Stan's sure as hell with him now. Or is he? He's with Jorge's big men with their big hands on his shoulders leading him toward a teeny old car, cheap thing, someone ain't been keepin' it up the way he keeps up the Stanmobile, someone left the trunk open.
One shoulder hits something hard and he twitches his head around to look at what, a door, a window, lights outside, big blurry buildings starting to dot the side of the road. Those are new, they must be headed into town.
They. He looks on his other side, at the way the arm he flung out might've landed on someone else's arm, solid, warm. The arm's attached to a shoulder, to a face, a face like his. His back is killing him. He leans forward a little, wanting to save whatever's left of his skin from rubbing up against the seat, clears his throat, breathes. "Right, uh- Right. Yeah. I guess I, uh- Yeah. Can't sleep yet, huh?"
"In the middle of your story, too," he says, rubbing at his eyes, breathing. "I didn't mean to. It wasn't that it was boring or anything, but it was kinda' bleak, you know? At the end there. Did you turn on the heat? That'll eat up the gas, you know. Uh, what, what were we- Mandolin. Manolin. That kid. Do you think he was right, to stick around with that old guy when everyone knew he could do better?"
He tightens what's left of his coat around him, remembers the heat and dark and the smell, watches the heat come out of the vents in front of him and looks out the windshield ahead, wonders if maybe he could open the window a little. "I think that's where the author fell down. If he's gonna' make it all realistic he's gotta' go all the way, what do you think? You think someone would really stick around like that when they both know this kid could do better without some old nobody ridin' on his coattails?"
Stan makes another one of those noises he's been making since he got into this car, another one of those quiet, frustrated pain noises and he presses at his forehead because, "Fuck, what I wouldn't give for some advil. Or a beer. What wouldn't I do? Haha." It's quick, that last noise, amused but only really a laugh because it's not anything else. It's a laugh by default. Damn, a beer. Nice and cold. A beer would be nice.
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One shoulder hits something hard and he twitches his head around to look at what, a door, a window, lights outside, big blurry buildings starting to dot the side of the road. Those are new, they must be headed into town.
They. He looks on his other side, at the way the arm he flung out might've landed on someone else's arm, solid, warm. The arm's attached to a shoulder, to a face, a face like his. His back is killing him. He leans forward a little, wanting to save whatever's left of his skin from rubbing up against the seat, clears his throat, breathes. "Right, uh- Right. Yeah. I guess I, uh- Yeah. Can't sleep yet, huh?"
"In the middle of your story, too," he says, rubbing at his eyes, breathing. "I didn't mean to. It wasn't that it was boring or anything, but it was kinda' bleak, you know? At the end there. Did you turn on the heat? That'll eat up the gas, you know. Uh, what, what were we- Mandolin. Manolin. That kid. Do you think he was right, to stick around with that old guy when everyone knew he could do better?"
He tightens what's left of his coat around him, remembers the heat and dark and the smell, watches the heat come out of the vents in front of him and looks out the windshield ahead, wonders if maybe he could open the window a little. "I think that's where the author fell down. If he's gonna' make it all realistic he's gotta' go all the way, what do you think? You think someone would really stick around like that when they both know this kid could do better without some old nobody ridin' on his coattails?"
Stan makes another one of those noises he's been making since he got into this car, another one of those quiet, frustrated pain noises and he presses at his forehead because, "Fuck, what I wouldn't give for some advil. Or a beer. What wouldn't I do? Haha." It's quick, that last noise, amused but only really a laugh because it's not anything else. It's a laugh by default. Damn, a beer. Nice and cold. A beer would be nice.