Memory At Full Mast
They say old hard-ons die hard. I can confirm that because the other day I thought about Daisy Chong and I was in a bad way. There wasn't anything she didn't want to try at least once. Her parents owned a Chinese restaurant right across from the car plant. Her old man used to load a long table with pint glasses of Blue. The workers would scramble in at breaktime, down what they could and pay up before they went back to the line. Daisy had a brother who was a pharmacist and he wrote dodgy scripts for all those drunks. If they weren't shitfaced, they were stoned. Only a fool would buy a car that came out of that plant.
Her family tolerated me, just barely. I didn't try to talk to them. I ate whatever was put in front of me and I made quick work of it. And I was good with chopsticks. The old man always made me drink some of his homemade rice wine. It was rocket fuel but I could hold my own which probably raised my stock. And I knew Daisy would intercede before things got ugly. Too much booze would make me a washout in the sack.
Eventually the brother took them all down. He got hooked on the pills himself. Then he was pinched for writing dodgy scripts and it was all over. The parents sold everything to save him. Even the restaurant.
I still wouldn't buy one of those cars, though.
20 June 2015