Hit Me with Your Best Soup

Stepping out of the car this morning at the gas station (happy to get a brief respite from the pungent smell of tomato soup that Tim carries with him every morning; a smell-scarf he wraps around his head before he leaves the house), I walked past an enormous tan-colored Chevy Suburban with Wyoming plates idling in the parking space in front of the little convenience shop.

In the driver's seat was a burly, cowboyish fellow, late thirties/early forties. Wafting from the vehicle, like the smell of soup off of a Tim, was Pat Benetar's "Hit Me with Your Best Shot."

I went into the little shop and bought some window washing fluid. I paid and then made my way back to my car, all the while being implored to "fire away-ay!"

While I was filling the reservoir under the hood, I had a chance to hear most of the song. When it finally faded away, I waited with pronounced interest to find out what this guy would be listening to at full volume next. To my surprise, it was Pat Benetar's "Hit Me with Your Best Shot."

I finished refilling the fluid in my car, closed the hood, and crawled back into the driver's seat where I was greeted with a nearly palpable rush of soup. (what IS that, anyway?)