Reasons Not to Seat Freedom in Your Lap

Tom and Hondo were driving the long road home in the old beat up Bronco that they commuted to and from work in. As they round a corner, their grill came face to face with a Bald Eagle that perched, well stood rather, in the middle of their lane. They slammed on their brakes to avoid flattening it. The bird didn't move. They sat there, and it was like on old western showdown. 


Hondo slowly climbed out of the Bronco, with Tom close behind, and approached the eagle. Even as the two large men came towards it, the bird didn't so much as rustle a wing. It was like a statue. Once close enough, Hondo reached out his and to touch the animal. Beneath his hand it still remained motionless. Concerned, Hondo looked at Tom who shrugged.


"Must be suh'em wrong with 'em."
"Well, there's a Fish and Game not far up the road. Maybe we should take him there?" Hondo said hesitantly.
After a brief moment, Tom nodded.


Inside the car, with the bird on Hondo's lap, the Fish and Game contacted, Tom drove on down the empty highway. Now, eagles are not small birds, and this one neck was craned even in the spacious room of the Bronco.The position had to be uncomfortable but the bird was keeping its pose. Hondo just stared into the birds unblinking eyes as Tom continued driving.


Then Hondo noticed as the eagle's head slowly turned, as its eyes slowly blinked. In that short moment their was no communication barrier between animal and man...the animal was pissed.


Its six foot wingspan shot across the cab as its talons dug into Hondo's fleshy thighs until they struck bone.


Swerving and unable to see, Tom yelled to Hondo, "Grab its head. It can kill you with that beak!! Its the beak you gotta watch out for." 


Hondo grabbed the head of the eagle and pushed it backwards and tried to pull its talons from his legs. It was about this time that Tom lost the road and they crashed through a ditch and into an open field. 


Coming to abrupt stop, both men flung open their doors and Tom made it safely out. As soon as Hondo's door opened, the Bald Eagle took off and flew away from them into the darkening sky. 

Jump Starting Levels of Awkward

We were in Hillcrest—the residential homosexual community of San Diego—and it was a backstreet crowded with cars parked in front of dozens of small houses and duplexes. My mother, my sister, my best friend and I stood in the middle of the street and watched as my father and my boyfriend—who had just met—tinkered under the hood of my dead silent, fusion orange, Chevy Colorado.

I had left my fog lights on, the Hispanics in the house facing the tuck told my dad. They saw me leave it. Why hadn’t they told me? They didn’t say, but I suspected it had something to do with me being a dumb white girl and them getting to witness, now, the spectacle of us trying to find a way to jump it when all the parking spaces next to it were taken and the hood was facing the sidewalk.

Speaking of the sidewalk, behind my dad—who was firing one question after another at my boyfriend who was sweating and not from the labor of reattaching my exhausted batter—was the forest green Hummer H3 pulled up on the sidewalk between a palm tree and a small blue Mazda, hood to hood with my truck. The black and red jumper cables ran from the battery beneath its lifted hood and the cables that should have been connected to the battery in my truck.

Now back to the Hispanics. When we arrived to try and get my truck running, I had noticed the Hispanics. They were somewhere between fifteen to twenty of them crowded on the porch of their tiny blue duplex, all standing, two of which were playing guitars and wearing large brimmed straw hats. When my dad maneuvered his vehicle onto the sidewalk they stopped playing their music and crowded their way down the stairs with large eyes and amused smiles.