Call me Ray Charles. When I got these prescription sunglasses, I hated myself everytime I walked into a gas station or bookstore wearing them. Like most things I hate, this comes out of dealing with these primadonnas at my various crappy jobs.
But now, I am the person I hate.
Just after the Walt Whitman Rest Area on the New Jersey Turnpike, I leaned out the window to empty a bottle of something I’d rather not keep in the drinkholder. Mesmerized by the way the fluid sprayed and vaporized at 65 miles an hour, I didn’t notice that my glasses fell off of my face.
That was, until they bounced off the window, hit the next lane and went under nine of the eighteen wheels of the ensuing Peterbilt semi.
So now I’m Ray Charles. Eating in diners at 12:30 at night staring at menus like one of the blues brothers.
I tried first pretending that I was completely blind so that people would try not to stare at me. Instead, it is the only thing people want to talk about.
In Bruce Willis’ home town in Jersey at the Golden Pigeon diner, we met ourselves had we not gotten out of Simbury. “We hang out here everynight,” said Mark through very few teeth.
I hate myself.