The Chariots Of My People

There’s no shifting gears when you’re loyal to a certain make and model.

Rick Bragg

The truck blocked out a good part of the world around it, kind of like an eclipse, but with TOYOTA stamped on its behind. A new, hulking, four-wheel drive with a bolt-on toolbox, big mud tires, and a lift kit that jacked its floorboard up to my eyebrows, it rumbled into the lot and elbowed its way into a parking space. It idled there a second or two longer than seemed necessary, growling and snorting like the big dog it was, and when the driver turned off the switch, you could at least hear the world again, though still in shade. The door opened, and I expected to see a Wolverine boot, or a Timberland, or anything with a steel toe swing out. 

Instead, a pointy high heel clicked onto the asphalt. 

Now how, I wondered for a full, dull-witted second, did that man get his foot into that little bitty shoe?