You're going, too. So, I did, and we left in Galliano Gayle's Buick with her driving and Flea, the tape-player operator, beside her on the other side of the front seat. I took every beer in my refrigerator, probably out of fear I'd never return, and sat in the back behind Galliano Gayle, Freddy behind Flea, the Shrew between us, her leg next to mine. We tooled up the interstate, drinking beer from sacks at our feet and singing along with the Rolling Stones and Credence Clearwater Revival. They played it for me, I was sure.
Nobody gets more pussy than musicians.
Pussy and music, I thought. I started picking an imaginary guitar. Flea turned down the dial, and the music stopped, both real and imagined. Ahead of us an empty highway disappeared beyond the reach of the headlights. Around us the waning moon glimmered from the surface of a swamp on both sides of the road.