|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Grape Nuts. Such, sadly, is not the case. After 50 troubled summers on this old planet, the only thing that can force this worn old transmission into gear is a couple of shots; one is nicotine, the other caffeine. It's true that I'm holding it under one pack a day, but that first one in the morning is critical to all systems go. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
With no more lofty purpose in mind other than finding a cup of steaming black coffee and a chance to suck on a Camel, I searched around for my crusty old Reeboks, tugged on a pair of blue shorts and a tee shirt, and ran a curry comb through the crop of thick red-brown hair my father had once likened to the fur on a rat's nuts. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I paused just long enough to sneak a peek into Cashman's inner sanctum, taking note of the fact that she was even sloppier than me. Garments ranging from the aforementioned well-worn Levis to an unexcitingly small bra were strewn haphazardly about the room. In addition to everything else, she snored. I made a mental note; Brenda Cashman had just turned up with two big negatives on her scorecard. She snored, and she had small boobs. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
It was even more ominous outside than I had anticipated. A grumbling, still distant storm was approaching from the west, and the temperature had plunged a good 30 degrees since our arrival. I headed straight for the small diner where Brenda and I had |
|
|
|
|
|