stupid. Halfway through the meal, the drinks hit me. Hard.
My mind wandered. It was all I could do to hold up my head, to say nothing of my end of the conversation.
Jasmine didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I don’t think she even noticed. I did my best to listen while she talked.
It was as though someone had pulled a plug and her life’s story came tumbling out. She told me anecdotes about growing up in the conservative confines of Jasper, Texas. There were tales of some of her wilder exploits from the heavy-metal rock days. She also told me about her six-week stay at Rancho Mirage.
I was doing my best to listen, concentrating on every word, but eventually my eyes must have glazed over.
She stopped abruptly. “Am I boring you?” she demanded.
“No, not at all. I didn’t sleep last night. I just hit the wall.”
She started to push back her chair. The waiter, hovering solicitiously nearby, hurried to pull it out for her and help her to her feet. “Let’s go then,” she said.
I guess there’s a certain similarity between being drunk and being uncoordinated. If the truth be known, I was probably a little of both. As we walked toward the door, I misjudged the height of a carpeted step, tripped, and almost fell. Eventually I righted myself and went on with as much dignity as I could muster, but I was aware of the questioning glance Jasmine Day cast over her shoulder in my direction.
Outside the almost deserted restaurant, my Porsche sat waiting by the door, its powerful engine purring contentedly under the hood. As I handed the attendant my parking ticket and a tip, Jasmine walked to the driver’s door and got in. She was sitting there with both hands resting easily on the steering wheel when I turned to get in.
“Hey, what’s this?”
She leaned out the window and smiled up at me. “I make it a point never to ride with someone who’s had too much to drink.”
The trio of parking attendants were observing this small drama with undisguised amusement. Rather than make it worse, I clamped my mouth shut, walked around to the other side of the car, and got in. If Jasmine Day really did have a brown belt hanging in her closet, there was no sense arguing with her about it. I had no intention of fighting her for the keys.
I slammed the passenger’s door shut just as she finished readjusting the seat. Considered in retrospect, maybe Jasmine was right and I was drunk, because that capable action on her part plucked me good. It had taken me months to master all eight of those goddamned complex seat controls.
Instantly I wasn’t the least bit sleepy anymore. Or drunk either, for that matter. I sat there doing a slow burn while blood pounded angrily in my temples. Who the hell did she think she was, assuming that I was drunk! Where did she get off, taking away my car keys! Driving my car!
“Which way do we go?” she asked.
Tersely, I directed her out of the parking lot, around the winding underpass that goes under the south end of the Aurora Bridge, and back up the hill to southbound Aurora Avenue.
“You’re not a very happy drunk,” she commented mildly.
“I’m not drunk, I’m tired,” I snapped, noticing all the while that she drove my Porsche with disgusting competence.
“Drunk or tired, either way you shouldn’t be driving. Where are we going?”
“The ground rules, remember? Back to your hotel.”
“Rules were made to be broken,” she replied.
I was still mulling over that enigmatic remark when she asked, “Where do you live?”
We were just turning right off Aurora onto Wall. I pointed toward Belltown Terrace, its late-night high-rise lights winking above the surrounding smaller buildings. Instead of turning left onto Fifth Avenue, which would have taken us directly back to the Mayflower, Jasmine headed down Wall toward the Belltown.
Grudgingly, I directed her through the zigzag maze necessitated by downtown Seattle’s one-way traffic grids. She eased the Porsche through the
My mind wandered. It was all I could do to hold up my head, to say nothing of my end of the conversation.
Jasmine didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I don’t think she even noticed. I did my best to listen while she talked.
It was as though someone had pulled a plug and her life’s story came tumbling out. She told me anecdotes about growing up in the conservative confines of Jasper, Texas. There were tales of some of her wilder exploits from the heavy-metal rock days. She also told me about her six-week stay at Rancho Mirage.
I was doing my best to listen, concentrating on every word, but eventually my eyes must have glazed over.
She stopped abruptly. “Am I boring you?” she demanded.
“No, not at all. I didn’t sleep last night. I just hit the wall.”
She started to push back her chair. The waiter, hovering solicitiously nearby, hurried to pull it out for her and help her to her feet. “Let’s go then,” she said.
I guess there’s a certain similarity between being drunk and being uncoordinated. If the truth be known, I was probably a little of both. As we walked toward the door, I misjudged the height of a carpeted step, tripped, and almost fell. Eventually I righted myself and went on with as much dignity as I could muster, but I was aware of the questioning glance Jasmine Day cast over her shoulder in my direction.
Outside the almost deserted restaurant, my Porsche sat waiting by the door, its powerful engine purring contentedly under the hood. As I handed the attendant my parking ticket and a tip, Jasmine walked to the driver’s door and got in. She was sitting there with both hands resting easily on the steering wheel when I turned to get in.
“Hey, what’s this?”
She leaned out the window and smiled up at me. “I make it a point never to ride with someone who’s had too much to drink.”
The trio of parking attendants were observing this small drama with undisguised amusement. Rather than make it worse, I clamped my mouth shut, walked around to the other side of the car, and got in. If Jasmine Day really did have a brown belt hanging in her closet, there was no sense arguing with her about it. I had no intention of fighting her for the keys.
I slammed the passenger’s door shut just as she finished readjusting the seat. Considered in retrospect, maybe Jasmine was right and I was drunk, because that capable action on her part plucked me good. It had taken me months to master all eight of those goddamned complex seat controls.
Instantly I wasn’t the least bit sleepy anymore. Or drunk either, for that matter. I sat there doing a slow burn while blood pounded angrily in my temples. Who the hell did she think she was, assuming that I was drunk! Where did she get off, taking away my car keys! Driving my car!
“Which way do we go?” she asked.
Tersely, I directed her out of the parking lot, around the winding underpass that goes under the south end of the Aurora Bridge, and back up the hill to southbound Aurora Avenue.
“You’re not a very happy drunk,” she commented mildly.
“I’m not drunk, I’m tired,” I snapped, noticing all the while that she drove my Porsche with disgusting competence.
“Drunk or tired, either way you shouldn’t be driving. Where are we going?”
“The ground rules, remember? Back to your hotel.”
“Rules were made to be broken,” she replied.
I was still mulling over that enigmatic remark when she asked, “Where do you live?”
We were just turning right off Aurora onto Wall. I pointed toward Belltown Terrace, its late-night high-rise lights winking above the surrounding smaller buildings. Instead of turning left onto Fifth Avenue, which would have taken us directly back to the Mayflower, Jasmine headed down Wall toward the Belltown.
Grudgingly, I directed her through the zigzag maze necessitated by downtown Seattle’s one-way traffic grids. She eased the Porsche through the
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