Raving coffee madness cruising Main Street

Illustration: (c) M. Hoyem / American Ethnography

AMERICAN Ethnography is a stranger in a 1972 Riviera, sunburst yellow banged up and dirty, raving coffee madness cruising Main Street of the quiet desert town at 15 miles an hour, hair like a sleep deprived Augustus Caesar, taupe pinstripe two-piece suit with a three button jacket and open white shirt, French cuffs and pocket square folded Presidential, argyle socks in brogue tan loafers, on the passenger seat a saddle brown croc skin flap-over briefcase, reaching down with the right hand to open it, left hand clutching the gold plated chain steering wheel, one smooth movement, grabs a pile of handbills, leans over to the rolled down passenger seat window and throws the flyers out of the car with nothing more than a "here" and a slight nod, then accelerating as papers rain down on confused bystanders in a trail of methanol fumes and wasteland dust, for a second they all freeze in place, then bending down with hands in pockets, nonchalantly trying to read without touching—spirit-duplicated notepad sheets with academic sleaze, intellectual obscenities and savage science, crude drawings of voluptuous women and demonic beasts, backmasked poems from another dimension—yes, it's wop bop a loop a lop a lop boom bam reversed and inside out as the car makes a sharp turn onto the highway at the end of the street, screeching tires leave gravel and hit dry asphalt, the driver slowly tilts his head back, loosing himself in the souped-up rumble of the eight cylinder engine. "Don't follow leaders!" He's talking to himself. "Watch your parking meters!"