one hundred twenty-three. [Throughway Blues.]
The toll booth looms ahead in a puddle of light. “This is why I hate New York,” mutters Gabriel. “Do you have the ticket?”
Ira has his feet propped up on the dashboard. He hides a yawn behind one hand and leans forward to pull the ticket out of his pants pocket. “Ohio’s just as bad,” he says brightly, “If you take the turnpike.”
The car slows to a stop. Gabriel scowls, watching a flurry of cars pass in the next lane. “Why do we always get the slow tolls?” he asks - rhetorically, although it’s still surprising that Ira doesn’t answer.
Ira has his feet propped up on the dashboard. He hides a yawn behind one hand and leans forward to pull the ticket out of his pants pocket. “Ohio’s just as bad,” he says brightly, “If you take the turnpike.”
The car slows to a stop. Gabriel scowls, watching a flurry of cars pass in the next lane. “Why do we always get the slow tolls?” he asks - rhetorically, although it’s still surprising that Ira doesn’t answer.