(no subject)
Down at the Flying J; Cleb, alcoholic, kept interrupting the meeting.
“My names Cleb, alcoholic,” he’d say.
Or he’d say: “that’s what I mean,” and interrupt whoever was talking. Right now it was Mary P., real alcoholic, and she was telling about cleaning up her side of the street.
Cleb would just interrupt.
The Flying J was a meeting in a truck stop some twenty miles into Kentucky. It had been started so truckers passing through could stop by a meeting. That was the intent anyway.
Cleb was ruining it for everyone.
Cleb’s breath reeked of booze.
Cleb, alcoholic, needed a Spiritual remedy.
I decided to text message Spiritual.
DUDE, I NEEDD YOU TO GET OVER HERE
WHY, COCKSUCKER?
YOU”LL SEE
WHERE ARE YOU?
THE FLYING J
I got up to go to the bathroom, and to gamble on a slot machine. Spiritual pulled up, and I told him about Cleb.
“Hmm,” said Spiritual, “I didn’t bring my Chinese kitchen knife.”
“Well,” I said, “I saw a few tire knockers over by the CB accessories.”
“I’ll spring for it,” I said to him.
I picked up a Barjan tire knocker, and a piece of beef jerky. Spiritual said he wanted a Rockstar.
“Cool,” I said.
We went back into the meeting. Cleb was talking, again.
“That’s him,” I whispered to Spiritual, “that’s Cleb.”
Spiritual silently walked over to Cleb with the Barjan tire knocker. He swung back, and the metal sleeve of the club slipped off and hit me in the temple. I crashed into a cup of coffee. My chin squashed a package of half and half.