I took D'Brickishaw out to dinner with my Boston friend for our last night in LA. We went to an upscale restaurant that will remain nameless. It was also a great learning experience for my son on what he can expect if he spends any time with dear old dad.
We were given our meals. My Boston friend tasted his, then made a funny face.
"What is it?" I said.
"The green beans are very aggressive."
We called our waitress. Then the chef came out. He seemed very angry.
"What the hell do you want from me? You ordered a steak from a truck stop."
The truck stop was the only thing open at 3:45 in the morning in Baker, CA. Anyway, I thought the chef was threatening us, so I sprayed him in the eyes with mace. Then the waitress jumped on my back, and fellI forward, knocking her face on the table. My Boston friend picked up his chair and broke it over a trucker's gray-bearded chin, causing his head to jerk back like he'd slipped on a wet floor.
I took D'Brick by the arm and dragged him out into the parking lot. I saw an open convertible at the gas pump that sat empty while it's owner was inside paying for his fill-up.
"Get in the car!"
"But it's not ours!"
"If you don't get in, I'll leave you here for the bikers."
"Why aren't we driving the car you rented?"
"I like the convertible."
I hotwired it and sped backward in reverse, spinning the car almost into my Boston friend as he ran from the place and jumped in the back seat.
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