It was just a day, like any other day. I was driving through town, between the hours of 3 and 5, weekdays, and found myself pulling into the Sonic drive-thru. I ordered the usual: large diet Coke with lime, 96 cents please pull forward. And then something went terribly, horribly wrong.
He emerged, blinking, out of the Sonic building. Slightly pudgy. Pasty white. Greasy dark hair. Post-pubescent acne. A fast food by-product. The coin dispenser jingled at his side as he skated by on his Heelies, my drink in one hand, the receipt in the other. It wasn't until he mistakenly stopped at the car in front of me, that I saw it. His tattoo.
There, tattooed down the inside of his right forearm were the words . . .
"c'est la vie"
I grabbed my Coke and took off as fast as I could, not even waiting for my 4 pennies change, the words tattooed into my brain.
C'est la vie, carhop boy.