Jul 18, 2014
Before Buttercup could cipher his way through this unexpected set of circumstances, Delicacy Smoke had pulled up and opened the passenger door to her Buick. Almost as if she was waiting for me to tell her I had something she might want to know about. We pulled out of the Breezy’s parking lot before I could close my door. When I did, I could see in the passenger side mirror my former suitors discussing whether or not to follow us.
"Would you like to know where we’re going?," she said.
"I’m just glad to sit down."
"Tell me this, Mr. Tracker. Are you just playing through … or just playing?"
My black and white golf shoes were attracting more attention than a cushion seller at a hemorrhoid conference. And they were just starting to feel comfortable.
"I’m breaking them in. For a friend."
"What else would you do for a friend?"
"We’ll have to get you to be a little more giving of yourself, won’t we?"
"You’ll see, Mr. Tracker. You’ll see. And so will we."