Talking to my friend Brenda. She says Jack Kerouac is a chauvinist. I don't necessarily disagree, though honestly it hadn't occurred to me. But I maintain that his art is still valuable.
I muse on that conversation the next day at the car wash, as I watch my coworker Travis suck on enormous pantomimed breasts while moaning, "Ma Ma. Ma Ma."
She's got a little gut on her, he says, but I don't mind. He points his cigarette at the woman entering the pool supplies store across the street. The smoke collides mid-air with jet streams of hot pink wax and soapy water, all three vanishing into the fury of an industrial fan.
More cushion for the pushin', chortles the man who is known to his friends as "SUV." I have a softness in my heart for SUV, but he is a terrible human being. I imagine a meeting between him and Brenda. And that's all I can do; imagine.
Still, today I cleaned rancid honey-mustard sauce and cigarette butts out of a loading dock behind the dining hall. I positioned myself as I swept so that I could see the blond sunbathing on an adjacent patch of grass. I maintain my art is still valuable.
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