Right around quitting time on Friday afternoons, Scary Barry personally hand-delivered everyone’s paycheck.  Scary Barry was always warmly received on Friday afternoons.

     I was out in the parking lot in no time, ready to hop in my truck and haul ass.  Spence had parked next to me.  He drove an old beat-up AMC Hornet.  It was a sad sight.

     Especially since he couldn’t get it started.

     I watched him fruitily turn the ignition key fruitlessly ten times in a row.  The engine failed to catch.  He kept turning that poor starter over and over and over, and then by coincidence his battery died.

     I tapped on his rolled-up window.  He looked relieved to see me.

     “Pop your hood, Spence,” I said, before he could say something stupid.  He got out, and we both looked at his motor.  It was a mess. 

     Since he had killed his battery with his earlier attempts to start this relic, I got out my super-long super heavy-duty jumper cables, and ran them from my battery to his.

     “Try it now, Sp-Sp-Spence,” I sprayed at him.

     He got in and turned the ignition.  The problem was immediately evident.  The flexible tubing that supplied gasoline to his carburetor had sprung a leak, and fuel was spewing everywhere.

     “You need a new fuel hose,” I instructed.

     “Can you give me a ride to get one?” He had a lot of guts.

     “Sure,” I said.  “Let’s cash our checks first, so I don’t have to buy it for you, too.”

     We were off.

     We cashed our checks at the nearest liquor store.  I talked Spence into buying a twelve-pack of beer for my troubles, and went outside to wait for him in my truck.  “My truck” is a 1978 Ford F-250 Supercab 4-wheel drive mud puppy.  It’s big and attracts a lot of attention.  I like to keep my eye on it.

     Well, what do you know, it attracted some attention all right.  A fine young Dallas prostitute’s attention.

     “Ya want a blow job, honey?” she asked me, smacking her lips.

     “What’s in it for me?” I replied (testily).

     She obviously didn’t expect this response.  Her jaw dropped, and her mouth fell open.  Was this a demonstration of her talents?

     Spence jumped in, slamming the door (the creep).  I bid ado to the businesswoman at my side, and we tore on out of there.

     The route to the closest auto parts store called for a brief ride down I-75, better known as Central Expressway.  This stretch of two-lane highway that intersects the heart of Dallas, Texas is a driver’s nightmare, and is (in)famous for its tremendous traffic jams.

     And now, thanks to Spence Cummings, I had to drive down Central Expressway, in the middle of rush hour, on a Friday afternoon!

     At least I had some beer…

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