The silver Toyota Corolla weaved from lane to lane in its own slow time, without signaling, as if the driver was oblivious to the fact that it was the morning rush hour. Its head and tail lights were off. On the rear window was a decal that originally might have read “Write your love in her arms,” but in the trafficky wet haze read “Write your love in her ar s,” as if the M had been scratched out purposely to broadcast someone’s overly candid opinion, or perhaps had simply been worn thin by the sun and flaked away. At the top of the trunk lid, directly below the rear windshield decal: a pink ribbon sticker supporting breast cancer research. Were the two messages connected? Breast and arse? I considered that if I asked the driver, she or he probably wouldn’t have had a clue, ever oblivious, and then the Toyota Corolla speeded up and cut off traffic in the passing lane, still without signaling and still driving dark, perpetually unaware.
A film noir morality play. From the atmospheric opening credits complete with foreboding music, to the “set-up” (which seems to harken back to 1936′s Reefer Madness, but with even more guns) through to the whiz-bang ending, Gun Crazy was a completely unexpected surprise.
This clip from TCM offers the opening credits and the “I told you so” Freudian framework for what is to come.
All the ball fields in Avondale Park are occupied with games and onlookers; their cars line the surrounding streets. There’s a light pollen haze in the air. White blooming dogwood trees invade one’s line of sight in every direction. There goes a bike. Smoke is snaking from Saw’s barbecue joint. Inside the nearby library, Miss Ellen is projecting Much Ado About Nothing on the event room wall as a kid in the front row has his eyes on his handheld; there are only four people in attendance, yet they have eaten all the popcorn the popper could make. It’s free, after all, as is this beautiful day.