| Home, finally. Joe threw his keys on the table and cracked open the fridge. Beer, cheese, bread, leftover chicken: supper. He’d written up the orders and put them on the boss’s desk after the old man left for the day. This risked earning ire first thing in the morning, but it was just as likely he'd be in a miserable mood tomorrow. Cranky because he was hungover at 8 or cranky because he was sober at 6. You could get him before lunch, but he’d be hungry. Afterwards he’d have gas. There was a sweet spot around 2:55, but it took a keen eye and a Nordin bombsight to hit it. He turned on the radio, but paid it no attention. Ate dinner with the sports section. Done; a deep satisfying belch; another beer. This one foamed fast, which gave him an excuse to drink half of it at once. Ahhhh. So what's the worst he can do? He gets aggravated, that's how it is. Take your licks and go back to work. Joe lit a cigarette. Looked at the matchbook he got from the newsstand. Huh. Yes sir, I’d like to meet an infinite woman on Joy Street. He liked the middle one, but she’d be trouble. Miss Joy Street, though, you could bring home to mom. But watch out for her sister, Miss Floodtide. He peered at the copy. What the hell was the price no man could pay? And what would be the point of asking it, for that matter? No, you’re better off with the Pagan Cult of Love gal. Bring a goat for the sacrifice, she’s happy. Bring two, impress her mother. He finished the beer and flicked the book across the table. Why am I sitting here all by myself in this freezing house? Because it’s Wednesday night. But it’ll be Saturday soon enough; how long since I had a date? Am I going to spend another weekend putting back Carlings at the Five o’Clock? Probably. He took another drag. Didn’t sound that bad, when you thought about it. If you were celebrating something. Hell, even if you weren't. |
|
||
|
|
|||
 |
this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home