The day after the Hartman murders, my wife craved meat. Not just any meat, but a certain "angus burger."
It really was awful—high school principal and his wife beheaded, heads left on the porch in paper bags. We probably should have been more upset about it, but the fact is my wife has cancer, so we're kind of numb to every awfulness in the world. We're selfish, I admit it, here where the faces of hope and despair hide in their own paper bags and you wait to see which one pops up.
It just so happened that this was the day her appetite returned. This was a good sign, along with her wanting to drive with the window down to feel the wind on her bald head. She'd taken her wig off because it was making her itch. There were fake tattoos on both sides of her head, skull and crossbones, something she did for fun.
She whipped into the drive-thru, ordered her large angus-burger and fries. The kid at the window froze with the bag in his hand. His mouth hung open more than just the usual airhead way. "Is there a problem?" my wife asked. Her voice was strong and it thrilled me.
The kid was looking at my lap, where her wig peeked from the top of her tote bag. I felt the evil creep into me. I even jiggled her bag a bit, to make the hair move. I was guilty of something, alright.
Then, while he was looking at her tattoos, she snatched the bag right out of his pale hand. "Jesus H. Christ. I'm starving here!" She gunned the gas and squealed into a parking spot.
"Oh my god," I said, trying not to smile. "He was staring at your wig. The bag."
"Oops."
"Fucking awesome," my son said, from the back seat.
"Hey, watch your mouth."
My wife said something, but her mouth was so stuffed I couldn't make it out.