Sept. 2001: It's raining and I'm pissed. We were lost somewhere in Kentucky (Jackson wanted to take the scenic route). I'd needed to take a leak for over an hour, a box of books was digging into my ribs and the tarp was now nothing more than a sticky, soggy mass of peeling duct tape and a few strands of blue tarp (my father's ropes were as solid as ever, big whoop). The sun had set an hour ago and the batteries were dead in my CB. To make matters worse, I'd never been on more winding, narrow roads in my life and I was certain my co-journeyman had no idea where we were going.
Through either intuition or receptivity to the murderous psychic vibes I must have been transmitting, Jackson wisely pulled over so we could briefly regroup. Although that still, small voice in my heart told me I should get out of the truck and talk to my buddy, the discomfort and frustration kept me firmly planted in my seat (man, why did I quit smoking?). Jackson sheepishly made his way through the rain to my window carrying the rain spattered directions his mom had given him. He grimaced apologetically as he looked at the pathetic bundle in the bed of my truck. The good news: We were only twenty miles from our destination. The bad news: We had to back track in order to find our way. Man I had to piss.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment