It smells of maids and hospitals and sounds of air conditioners and big trucks and I want to have an open schedule and a modest purse and hop from cheap motel to cheap motel writing and observing and meeting people but no, time is tight, life is fast, and we have no permission to spin adrift in the eddies. Dammit.
4 comments:
Very Thompson-esque entry. Excellent!
Freeway traffic sighed through the window like the breathing of an obese man on his death bed. The air conditioner fought in vain against the horrible Kern County air. Everything I touched oozed a slight film of oil and dust, even the white-painted cinder block walls. I sniffed the sheets before crawling into bed and considered sleeping on top with my clothes on but what the hell, I wasn't paying fifty bucks to camp out. If I'd brought some bedding, though, and had a camper shell, I would have camped out, whatever mutant insects emerged from the dessicated bed of Tulare Lake notwithstanding.
Makes me want to go to 'Merica. :)
"Freeway traffic sighed through the window like the breathing of an obese man on his death bed."
This is more like Chandler. You're on a roll! Go, Don, go!
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