moved to the country club community in the Keys when Warren sold his masonry business three years earlier. He walked down the half flight of stairs to the front of the car. He caressed the hood with his calloused hands. The cool feel of the metal caused him to start, realizing what he had done earlier in the day.