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You might want to work on it
before you try out for American Idol.
We locate a McDonald’s off
the freeway, go inside to pee,
order our fifteen-dollar feast.
Let’s eat in the car. Looks like
they’re getting ready to close.
It is pretty late. Trey pulls
the Mustang back into a dark
corner of the parking lot.
No one will bother us here.
Oh, man, this shit tastes great.
He’s right. It does. And as
my belly fills with greasy
food, my eyes grow heavy.
We shouldn’t swing for a room.
Let’s sleep in the car, okay?
It’s not the comfiest bed. But
it is free. And we don’t dare
drive anywhere this tired.
We’ll make L.A. tomorrow.
We can bunk with a buddy then.
Cool. Whatever. Meanwhile
I’m just going to close my
eyes, slip into Dreamville.
Tap-Tap-Tap
Tapping on the glass. Glass?
Where am I? And who’s knocking?
Come on. Wake up!
Car. I’m in a car. Trey’s car.
