On Sunday’s we’d fill up the trunk of the old Chrysler with gin and breeze on down to the port. Brunch at that truck stop that always seemed to be on fire. Get some cheap trucker speed and play competitive bridge till we bust the house or they bust us.
You get into kinda zone sometimes after about 30 hours at the table. You feel like you’re a whirling machine full of bright light and sound, the numbers fucking sing, and everything finally makes sense. That lasts for another couple of days and then its over.
Time to see how many waffles you can eat before you pass out.
