The Tequila Diaries

Creek smoked quietly on the lone bench outside the DMV. He watched the rain descend gently around him, casting an eerie calm upon his muddled brain. He took a deep drag from the smoke and paused, allowing the carcinogens to ravage his insides. He exhaled strongly and deliberately; the smoke billowed from his mouth in a scattered cloud. He scrutinized the raindrops as they dissected the smoke like nervous sixth graders carving up their first frog. He hated lines and he hated waiting. The two seemed to go hand in hand—lines and hate that is. Creek had a brief realization come to fruition. In his short lifetime of twenty-eight years, he had never come across another human being who liked lines. Not one single soul in his entire life could tolerate the wait. No wonder the clerks at the beginning of the line were such assholes. They had to deal with fifty other assholes before they waited on him, the fifty-first asshole. So in turn, they became assholes by default. The last of the smoke fi nished and Creek pulled up the collar of his windbreaker and headed into the DMV. Hate and lines awaited him … It was a big one. By the looks of it, fifteen or so incensed people stood in front of him fighting with their cell phones in one haphazard manner or another. Creek mused at the thought of one of them pulling out a gun and going commando on everyone. He relished the possible act of an impatient degenerate filling his brain full of lead. Would he live or maybe end up like one of those assholes who records everything with his cell phone and uploads the shit to the news? He opted for the former. A quick way out would be best. A bullet in the head ought to do it—that’s how he hoped things would go down.