Stan's staring at those lights too, trying to figure out where he is, how far they went when Jorge's guys- well, when they drove him out, how far he walked, how far away his car might be. His car. But before long he's looking away from the window, wiggling in his seat a little more to look at Ford and listen to him. Just listen to that voice of his, that voice Stan remembers - voice and brains, he remembers saying it some time after Ford's voice got all deep and smooth and his, well his went somewhere else, he remembers punching Ford's shoulder and ignoring that tight, sour feeling moving through his gut like he always ignored it and saying, someone up there gave you the real one-two punch Sixer, voice and brains, ladykiller.
"Haven't heard you talk more than, uh, couple seconds, in... Wow, uh. Long time. Missed it." He doesn't mean to mumble over Ford's story, doesn't realize he's doing it and isn't even sure which part of the story he's talking over, he just settles his head against the window at this new angle and watches Ford and gets more and more into it, imagining this fishing guy with his big, make-or-break catch.
The end makes him frown, though, and that little review after makes him frown a little more. Stan shakes his head, makes a quick, unhappy noise at what the move does for his headache, and turns his frown at the vision sitting beside him like it just dropped into a really weird foreign language for a second.
"No one admires a loser, Ford," he says, with the air of a guy making a very obvious correction. Come on man, you know this. "What's the guy got now? Fish bones and back problems. I bet no one'll even believe him, poor old fart."
Stan turns a little ways toward the window again, slumping over himself and looking back out toward that blur of light that's gotta' be a city, or a town. Somewhere. Something. "What happens to him after that, this Santiago guy? Does he ever catch a real fish again?"
that was cool the way you did that, I like it a lot
"Haven't heard you talk more than, uh, couple seconds, in... Wow, uh. Long time. Missed it." He doesn't mean to mumble over Ford's story, doesn't realize he's doing it and isn't even sure which part of the story he's talking over, he just settles his head against the window at this new angle and watches Ford and gets more and more into it, imagining this fishing guy with his big, make-or-break catch.
The end makes him frown, though, and that little review after makes him frown a little more. Stan shakes his head, makes a quick, unhappy noise at what the move does for his headache, and turns his frown at the vision sitting beside him like it just dropped into a really weird foreign language for a second.
"No one admires a loser, Ford," he says, with the air of a guy making a very obvious correction. Come on man, you know this. "What's the guy got now? Fish bones and back problems. I bet no one'll even believe him, poor old fart."
Stan turns a little ways toward the window again, slumping over himself and looking back out toward that blur of light that's gotta' be a city, or a town. Somewhere. Something. "What happens to him after that, this Santiago guy? Does he ever catch a real fish again?"