Middle Aged (35-54)
North American (General)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Monday night in October, sitting at the Bar Pig Farm Tavern in Chapel Hill, 11:57 p.m. Fats just walked into the bar. I can smell the lavender in her hair. Most of all, I feel the crackle, as if her skin is spitting electric charges into the air. She walks into a room and everything goes static, even with my back to the place. I know she's here. I have been a deep conversation with the bartender, Seiler. He was also the Tyron owner and a very old friend. We're debating biscuits and gravy, these nouvelle cuisine chefs just don't get the pepper seasoning. Right now, Siler is looking past me. Red flush runs up his neck, through his cheeks and into his temples. He picks up my glass of bullet rye and finishes it. I hear Fats racking up the pool table, rolling the nine ball set back and forth over the felt siler she calls out as casual as if she'd never left. Pour me one of those, the crack of the break. In fact, she goes on, pour one for yourself and a fresh one for Lassie on May. There's not another soul in the place her cube pops again and ball scramble around the table. I am Lassie. My birth certificate, signed by New Orleans doctor Ah half a century ago, reads Lassiter James Battle students at my high school in Saluda, on the edge of the Nantahala National Forest. New Me is James Battle later, that became my by line at the post Fat Seiler and a handful of old friends from Chapel Hill dubbed me Lassie James. These were the folks who rode out the blistering heat of freshman Orientation Week, which unfolded without air conditioning or inhibition, feels like there was 100 years ago. Fans have booked us into two suites in the Four Seasons Midtown Atlanta one sweet for her and Darby, one for May. I took a shower with Jet so strong spray stung my back Right over had been a hoot. Learn that day. Darby is an artist, works with textiles, everything from velvet to burlap, she said. When we loaded our bags into the SCV, Darby got into the driver's seat and started the car, actually drove a stretch through the parking lot before she couldn't keep the gag going and laughed out loud. She switched with fats. I was enjoying this show but too scared to speak up. If the blind girl is going to drive us to the hotel, let's buckle up and go, Holly says. She inspired your song about the fair skin Brunette, Darby said. Once she had surrendered steering wheel, any truth to that, or did our doctor Pete use that line just to get into my pants? This was going to be fun. The long ago version of Holly the young girl I knew his fats a lifetime ago in Chapel Hill. That was the inspiration for that song. I said Today's version Dr Pike, Billionaire CEO, would require some other content. She was too smart to take the bait. She was too smart to take the bait. You joining us for the late night Panhead show? Darby asked. For absolute certain, I said the last 100 hours or so have been more than I can process. I need a night out with those boys. Thank you for letting me tag along. I clicked through several layers, then got to the daily log started with Monday when we could go today There waas Last Monday evening, the big Cooley was parked outside a pig farm, then motored late back to game. Google Road Skip past Tuesday past Wednesday, Fats nuzzled deeper into my neck, her soft breast pressed against my skin. The link for Thursday was on the screen. Cooley reported haystacks of data. I hope there was no needle here. I punched the link. The log had stored early morning activity. At 4:22 a.m. The coolie moved silently from Gim Google Road to a parking space on street by the old post office. Then the machine rolled west just a bit, and at the far edge of Battle Hall pulled into a narrow drive of University Methodist Church. It parked in the small lot tucked away behind the church behind Hyde Hall. As close as the car could get to the Caldwell Memorial without ruining the grass. At 4:54 a.m. the rolling computer moved in silence. Downeast, Franklin Street through campus, The Country Club Road, then onto Laurel Hill, stopping on buttons. Road 4 17 Buttons Road, I nearly screamed. I emailed the length to myself, then a very slowly pulled my left arm free. Use two hands to take a screenshot from the phone, then emailed the J Peg to myself. I back the phone out of the length and out of the text editor back to the home screen, then locked it again, reached my arm over Fats and put the phone back where she had left. It kissed her on the cheek. As I began to move, she ran her hand up and down my legs. She nodded half awake as I got to my feet.