found drama

The police are rightfully after me.  After getting out of work at my warehouse job, I got into my 1984 Buick Skylark and jammed over to the local package store.  I tanked up that guzzler and bought myself a pint of Lord Calvert for the drive home.  (Truth be told, I’d been shit-faced since lunch.)  I had to jam out quick though because this ex-girlfriend was wandering her way around the parking lot and I just knew that she’d spotted me.

But I don’t go home first, I decide to make a pit stop at a local watering hole to grab nips off my Lord Calvert in between domestic drafts and some fried shrimp baskets.  I’m not the most popular guy down at this particular joint but there is a woman about my age behind the counter whom I’ve come to understand is pretty fond of me.  (Seriously, every time I order my shrimp basket from her, I manage to get the side of fries at no additional charge.)

Anyway, on my way over, I can barely keep the car inside the lines and I manage to clip a mail box, a lamp post, and scrape up the side some someone’s Cadillac.  (Who drives a Cadillac in this town, anyway?  Jack ass.)  I swing the Buick onto a side street and leave it there, tossing the half-empty Lord Calvert down a storm drain.

I wander into the tavern and put my order in, slipping a wink to the woman behind the bar.  The cops are no doubt out there, looking for me.  (Well, not for me.  For the whoever fucked up that Caddy.)  I try to keep my head together about it.  Get my story straight.

She calls me “honey” and sends a wink back my way.  The shrimp boat is overflowing.

Sure enough, the cops come in and ask around for me.  “You know anything about the Cadillac on Third Street?”  “What about the mailbox?”  I shrug and tell them I’ve been here for a while now and besides, I walked to work and back anyway.  I couldn’t find my keys.  I was drunk when I woke up.  I know better than to drive around when I’m like that.

“Sweetheart” tells them to back off, leave a man to his dinner and come back when they have real proof instead of some lame assumptions about a tipsy crate-slinger…

About Rob Friesel