I hadn’t seen Farrell or Jessica since I returned from Canada more than a month before, I was halfway through a pint of beer and talking with Farressica, Farrell’s dad and Zachary Tubb at Lilly’s Pizza on Glenwood Avenue.
And where was I? I was on the sidewalk, near some dumpsters, struggling to hear what was being said on the other line.
The beer was calling to me. And the pizza. But someone else had called, too and she was telling me all about her assignment.
The story was riveting, but I caught myself thinking about how badly I wanted to get back to the table. I fought it for several minutes, but I was ready to return to my beer.
And then there it was: a white convertible Mazda Miata.
It pulled up to the curb, but for whatever reason didn’t pull up into the definitive parking space behind a white Suburban.
The boy in the driver’s seat attempted to crank the car again, but it stalled.
“Hell,” I thought, “It’s a Miata. I could throw that thing over my shoulder and carry it the 10 feet forward into its proper parking space.” Continue reading