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Drive By Trucking After Tuesday's Gone
by Cesca Janece Waterfield No wine, no cigarettes, and the fuckin paperboy was out again, who knows. Tuesday sighed and sat down at the computer, scrambling for a Natty Sherman, remembering from smoke the one from Temple Crest who had taken her account of living with a Wayne Gacy conspirator and delivered it like a pizza to people who phoned it in. She felt so damned nostalgic, everytime she thought about those times. She'd shared the written account of the two month experience with him out of love, out of a distracted and anxious attempt to reconcile the months she prayed were past. Baby, what do you think… Eh… Have a drink. He didn't know what she knew. So he sent it to his old chum at Associated Press. From under her fingers, a carnival lackey had refused his own advice. Just ask, Tuesday. Anything, for you. For you. He sent her pain down the pipeline so his buddies could head south, get their hands dirty, and yet keep their masticating maws unspoiled. The lovely new couple had stumbled in drunkenly one night in November, laughing. Oh, finally laughing, she thought, not thinking. Finally, re-arranging the voices in her head, thanks to the love of a good man. He pressed play on the answering machine, play being his area of expertise. They groped in his hokey kitchen. A message, mid-chew: Damn, man! Your new girl's account reads crazy! I'm obsessed with that guy. See what you can learn. I'm doing a thing on snipers now. Drive bys. Now, that's cool… Back
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