“Hold on, buddy.” The old Impala weaved through traffic like some oversized yacht cutting between skiffs, leaving them in its wake. “Just a bit longer.” At the wheel, Joe looked like he might burst into laughter. “Almost home.”
I crouched out of the wind in the backseat to avoid any possible splatter from Frank. Frank, all six feet of his lanky frame, rode shotgun in front, half-curled against the door, head lolling out of the open window, moaning like he could upchuck at any moment. Someone blew a horn, and Joe slipped between two slower cars and down the exit ramp to W Street. We headed west to Myrtle Grove.
“Kinda like driving in Saigon,” Joe said. He glanced back, flashing a grin, and then his eyes settled briefly on Frank. He shifted, became more determined, muscles setting, stubby hands gripping the wheel with ease and efficiency. At five and a half feet, give or take, Joe looked like a shipping box with stumpy legs, strong and durable. The thing about Joe, laughter and good times were his preferred mode of operation. Usually laid back and content, Joe changed some when it came to friends and their well-being. You could see the concern creep into his eyes.
Note:
The full story can be consulted in the New Romance print issue
Bookmark/Search this post with:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
