“My friend’s getting divorced, and he’s really drunk,” says the bartender...
August 27th, 2008
“Son of a bitch, you’re running up the meter!”22 comments
August 20th, 2008
"Hey bro, remember me? You wrote that story about me in the paper."3 comments
August 13th, 2008
“It’s the Californians, man, the Californians are the worst.”14 comments
August 6th, 2008
The middle-aged man I picked up at Vendetta is in a hyperactively verbose lather ...0 comments
July 23rd, 2008
When I step into the obese old woman's apartment5 comments
July 16th, 2008
The obese old woman at Fred Meyer has a bad hip and a wheelchair...8 comments
July 9th, 2008
“...I need to take a shower first and wash all of this blood off.”6 comments
July 2nd, 2008
“So I’ve got these two women in the back of my cab who just refuse to get out...”8 comments
June 18th, 2008
There’s nothing like a good Friday night, and I’m referring to the money.3 comments
June 11th, 2008
The old man in the karaoke bar’s parking lot insists that he doesn’t need any help...0 comments
[June 25th, 2008]
“My friend’s getting divorced, and he’s really drunk,” says the bartender as she leans through the passenger window. “Please don’t take advantage of him.” I glance over at the stumbling drunk being helped out the door. “I promise he won’t vomit.” Well, at least she can read my mind.
“Can he talk?”
The guy laughs and burbles out something that ends in “talk.” I look back to the bartender, and she smiles, and she’s cute, and I shrug and ask the guy where he’s headed. A muffled “53rd and Powell” comes back, and that’s enough to take the trip.
When we get to 52nd and Powell I ask him for further directions and receive no response. I look back, and am unsurprised to see his eyes rolled back into his head. I pull into the nearby Plaid Pantry and rouse him with a gentle shake.
“So, where we going?”
“53rd and Powell,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, we’re there. Now what?”
“Take me to 53rd and Powell.” The conversation continues on in this vein for a few minutes before I give up and call the bartender. She doesn’t know the address. His driver’s license is from another state.
“Just let me out here,” he keeps saying, and I really don’t want to until I notice a large blossom of dampness spreading across the crotch of his jeans. That’s 50 bucks and a hell of a clean-up, so I finally take his credit card and leave him to his fate. He refuses to take a receipt.
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