By Mario Kladis
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
At the front of the line is a Ford Escort, crowded with a man and four boys. Eyes wide, mouths hanging open, they’re listening to the Bears on the radio. Shane Matthews throws a touchdown. “Hell yeah!” shouts the man, as he high-fives the kids. Their cheers are smothered by the rumbling growl of a souped-up V-8 engine–a red Mustang has swerved around the end of the line. It crawls up alongside the Escort, sunlight sparkling off its windshield and bumpers. The polished hood practically glistens. The Mustang looks like a red bull waiting to charge–you can almost see its right front tire scratching impatiently at the asphalt.
The light turns green, but nobody moves. For five seconds there’s just the hiss of the little boy’s piss hitting the street. Finally somebody honks, and the Escort lurches forward. The boys have forgotten the game; they point and laugh. Two men in a truck slow down and hoot at the impressive stream coming from the small boy.
