another pig bitch
There are more cubic feet in a given volume than you might think. If you look at something that you think is probably ten cubic feet, it's really going to be more like 20.It was with this in mind that I gave up trying to guess how many cubic feet of freezing cold air there were between the keys in the pocket of my pants on my legs and my little Volvo down the hill and just said, "Hm?" because someone was speaking to me. The buildings stood there next to us, forming the walls of a little canyon in the 4 am cold. Their sides had been made into trapezoids by perspective.
The someone who had been speaking proved to be Walter, one of his feet still on the pavement. The rest of him was inside his '77 Ford Bronco, and the Bronco was puffing mightily.
"Want me to drive you down there?" he asked.
"Okay."
I started to fall ass-first into it and then gave a little hop to launch myself into the seat.
It's comforting, sometimes, when one gets into a vehicle, to be able to see one's destination. If it's just right over there, what could go wrong? Any dangers between here and there are likely in plain view.
My hand throbbed from beating the congas with the boys over at the Saloon. Congas are fucking murder on the hand, particularly when you're whacking the shit out of them because you're a buffoon and it's late and the beers are free.
"Amanda never did call me back" I told Walter, as he pulled up next to my car.
"Pig bitch" he said.
I feel best when I am playing some sort of musical instrument.
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