I toyed with returning to “The Thing Is“. Tonight I’m giving it a shot.
Olsen got started quick tonight. I planned on a conversation that started with “I can’t believe the fucking Cowboys lost again.” or “What the fuck is up with T. Boone Pickins anyways?” or “I still can’t believe they tore down the Dairy Bar.” Instead I got this.
“We’re not driving all the way to Tulsa tonight, just Stillwater. Do you want to start with ‘the fucking thing’ and never get to ‘the thing’ or dive right in?” I asked.
Olsen scanned the roadway for cops. Seeing it all clear he lifted the beer from between his legs straight up to his lips like it was on a wire, took a swig, then ran it back down the wire to it’s hiding place. Somewhere outside a loud cricket Dopplered by the open pickup window like a siren. Olsen oh-shitted.
“You have got to be frickin’ kidding me.” I dropped off the gas pedal and drifted to the shoulder a little to really set the hook. Olsen whipped around full sideways to face me with one elbow on the dash and one on the back of the seat. His head flipping up and down the road he’d just cleared like a windshield wiper.
“Ah fuck. I’m sorry, dude. I don’t even see any lights. Where the hell is he?” I smile, hit the gas, and pull back into the slow lane. “You fucker! For that I just might talk about farts the whole way.”
I turn KXY the rest of the way down–it’s not like you could hear who they were playing anyway with this 2-70 air conditioning going. “Tell me why Karen left you.”
“Not why, dude. Where.”
Word count: 281