A few observation in and around the suburbs over the past few months.

Mattress on the side of the highway on fire and two men watching it burn in the shoulder. Pickup truck with a bed full of about 300 watermelons. A dented, banged up, rusted ice cream truck on a flat bed toe truck. And to top it off, at Wendy’s a person’s gender I could not tell. Black person with this tiny, barely audible voice shrouded in a soft lisp. There were no discernable breasts to be seen at all, but a significant amount of arm hair. The nametag read, “Toni.” The only possible giveaway was the hair: brown and straight, pulled back, long, tied in a red scrunchie. The hair looked female, only a girl could have hair like that, but yet the voice, arms, and chest indicated male.