Worried on the Avenue.
Should I be worried?
> you haven’t seen bitter.
> well maybe you have.
[via fredlet>
Real world writing [couldn’t have said it better myself.>
This one fits, too.
South Congress is kind of funny place. Rumors travel quickly up and down the street where there’s a quaint mix of old, new, and some even older stuff, too.
I met with one client, had ourselves a plate full of enchiladas, then meandered over to Jo’s for a post-Tex-Mex cup of coffee, warm latte’s frothed just so, sitting the afternoon’s shade, watching the world go by, almost, but not quite, unstuck in time.
I took a fast dash back to the trailer, then came back around again, and headed through the neighborhoods beside South Congress. At one point, I stopped and listened to what turned out to be a bright red cardinal, just singing his little heart out. The fragrance of lavender in bloom, or something similar, that fresh, new cut-grass smell, filled the air. It was warm, but not hot. Humid, but not damp. Breezy, and my hair’s a wreck. Didn’t care much, though.
I cruised back up and down the avenue, picking up a fine, gently used Hawaiian print shirt for the meager amount of $20, at New Bohemia. Then I was angling to meet Bubba and a Virgo at Guero’s for drinks, dinner, and who knows?
Bubba was late. So I sat there and recounted my “Virgo’s and Guero’s Margaritas story,” full of all sort of extra emphasis. Bubba arrived shortly thereafter, and a drink was waiting for him by the time he got to the patio itself. “Kramer was just telling me about tequila at Guero’s, and what effect it has on Virgo’s – and him,” she started to explain, and Bubba picked right up, “three times. One passed out, one went home, and ‘the man’ struck out three times in a row. Yeah, heard if before. Shut up, pops.”
What I do remember was laughing, at some really crude jokes, so hard that my eyes were tearing up. Can’t repeat them here, other than to recall that the humor was scatological, and slid downhill from there. That poor little Virgo girl was just getting distressed at the filth of the humor. But it was funny.
“My dinner tonight was 3 pounds of bacon, cheddar and tequila. What’s for dessert?” Bubba asked, looking at the menu, intimating he wanted some flan. I suggested Amy’s, our Virgo seconded it, and we paid up and left.
One of the “guest” flavors at Amy’s was “Honey Vanilla.” As she sampled some, the Virgo moaned and groaned in sheer ecstasy. “Look, if you’re going to make noise like that, I want to be involved,” I said. “Nuh-huh,” she said, “Guero’s, margaritas and you don’t mix. Remember?”
At the end of the evening, that Virgo was nice enough to bring her convertible to stop in front of the trailer’s step. I was about to launch into the Virgo war stories again, and she stopped me, “Honey, if I wanted you, I’d had you four years ago.”
Good for the ego, eh? [That’s what I like about Texas girls, direct and to the point.>