Lilith and the rice rocket driver

"Now that's what I want, that shirt!" the ginger haired haole guy with the rice rocket said, coming home from work, a bottle of Coke and plastic bag of what was left of lunch in one arm, cigarette in the other hand. "If we could just have him back." I was wearing my blue "Obama '08 shirt," now a sign of the resistance, as I told him. He had tatts, and spoke with a strong Pidgin-inflected accent. His white souped up car had been a VW with Mercedes rims, if I remembered correctly. Today it had no markings, though a logo vaguely resembling BMW was stamped on the hub caps. (They can't be hub caps; I simply don't know the lexicon.) The front grill was gone; his car is obviously a work in progress. He walked toward his front door loudly proclaiming he didn't know why _anyone_ would want someone who talks like that as president. During one of his gestures, his cigarette fell near his front door. I didn't notice if he picked it up or lit another, but soon he was back out near the side walk, waving a lit cigarette. "I juss don't get it. They all watch FOX. What's with these fuckahs who are obsessed with him?" he asked, rhetorically, as his right arm so swept forward and to the side. "Remember Megyn Kelly?" he asked me. "Remember she asked him about calling women horrible names? And then he said, only about Rosie O'Donnell." My neighbor looked stricken. "He just doesn't talk like a president. I hate him. Can you believe people are buying guns now? The second amendment--that was all about slavery." Our final exchange was about Trump's possibly cancelling the election. Then he walked to his front door with one last "ho, but" and Lilith and I continued on our walk.