an older poem/short story...
the jamaica bay inn
So it was decided-- we were to walk out of the restaurant, plates in hand, and skip on the bill. I poured more whiskey into my coffee, took a generous sip, and announced I would move the car into position. We were in Marina Del Rey, seated right against the beach, the gorgeous morning sun wrapping its slimy hands around our disheveled waists.
I excused myself and parked the car just outside the double-door entrance. I walked back to the table and noticed my food had arrived, but that a napkin was covering the plate.
A seagull ate half of your breakfast, said my friend.
Oh. An eloquent response did not come to mind. I took another sip of coffee and flagged down our waitress to get a new dish. As we waited I informed my casually dressed assailant the big moment was within reach.
As soon as my breakfast is fixed, we wait for the hostess to abandon ship, I said. Then-- well, then we pick up our plates, walk briskly, yet nonchalantly to the car, and speed off laughing like two lunatics with a head full of acid should.
Oh, and the music must be blasted, I said. It must be turned up all the way. My partner in crime quickly agreed, for this was more a common understanding than a request.
I picked up a slice of bacon and noticed the hostess was distracted. In all fairness, she was 80 years old and appeared to be editing her will. A cool breeze could have averted this woman's attention.
So we bolted for the door-- eggs and potatoes and bacon crashing to the pavement as we frantically approached the car. I opened the door, started the engine, and drove off in a fashion I felt was respectably reckless. We cackled liked the devious breakfast thieves we were as music roared from the speakers. Success was sweet, so we celebrated with swig of whiskey and mapped out our next possible act of debauchery.
Two stoned madmen driving wildly into the sunrise, scrambled eggs flying about the vehicle as if it were just another morning. But truly, it was.
Don't take offense to this, but Hunter S. Thompson's wily influence sweats from this story. Some are offended when people relate their work to that of others, but I love it when I recognize what hands helped mold someone's or my own style. It's a chilling comfort, like when you use a new detergent and all of your clean clothes smell different. Or, when a lady friend of yours picks up a new scent, and you know the old one is gone until she sends you some letter in the mail just to wring out your brain.
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