I leave, staring at my hand like a deer stares into headlights. Something about the way he squawked rubbed me the wrong way, and somehow I didn’t think we would be meeting in the park at night behind the gents. My mind raced, and so I hit the streets trying to clear the whirlwind of thoughts that were eating at me. “Ah dame…?” I mouthed, the bitter taste making me dry-heave, “from California?”
I took to the nearest bar, and spotted a gray Prius parked outside. I shook my head in disgust at the antithesis of Texan virtue; an automobile beholden to no single man nor wolf, like a cowboy without a drinking problem. What was happening to the world?
“He… he asked me to just do my job, Jim” I say to the bartender. He’s supposed to be serving me a drink and listening to my troubles, but he’s actually watching the Fox news report whilst polishing the same glass over and over. Jim gets it. Talking it out with Jim’s dishrag, I realize that maybe I need to reclaim some of karma I lost along the way whilst doing this job. I need to restore my honor.
I stumble out into the street, grab a jerrycan of premium Texan gasoline, and pour it into the inlet socket of the Prius. Karma restored, I whistle a merry tune and do a cowboy strut over to the bus since I live one state over.