(no subject)
"I don't believe in an interventionist god, but I know darling that you do."
At every gas station in New Orleans, a small phalanx of bums perch vulture like around the tire air pumps. Waiting for any hapless person with a flat tire, their leathery faces and jagged fingers clutch the hose in fervent anticipation. Normally I steer clear of any gas station that has three or more ragamuffins hovering period, but on St. Claude and in the lower 9th anything with less three malodorous bodies in orbit is a rarity. However I had an eight hour drive ahead of me, and my front passenger tire was almost scraping the rim because of a slow leak. In all honesty I can think of worse ways to earn a buck, so I careen into the nearest Shell station with a solitary vagabond vigilant at his post.
At every gas station in New Orleans, a small phalanx of bums perch vulture like around the tire air pumps. Waiting for any hapless person with a flat tire, their leathery faces and jagged fingers clutch the hose in fervent anticipation. Normally I steer clear of any gas station that has three or more ragamuffins hovering period, but on St. Claude and in the lower 9th anything with less three malodorous bodies in orbit is a rarity. However I had an eight hour drive ahead of me, and my front passenger tire was almost scraping the rim because of a slow leak. In all honesty I can think of worse ways to earn a buck, so I careen into the nearest Shell station with a solitary vagabond vigilant at his post.