The Big Boobed Woman (113)
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There were two choices in St.Johns, next door to each other on Commercial Street, Whiting Motel or a less expensive hotel. John suggested the less expensive, but I said Whiting.
“I’ll put the first night on a credit card, the other nights we can divide after cashing our checks.”
John asked if there was a Mexican restaurant in town.
“There’s the El Camino.”
Charlie told him and reeled off directions.
“But it is quite a hike from the hotel. Katy’s Kountry Kitchen is closer, just a short walk down the road from the hotel.”
I got us a room. Inside Whiting we exchanged high-fives until our hands were raw. John had gotten the “tainted” CD out of the Jeep.
“I asked Rick about the journal on the ride to the hotel. Rick just told me they would let us go free if we told them where we’d bought the pot,” said Mark.
I was offended by the narc-proposition, and told Mark he should’ve told Rick where to stick it.
“I didn’t give him a reply.”
I cursed the man and anybody who would have taken him up on the offer. John agreed. He went to the toilet to dispose of the contraband. Mark stopped him. He asked if he could have the good hit.
“It shouldn’t be wasted—if we know it’s good.”
John thought he was kidding at first. Mark asked me if I minded him taking it back to Georgia.
“It’s no big deal—acid is easy to hide, like we decided in jail, because dogs can’t smell it,” I said.
John let Mark have the good hit. By seven we were hungry for a run for the border, but El Camino would have to fit the bill. We followed Charlie’s directions to El Camino, and stopped on the way at a place called Mickey’s to ask if we were close, or if it was really far away like Charlie said. We went into the little building. Inside a tipsy woman with big boobs and drooping eye corners approached us and attempted to make a funny comment. We asked her where the El Camino was, and a couple people pointed and said it was next door.
“But don’t drink the water,” the woman said.
We left the bar and walked to the El Camino, where we ate half-rate Mexican food: me a Navajo Taco with red sauce, John a Chimichanga, and Mark what sounded like prison food, with green sauce. It all tasted like prison food. When finished we paid and left. The hotel was not far away.
“Charlie probably isn’t used to walking past his mailbox to pick up the newspaper, which he only uses to whip his dog,” I said.
On the way back to Whiting, on White Mountain Road, we went into Mickey’s for a beer. Inside were a couple of tables with chairs around them, and an L-shaped bar. On the long side of the bar were a couple big haired chicks on stools and a guy with a redneck beard, threads to match. They were shooting darts on an electronic dartboard and listening to country music from the jukebox in the corner. Two empty pool tables were in a room on the other side of the bar, past the short side of the L. Before the passage to the pool room, sitting on a stool on that part of the bar, was the big-boobed woman. We each got a beer at the bar and took to a table. The woman came over.
Me At The Stoplight
“If experience were to a human being like a transmission is to a car, what would happen if you lost your experience? Unlikely as it sounds, it is a condition that can exist. I had been operating from this neuropsychological state since 1987, but I wouldn’t even begin to realize it until after 1993 while I was attending the University of Georgia, a Drawing and Painting major and member of a social fraternity.”
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
