Bobby and Me (Forget Bozo)

At that, I ran.

I made it to the bowling alley with no one I know seeing me. I grabbed a fist full of score sheets and asked my buddy to charge it all when I finished so I could put beer on the same ticket. He knew I was good for it. I filled out enough score sheets to document that I had to have been there for three hours, drank two beers too fast, bopped around talking to people trying to say things, you  know, stuff so they’d remember seeing me there. I charged the beer and games to my credit card and made certain the date and time were legible of the cash register receipt. Proof that I was nowhere near Stella’s.

Took off and ran most of the twelve blocks to the diner. There I ordered a hamburger, and the waitress served it precisely in sync with Bozo sitting down at my booth. Nobody around seemed to be staring.

“Figured you’d be jammed up.” He smiled. “Not to worry. I told them you did it.”

My burger and onions slid from the bun into my lap.

“You crazy fuck--”





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)