Stevie and I were driving home from work, and we pulled up next to a biker-looking guy in a big, beat-up, black truck. He had a long ZZ Top beard, worn leather jacket, and motorcycle goggles. In the backseat, his large shepherd-mix dog hung its head out the window. He looked like he only drove the truck when he couldn’t ride his Hawg.
And blaring from his speakers: Jump in the Line by Harry Belafonte.
It was deliciously incongruous.