“But we’re going to make more money, aren’t we? On the beer garden? We got to put down a couple on that, just for luck.”
“You nut. All right. Just for luck.”
That’s the way it went, two or three times a week. And the tip-off was that every time I would come out of a hangover, I would be having those dreams. I would be falling, and that crack would be in my ears.
Right after the sentence ran out, she got the telegram her mother was sick. She got some clothes in a hurry, and I put her on the train, and going back to the parking lot I felt funny, like I was made of gas and would float off somewhere. I felt free. For a week, anyway, I wouldn’t have to wrangle, or fight off dreams, or nurse a woman back to a good humor with a bottle of liquor.
On the parking lot a girl was trying to start her car. It wouldn’t do anything. She stepped on everything and it was just plain dead.
“What’s the matter? Won’t it go?”
“They left the ignition on when they parked it, and now the battery’s run out.”
“Then it’s up to them. They’ve got to charge it for you.”
“Yes, but I’ve got to get home.”
“I’ll take you home.”