pho and a suburban strip mall security guard

On April 9th, I helped two close friends get divorced. Well, actually I didn't help, I just had nothing else I particularly wanted to do and so, over pho, three old friends kept company as two once dumb kids filled out paperwork. Good kids. Good pho. One major topic of conversation included the subtopics: waking up in strangers beds, whether sex with strangers can be mentally healthy, whether wives and husbands can be strangers and whether people can ever actually know one another. When does one person go from not knowing to knowing another?



Then, the ex-groom suggested he start his new non-fraudulent single life with a car ride to the country, reminiscent of our typical high school getaways. The ex-bride did not join. On the planet Highschool, lightyears behind us, the level of visibility was as is now; then, there was copious amounts of ganja smoke; now, there are jobs and wives and ex-wives and bitterness and heartbreak. The government issued rental car with foreign Florida plates sped away from the fog of divorcee drama, delicious Viet cuisine and Wheaton Maryland. Forward! On to the North Star! Stopping in the booming Megalopolis that is Olney, we had a tussle with trouble in the form of a bored strip mall security guard. Exercised was his job to prevent perpetrators from stealing the soul of a beloved parking lot paradise of power. Fortunately, not before I snuck a few snaps. His dedication and impeccably clean dashboard was beautiful; and the sunset amongst the minivans and Payless Shoes and Subways looked like a saran wrapped plastic pear. The day was archetypically plain in a mysterious way that makes it seems as though I will never forget it.