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| Part 1 | Finale |
| There
was a lot of noise in our drinking room this morning when
I entered it.
Amelia and Bill were arguing who would have more right to have his birthday celebrated today: John Keats or Ethel Waters. Lenora was complaining to anyone who would listen (and nobody was listening) that life is not fair. |
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For years
they had Halloween street party on Market and Castro streets,
she whined, and as soon as we moved to San Francisco, they
moved the party to some remote location. From our place we
can easily walk to Market and Castro, but now we'll have
to drive. EB entered the room to hear this last sentence.
Dear friends, he said, I have this feeling about the car.
To cut to the chase, his imperial majesty was more than right: the car was dead. All our attempts to find out what was wrong with it came to nothing. |
| After
explaining that we posses only a rudimentary
understanding of the complex interactions of electricity
and gas combustion, EB went to call the guy who sold us
the car.
Well, it appeared that the guy was not there anymore, went back to Latin America or something, but his cousin was there and sounded really interested in taking the car back. He showed up in no time, together with a friend, in a customized old Ford, with a sound system that was sending shock waves throughout the community. |
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He was a
young guy, wearing his pants somewhere around his knees. It
appeared that it was his friend who was interested in our car.
And, what's more, he offered us $300.00 for it. Cash.
After they were gone, EB decided that having a car in SF is nothing but trouble, that we should ride bikes and rely on public transport. As for the three hundred, he insisted we spend them immediately because having them around would be a very bad omen. |
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