Under the awning of the smokers' section, we were all thinking the same thing: Where are the damn police and ambulances? A virginia slims had already dialed it in, but there were still no sirens.
Aston-martin was still oblivious to the rain and diluted blood that spider-webbed across his face as he slowly weaved down the hill. His shirtfront had blossomed into a menacing and slick black bib, the once-pink tulip in his breast pocket now just wilted black petals.
The chaos piled up on California behind him, as a cable car sat immobilized uphill from the little two-seater, unable to swerve off the tracks and around the sportscar's open door. It wasn't long before passengers sprung to the street on both sides of the firmly planted cable car. A patch of black and plaid umbrellas sprouted above the frustrated passengers abandoning ship and floated downhill with the stormwater. The cable car soon added its bell in accompaniment to the motherfucker sonnet.
"Someone should go close that door," said a miss parliaments, smartly.
"Yeah, someone," answered a young marlboro red. "Someone not me."
We all laughed. It was true. None of us wanted to walk out there when the entire point of being here was to keep dry while feeding the addiction. Besides, aston-martin was still barely fifty feet down the hill, and the guy was clearly in a bad state--who knew what he would do if you touched his car?
The rain picked up its tempo, the torrents now coming down in silky waves, undulating like syrup off a spoon. Aston-martin was now on his third stanza of motherfuckers, and we knew he had to wrap it up soon because his cigarette was now down to a little nub. He was almost to the last couplet when he was halted by another wet suit, this one belonging to a passenger hanging off the side of an overpacked cable car making its way uphill. Aston-martin's cigarette hand hit the outrigger's drenched knee with a sloppy thunk and that was that.
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