Ryan wheeled the Oldsmobile into the gravel lot of the warehouse, his eagerness met with sliding tires and a rainbow of pebbles outside the passenger window. Peter noticed each detail with slow-motion precision, given that Ryan’s maneuver had pinned his forehead to the window.

Ryan bravely drove to the head of the lot, until he realized no one had left a sufficiently inhuman amount of space in which to park the Olds. Peter often wondered how streets, narrow and crowded today, would have been forty years ago when every car was at least fifty percent larger than today’s models. Momentarily frustrated, Ryan jerked the column shifter into reverse and hastily backtracked.

He parked hurriedly at the end of a row. “Ready?” he asked, one foot already out the door.

Peter followed silently. The two made final adjustments to suit, tie and hair as they reached the service door. Ryan knocked deliberately, answered by silence. He cleared his throat.

“Cactus. Venom. Rodeo.”

They stood, motionless. Nothing happened.