“I think I can, I think I can, I think-therefore-I-am, I can.” She flexed her toes in the sand and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “They taught us that in elementary school, remember? Never told us about that other stuff. The little train and Descartes and whatnot.”
“What little train?”
“Exactly.”

I knew she was still angry at me for paying for my hot dog and her tofu burger with a credit card. She was one of those aware people- the kind who record those political shows where you can’t hear hardly nothing save for them screaming at each other. She read the newspaper then saved it for her art projects.

“Okay, you start.”
“Am I still McCain?”
She gave me a hard look. “You think I’d be McCain?”
“I don’t want to be McCain anymore.”
“You make a good McCain, dearest. Now start off with discretionary spending and your Medicare theory.”

I wanted to go home.