Knowing not who the father was, Ms. L. got an abortion yesterday. That started him thinking as to whether it was the truck running poorly or the strobing flashes of the farm house lights he was driving by, that made him ponder the facts. If only he could drive away from that funny fog that kept jumping out at him from somewhere. Maybe he should stop somewhere and put together another diversion.
At 'The Bar', she'd been mixing drinks for her father's lounge since she was six; that was when her mother passed away and the cigarette smoke that bumped into the walls there was pink in color. The juke box stills plays a mix of music that was a cross between Willie Dixon and Gustav Mahler. Cachophonic symphonies of blue, albeit, through the distorting filters of crowd din, it was pleasing.
Buzzing back to the
truck we view 'Mr. Observer',
" through America, the talk of love and soul.. oh etc. " , radioed as the oil light on the dash flickered around the dilemma of what's next, the temperature or the generator. Was he really loosing pressure or was he responsible for some gross neglect. She'd said, " don't worry about it ! " .. like these things happen all the time.
" Barfly bums and jailers, smelly love and fakers, " and she had to sing the complaint because everybody thinks that it's alright at 'The Bar'. But two packs of cigarettes a day, lots of coffee, and a memory or two helped her get her job done; but staying clean wasn't easy. Tending to the back woods profiles had its benefits, at least she knew her job and managed to get the patrons to tip well.
The sun just not quite around yet. Colors of raspberry sherbet, unripe limes and some
The same old candle kept flickering in the foreground; adjacent to the all the other gauges she had monitored for years. The flame continued to toy with her ability to balance her internal atmosphere. Looking through the windows into the twilight.. This ice cream sunrise, the fox run maze, and Ms L. in some stark passage into the next day. A pulsating mass of road lodgers. Flesh on flesh, no not really, it's how her gremlins survived. Road ribbons, bends around the corners, faint sliver of a moon showing its face next to a crack on the left rear-view mirror. The dew amended her warped sense of betrayal to a need to exist, which reacted to the 45 mile per hour blur, causing her to quote herself, " Drunk, No Not Enough. Go to 'BurgerLand'... " and watch reality do nothing, and every once and awhile glance up and watch the patrons go stupid on bad news and shitty coffee. It's amazing how many rhapsodies were sung from those solicitous ( " Did you see Geraldo today ? " ) moments at the counter of an eating hole. A cup of coffee, a rolled cigarette, the delirious buzz of chattering paramours and their old friends who don't know, plus the perception of all her real stuff started to cataract her eyes. No tears, just a light fog. She played some voodoo and wished pneumonia chills through all their bodies. Then she realized what caused the women to stand against the wall next to an alley somewhere and solicit a parade of indifference lolling there, a fine selection of humanity we have here. She'd seen shiny and nice teeth diverting a smile before and it really didn't matter what kind of light illuminated them.