I work better with my hat on.
The roads are all a blur and my hands a shaking fit. Cigarette, lighter, wheel, window, volume. I sing along to Dinosaur Jr., the Green Mind album, and continually ash the seconds-old cigarette in my left hand. "Baby, why don't we...Baby, why don't we...", goes the hook and flick-flick-flick goes my left hand. This song has something to do with inviting someone to get in a wagon and asking them what coast they had in mind. Wagons on water? Get the fuck out.
The music fades and my eyes squint as smoke pours from the cigarette clenched in my lips. Brake, shift, seatbelt, window, lock. I flick my cigarette and trade my sunglasses for my hat. This is almost over, I willfully lie.
The sounds of the time clock play me out again.
The music fades and my eyes squint as smoke pours from the cigarette clenched in my lips. Brake, shift, seatbelt, window, lock. I flick my cigarette and trade my sunglasses for my hat. This is almost over, I willfully lie.
The sounds of the time clock play me out again.