By L Vargas

Another night of misspent malt liquor youth
found us driving round East Hill
on a late Tuesday night
at a time my dad used to say
kids could only do things
that would get them in trouble
and trouble is what we were into that night
Pensacola had recently provided its god-fearin’ citizens
with large black trash cans
to be scooped up every Wednsday
by an arm attached to a machine
driven by a few remaining garbage men
these rubber cans had sturdy handles on the back
so Mildred the old lady
could haul her refuse from the back of her house to the front
and it was by these handles that we were dragging the cans
from the passenger side windows of our Japanese two-door cars
accelerating up past the speed limit
of roads like LaRua and Brainerd
and when we got the cans up as fast as we thought they could possibly go
we swerved over by a parked car
and let the big black beasts go
and all 300 pounds of them
would fly 40 miles an hour
into the back of some poor bastards Oldsmobile
and when they impacted
the tops of the cans flew open
from the force
and garbage sometimes shot ten feet into the air
evoking a fireworks like effect
as we sped past like the night witches
over and over again we would drag East Hill’s garbage cans
around its streets and launch them into parked cars
under the influence of Eight Ball, Saint Ides, and Mickeys
and one night we slammed on our brakes for no apparent reason
and got out of the car and began dancing around Strong street
to whatever angry music we were listening to at the time
and right when we seemed the most maniacal
Gary silenced us by throwing his full quart of Red Bull
through the drivers side window of a parked Cadillac
and the glass shattered and so did our moment
for three seconds we just stood there in awe of a rage we had never seen before
Gary sulked off and climbed in the celica
and so did we
and it seemed to us that he was angrier than we would ever be
but we were wrong
he was showing us the way
and I obediently followed