There were two packs of Pyramid Reds,
three packs of Marlboro 100s,
a trendy girl's white knitted cap with a zebra print bow attached,
and a banana flavored ****** scattered across Drew's dashboard.
I met him at Delta,
the restaurant where he worked,
which was more nursing home than modern sock hop.
He lit up,
told me we were bringing denim jackets back,
and then dragged me to pick up a bird feeder for his mom.
"How is um-****, what's her name, rahhh...Rachel?
he asked two stoplights into our journey,

"She's really good, man. Things are just going swimmingly."

"She wants my nuts."
Drew thought every girl wanted his nuts.
It had become a regular catch phrase.
While it was his ritual to begin our talks
inquiring about my girlfriend,
it was mine to ask what the number
of ladies he had slept with was up to.

"Oh, I'm not for sure, baby. Let's see, there were twelve
at the restaurant so far this year-"

"Twelve?"

"Yeah," he said grinning,"my ******* managers had to give me a
talk."

"They gave you a talk for having a bomb *** life?"

"Not exactly. They were telling me to lay off the underage ones.
Lawsuits and **** like that."

"Awesome."
Just then some hefty white woman
with her hair in a bun ran a stop sign and
cut in front of Drew,
he didn't swear,
nor did the jackassery interrupt his flow,
he simply threw up a hard *******,
and continued forward.

"The total is definitely over thirty. Thirty, thirty-five,
somewhere in there."

We stopped at one of those breakfast chains,
that synthesize the ancient all-night diners
of American mythos.
Two for the smoking section,
and we were placed in a corner,
across from a burnt out
workingman,
who smelled of **** and aggression.
Drew chain smoked,
while we both burned through cup
after cup of coffee.
Drew had ****** two of the waitresses
that were on duty,
one came by and chitty-chatted with him.
Her name was Beth.
Someone broke her nose when she was seven,
she had a fella who was a waiter there as well,
both talked to Drew like he was a cousin or
an old high school friend.
Our waitress had blonde hair.
She was twenty-four,
but raising her sister's ******* child,
and supporting her mother on
tips was cutting lines into her
tiny face.
Drew was talking smooth to her,
no doubt he slept with her before the
end of the week.
When she left he said,
"Isn't she sweet?
She's a ******* sweetheart.
Do you think I gotta chance with her?"

"Yeah, man. You're being a real pro."

"I thought so," he said as he took a deep inhale,
then let the smoke glide between his smiling teeth.

Drew waged a political war that lasted 10 cups of coffee
and one pack of cigarettes.
The first casualty was the ******* that drive 350s and don't
have a hitch.
The second was the wealthy.
Glen Beck.
Capitalism.
American ignorance mistaken as patriotism.
Needless to say,
we got along wonderfully.

We talked of old times,
like a couple of old guys,
and I was surprised at how distance
had shaped our views so similarly.

"You're lucky, man. You got yourself a nice girl, all settled n' ****.
All I got is ******. I just **** them, they fall in love,
and I put 'em in their place and go to the next one.
It's ******* sad."

"It's not sad, you just haven't found the right lady, I suppose," I said trying to make him feel lighter.

"Nah, I probably already met her, and just ****** her.
I don't even respect the girls I sleep with enough to
take them back to my place. Most of them I **** behind Delta,
a couple of times by that Walgreens off Kickapoo, Wal-Mart,
Denny's, um **** even behind that Petopia store."

"Behind Petopia? That needs to be the name of your book."