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Posted on 02/21/2020 6:07:10 PM PST by SamAdams76
“Damn those complicated drive-in orders,” muttered Peter Plant as he sat three cars back at the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through waiting to get his one medium black coffee as the lime green Ford Fiesta up at the window had bag after bag handed through the window and now finally came the drinks on brown styrofoam trays. What looked like an excitable pre-teen girl was bouncing up and down in the shotgun seat while the head of a heavily panting golden retriever stuck out of the open window in the backseat. On the back window was one of those obnoxious yellow decals announcing “baby on board” along with a fading “26.2” sticker on the bumper, implying that the driver ran a marathon at one time, no doubt before they started eating bags of donuts and bagels.
Finally the rusted out Fiesta rolled forward and hung a lazy right onto Route 11, drawing an annoyed honk from a black Nissan Murano that had to suddenly slow down to avoid a sure collision. Now the next car to pull up to the drive-through was too far away from the window, forcing the driver, a squat, obviously overweight woman, to open her driver door so she could hand over her payment and collect her bags of food and tray of drinks.
“Goddamn these inconsiderate bastards with their complicated orders, they should be going inside” muttered Peter, “All I want here is one medium black coffee”
It was 48 degrees that Sunday morning in Scranton, PA, a very common temperature in that gritty town from about November to March and it was still early November and so a lot of chilly 48 degree days ahead. The skies were grey, spitting out rain which threatened to turn into a torrent at any time with perhaps a little sleet mixed in towards the end, according to the budding meteorologists at Penn State over in State College, each of which had a website and a Twitter feed dedicated to their amateur forecasts which were accurate, well, about 48% of the time. Not too much worse of a track record than the big boys at the local TV stations, to tell you the truth.
It was still only about 10am and so Peter still had an hour to kill before the liquor stores opened up. This was important to Peter because he had promised his new girlfriend Sandra, a part-time waitress he met at the Applebees bar a few weeks ago after a messy divorce and with whom he was now living with to his growing regret, that he would restock her mother’s liquor cabinet, which was pretty much the way they paid the rent.
Sandra’s mother, Dolores, was the landlord of the run-down three-decker on South Irving Ave and a toothless drunk to boot. She held court on the first floor in darkened rooms, window shades drawn 24/7 and a crappy 17” TV blaring whatever passed for daytime TV - game shows, soap operas and talk shows where a bunch of unmarried overweight woman constantly shout at each other. This fare suited Dolores just fine as she sipped on her vodka and gin, always mixed with tonic water - which in her eyes, made it a health drink. By prime time, she would be passed out on the couch, snoring like a lumberjack, with the powdery remnants of the cheese curls she ate around her lips, on her filthy housedress and all around the couch, floor and coffee table in front of her.
Fortunately, Dolores did not have a taste for top-shelf liquor so Peter and Sandra were able to pull from the bottom shelf store-brand vodka and gin that were oversized and dirt cheap.
With the turgid prose, I thought maybe it was "a dark and stormy night" until I got to this.
It’s hard to be inconspicuously overweight.
(My BMI is 21 on the button.)
A image of a 130 year old Triple Decker would fit better.
That sounds like a relationship I was in around '87-'88.......and eff you if you're a Freeper and you're reading this, you know who I am, and I'd still like to piss in your car's gas tank and shoot your cat, you cheating, lying, psychopathic slut.
So you still have feelings for her?
Gee, I thought my luck was bad having a prostate biopsy performed by a wanna-be matador.
Yes, I’d like to feel that she drove into a bridge abutment at high speed. I literally came about fifteen minutes away from marrying that python. That’s what happens when fantastic sex clouds your judgement. Now, two marriages later myself, I hope she got what she was looking for. Good and hard.
Dolores, Dolores, what rhymes with Dolores....
Been there.
You Whoress?
You beat me to the punch!
Licorice? Ponderous? Dangerous? Ford Taurus? There might be one more.
And damn those run-on sentences.
I liked “...with whom he was now living with...”, myself.
You have to finish the vacuuming before you start drinking.
As Churchill said, “that is something up with which I cannot put.”;-)
You know what they say:
“Crazy in the head, crazy in the bed”
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