We were headed south on I-95, the six-lane highway that splits the state of Florida into East and West sections from Miami to abeam Amelia Island near the border of Georgia.
Emily, my wife, was at the wheel of our rental Chevy, Taho, far more car than we needed. It hadn’t looked this big on the Budget Rental Car website. As she grew more familiar with the beast Emily insisted on doing all of the driving. Comfortable in my sexuality that was not a problem for me, unlike many of our friends back in Abu Dhabi where the “man of the house” insisted on doing all of the driving.
It was early in “Spring Break” when university students from the eastern half of the country were headed for the beaches of Ft. Lauderdale and Miami. We cruised along at the speed limit, occasionally passed by carloads of students in a much greater hurry. Emily tended to stay in the center of the three lanes, occasionally drifting into the fast lane to pass a slow poke, not smart enough to stay out of the way in the right hand lane.
I had turned to get a bottle of water out of the back seat when I saw the ancient Cadillac hearse storming up on our left. It had straight pipes and we could hear it even over the closed windows and air conditioning. It sounded like an eight cylinder Harley Davidson.
I carefully watched the hearse as it slowly closed in on Emily’s side of the car. As the front right window came abreast of our left rear window I saw the window opening quickly. Conscious of terrorism and recognizing a possible threat I called an alert to Emily that a possible evasion maneuver might be required. Not likely in the heart of Florida, but possible.
As the opened car window came abreast of Emily’s window the most perfect, round ass imaginable poked through offering us a cracked, white salute. We made an evasive maneuver only because we were laughing so hard we had to pull over to the side of the road. We had been well and properly mooned.