Presently, Freshwater is eight blocks from his 1994 Toyota Camry, which is parked right where he left it four hours and 14 whiskeys ago — in a metered spot along Gay Street.
“I swear I parked that shit-box right here.” Freshwater just spat, adding more distance between he and his ride.
Three hours from now, when Mr. Freshwater finally manages to find his car, he’ll be crumpling the parking ticket tucked beneath the windshield wiper before he realizes he left the keys at that other bar, “wherever the fuck that was.”
Exasperated, he’ll sit down for a minute to rest. A passerby will believe him homeless rather than car key-less and toss some change in his direction. Freshwater will then start crying and promise the Lord this is the last time.
For the moment, we're all safe. Negotiations with our Heavenly Father continue.
