"I can't stand it anymore," Darlene screeched, her hands tight upon the wheel, her face taut as a drum skin, "I want a divorce!"
Oly, which was his name, popped the top on another Oly, the beer, and sucked the rising foam from the can's lid. "Shut up and drive," he told his bony wife. He leaned back and watched the plowed-over fields, the fence posts and barbed wire, skimming by.
"This isn't a marriage," Darlene whined, "it's trench warfare! We've tried family counseling, group encounter, my god, even Swingin' Swappers. It's no good! All you want to do is watch tv, drink beer, and drive up and down Interstate Five."
Oly yawned and turned up the country music station.
"It wouldn't be so bad," Darlene ran on, a plaintive twang in each of her diphthongs, "if we had a normal car like other people, instead of this truck with the flames painted up the sides. And you always make the kids ride in back!"
Oly glanced over his shoulder at two figures huddled together in the truck bed. "Keeps them on their toes," he observed.
"They won't have any toes left if they have to go through another winter like this!"
"And you!" Oly bellowed suddenly, raising a forefinger next to his wife's temple. "Don't you say nothin' bad 'bout my truck or I'll let you have one."
A plump tear wound its way down Darlene's cheek.
Oly chugged the rest of his beer and with one deft motion crushed the can and heaved it out the window. Taking out his pocket knife, he began to carve another notch in his wedding ring. He whistled between his teeth as he worked, a tune that had nothing to do with the song on the radio.
"I can't stand it!" Darlene screamed, "I can't stand it another minute. I'm going to call Pulp Woman!" She switched the radio to the Citizen's Band and began punching buttons frantically. "Pulp Woman," she sobbed into the microphone, "Oh help me, Pulp Woman, please, help me!"
"Aw, she'll never hear you," Oly belched, "Shut up and drive."
)
