”#&%* off!” I screamed, throwing the tire iron and sucking on my bloody knuckles. The tire iron clanged off the highway and tumbled into the ditch, scattering pebbles.

“Patience and fortitude conquer all things, Emerson said that.”

“Shut up James. I bet #& *ing Fallout Boy doesn’t change their own #x%x %$ing flats! Why don’t you do this.?”

“Course they don’t. They have, like, roadies and stuff. They don’t even carry their own guitars on stage.” James said from his seat at the rear of the van, playing his guitar, and carefully changing the subject, I noted.

“Dude! What’s the racket?” Greg crawled out one of the only two functioning doors on the van. “I was trying to get some frickin shut eye before it’s my turn to drive. Edmonton’s a long way still y’know?”

“Yeah and our frickin four leaf clover aint bringin us no luck, we’ll probably have 7 more flats you can sleep through ‘fore then.”

“The Road Not Taken.” James interjected.

“Yeah, so what?”

“Nothing. It’s just my favorite poem.”

“Shut up.”