My whiskey
drinking days are over.
That’s what I
told Johnnie, but she wouldn’t listen. Not when the heavy lidded Cherokee girl
kept hittin on me, not when that scrawny white guy with the backwards baseball
cap came swingin at us with a pool cue, shirt soaked with sweat in awkward
places, nipples lookin like he was giving milk.
Not when we were
out in the parking lot, when I said it again. Johnnie’d got slipped something I
think, us out behind the lanes with her pukin her guts out and me pattin her
back and saying I’m sorry over and over.
I told her, but
she wouldn’t listen.
We got her
cleaned up and we went back inside. She broke the pool cue over the white guy’s
head, and I made out with the Cherokee girl. She had a big warm tongue and I
tasted hand-rolled cigarettes.
Come closing
time we headed home. Davey was still good to drive, and I let my head roll over
onto Johnnie’s shoulder.
My whiskey
drinking days are over, I said. There, there, she said.
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