We drove back into town and I stared out the window at the empty streets. Its
quiet, but that’s nothing unusual. I thought about Bukowski for a minute, and how he was said to be the voice for
the down and out in the big cities. I may not have been to Los Angles, but there was always the story of not fitting
in to small town life.
Maybe it was time for me to start writing about the things I’d seen in my life. Maybe I already had lived at least
a few of the things I wanted to tell people about. Maybe Paul shouldn’t have taken that turn so fast. I threw open
the door with the car still moving.
Paul hit the brakes and skidded to a halt. I puked on the road for a few minutes, then closed to door and we drove
back off into the night.
The next day I went over and had a few drinks with this girl named Abbie. Abbie was cute and pleasant to have around,
besides she was the only other writer I had met who wrote to say something instead of totally trying to appeal
to a market. Her stuff wasn’t great, not that I had read anyway, but who really let’s people read anything before
publication? Guys like me, who might never put anything up for publication aside, you’re left with very few I’m
sure. The thing with Abbie was that at least she was trying to say something. So we drank a few beers and bitched
to each other, leaving the television on and muted.
“I went out the other night with that guy, Gary.” she told me.
“That guy scares me, he doesn’t seem quite right.”
“You’re telling me, we were headed out to the car and all of the sudden, he stops and says, ‘where’s my strap,
yo, where’s my gun?’ He goes back into the house and asks his sister and she tells him he left it in his pillowcase.
Sure enough, he goes into his room and produces a little silver pistol. Him and his buddies were playing around
with it all night, pointing it at each other. I’m all for the right to bare arms and all, but come on.”
“But, it was written regarding muskets, not glocks. If somebody wants to carry around a musket and a bag of gunpowder,
then I say go for it.”
“Want another beer?” Asked Abbie.
“Yeah.”
She got up and went to the kitchen to fetch the beer.
I liked hanging around with Abbie; she carried on a conversation pretty well. Definitely not an eyesore either.
She came back into the room and I stood up, grabbing the beer from her hand. I stood next to her for a minute,
opened my beer and took a long drag of the smoke and blew it in her face. “So when are we going to sleep together,
Abbie?”
“What?”
“Sex. When are you and I going to have sex?”
“You seem to be implying mutual desire.”
“Of course,” I said matter-of-factly. “You like me.”
“As a drinking partner maybe, but not as a sexual encounter.”
“I don’t know about that, I can see it in your eyes.”
“You see the munchies in my eyes, don’t mistake it for a different type of hunger.”
“Are you suggesting the way to a woman’s heart?”
“No, the way to a woman’s stash, you owe me,” Abbie told me, pointing to the beer and smoke in my hands.
I looked down, realizing I was guilty.“All right then, no sex. I’m outta here. What’cha want?”
“Cheeseburger, large Coke.”
Bursting out the door, I hopped down the steps and into my car. She’d crack one day, I was sure of it. I was laying
on the charm good and thick. Never mind that she showed no signs of giving in yet, if I gave it time she’d come
around.
My car started up first try, it didn’t look like much but it always started right up. The car had been running
poorly lately but what do you expect when it’s not taken care of properly? I tried to ignore the knocking and squealing
as much as I could.
I bumped down the gravel driveway and onto the road. I managed to get to the fast food drive through without incident,
but as I pulled up to put in my order; a cop car pulled in behind me. I figured I had been lucky he wasn’t behind
me on the road. I drove up to the window and when the cop had put in his order, he settled in behind me and turned
on his blue lights.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, dumbfounded at being pulled over while I wasn’t even moving. I pulled the out-of-state driver’s
license out of my wallet and handed it to the approaching officer. He looked at it puzzlingly for a second and
then handed it back to me.
“Mr. Barrows, do you have any idea why I stopped you?” He asked me.
“No, sir.” I said, trying to blow my alcohol reeking breath away from his face and shifting the beer bottle in
the seat next to me, to be sure it was out of sight.
“Well, sir, it seems you have a flat tire.”