The Other Shoe

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Three of us rode north in my 2002 Camry. Sometimes it felt too small, but having recently been in a Volvo from the eighties, I was forced to concede that cars had gotten a lot roomier since the time of ALF. Wil and David (never Dave) didn't feel the same need to talk that I did and so I ended up talking at them, while they nodded and shrugged from time to time. Wil was a year older than me and David nine years younger but they had both been my friends for a long time, about equally really, considering the hiatus Wil had taken while he was married.

The trip thus far had been relatively smooth with little traffic. Construction crews blocked off large parts of the highway but there weren't enough people to cause much more than a minor slow down. During the rest of the drive, I had been able to keep the cruise control set at seventy-six mph and none of us had needed any of the rest stops. Peeing was done when we stopped for gas.

Flashing lights appeared in my rear view mirror, and as I got over, so did they.


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