The Doctor sits outside slowly stirring coffee, watching young legs walk on in knee highs and pressed plaid. His version of jazz plays on the cafe speakers. His sun spins the jeweled face of his watch into a sidewalk kaleidoscope. His wrought iron table wobbles in neat sync to his tapping feet. His wife is on the Cape for the week. His kids are down the shore with the nanny. His babysitter stayed late last night.

He steadies his latte or mocha or whatever and grins. “Life is patent leather shiny!” he briefly sings while watching Norman’s Nova barrel towards him in slow motion.

The Nova hops the curb to crush the coffee. Two hot Catholic school girls get caught in the mosh. Norman vomits when his nose breaks against the steering wheel when the Nova throws most of the Doctor through the cafe window. The stench of scotch and anchovy makes Norman sick a second time. His last thoughts before joining Janice and Jimi are of his wife’s endless fucking stories about the spaceman faces on Mars.