He seemed like a nice-enough dude; an ex-boxer-turned-salesman. (Lord only knows what it was he was selling.) We got along royally whenever he wasn’t talking. I’m sure he had great things to say, but frankly I could never understand him. At first I thought it was the thickness of his accent, but then I realized that he most likely had suffered quite a bit of brain damage from his years in the ring.
I’m not the materialistic type, but I will admit that one of the best things about him was his tiny little sports car. He’d pick me up to zip me away to any of a variety of hotels—the NICE kind, not the rat traps where lonely truck drivers hole up after eating at Denny’s or Waffle House. Have I ever dated a truck driver? Not in your wildest dreams nor my worst nightmares. HOWEVER, I have seen them on TV. If you’re as observant as I am, you’ve surely noticed like me that they don’t go out to eat lobster like Marco would take me; nor do they stay in the chain hotels with recognizable names like Sheraton or even Econo-Lodge like we would go to.
So, yeah, the car was the best thing; and next to that was the fact that it was fun to travel with him impromptu to whatever nearby town where he had to make a sale or drop off some goods and then we’d just get the room there. Man, oh man it was nice to be with a guy for whom money was no object whatsoever. I knew because whenever they’d tell him the price of the room, he’d pull out a wad of Benjamins as casually as if he was pulling out a used hanky to blow his nose.
So why didn’t I stay with this guy forever, you wonder. I know, right. Well, there was the issue of his third fist.
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