“Where’s your musica?” he says to me.“Somebody ripped it off last week.”
“No shit?”
“Nope.”
“Dag. You call the cops?”
Then we both laugh and now Ernesto’s got his Post and I’ve got my 75 cents.
“The Torpedo without its musica...damn, Ellie, what’s it all about anyway?”
And what can I say to that except what I always say?
“The world’s on fire, Ernie. I’m just an over the hill ham and egger watching it burn,” except sometimes I’ll say “pugilist” and stick a couple right jabs in the air, maybe a combo, and almost always hear that old bell ring. But my spine still feels like a jackhammer’s been waltzing up and down it, so I save those antics for another day.
Ernesto raises his cup and fades around the corner, off to grease up the Gravitron, into the dirty morning sea-fog, scar and all.
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