I was killing time in an OTA joint because a car dealership proved exceptionally incompetent in servicing my car.
It was a hot day and I sat outside at a picnic table next to graveled alley. Rush was playing on the speakers at a near deafening level.
Rush sucked. My beer sucked. I no longer recall what brand it was. The city sucked. All the world’s a stage and the world sucked, too. It was a Tuesday afternoon and Tuesday sucked as well.
A dented and sagging black sedan pulled up next to me. Two OTA men up front. Two OTA women in back. The passenger door swung open. He couldn’t get out of the car because he was so fat and feeble. The two women got out and came around to assist the man. They were drunk. He was drunk. The driver was probably drunk. He was dropping them off at the joint to get drunk. He would join them later and get drunk with them.
What a relief! Finally, something didn’t suck! After the professional incompetence at the car dealership, here I was in the presence of professional competence when it came to OTA depravity. It felt damn good.
I just hoped to heaven or hell they wouldn’t start talking about Trump or Biden or the hoax of Covid and ruin my sudden good mood.
The three people gimped toward me. They were refugees in an American war of some kind. They made it to a picnic table. They collapsed into the seats. An OTA bartender came out. They all knew each other. The man ordered a beer, one woman ordered a beer, and the other woman ordered a vodka, cream and Crown (Royal). It easily ranked as one of the weirder drink orders I’d ever overheard in OTA country.
The bartender left to fill the orders. The three began talking.
It was coming, some Trump-inspired bullshit…I just knew it…it always does in OTA country these days.
I listened…and…they…started talking about how fucked up they were the night before and here they were drinking the next day and getting fucked up all over again. They yukked it up over that.
It was sweet, sweet depraved music to my ears.