39 HOTYS cont.

The racket broke the camel’s spine. If Uncle Joe had hesitated about seeking payback and coffee in San Anselmo, the blending screeches through John’s open windows upstairs gave him the precipitating nudge. What the m.f.? Why was he blowing money on blenders and noodles? Screw him, spat Uncle Joe. Then he checked the one and only window he ever washed on his defeated Oldsmobile. It served as nearly a full length mirror for catching himself, if vaguely, from crotch to headband. Cool, he thought, right for making the Plip Plop Coffe Shop. The rear passenger window showed Uncle Joe had the Def Leppard attitude locked. F___ the 90s, f___ Y2K, f___ the new century and what it’s turned into. Uncle Joe felt he was heart and soul a juke box hero: Foreigner rules! H Uncle Joe wore slim black jeans – like the Crue, cool all the time – and a black sleeveless t-shirt, solid front, TOTAL LOSS dyed candy apple red on back, and Docs, black going without saying, all conspicuously weary and worn but not shredded. And dark shades that Jimmy gave him, Jimmy from Union City who had colors and rode, to pay for some pot.
Uncle Joe walked out of the gemstone of San Anselmo neighborhoods and kicked rocks as he walked along the ditch between Center and San Anselmo Avenues instead of using the sidewalk.
“‘If I go there will be trouble, if I stay it will be double,'” he snarled, clashing in perpetuity.

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One Response to “39 HOTYS cont.”

  1. Peter Smith Says:

    “…from crotch to headband…” This keeps getting better.

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