Burn Down The Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

get ar­rested bigger than shit." I put my hands back on the wheel,
stare straight ahead, waiting for the light. Then I think about it. "Did you say poon from the
moon?"
    He nods,
crazed.
    I don't know what
poon from the moon is. I sigh, watching the red light. "Is it okay if I wait for the light to
change before I hang this illegal U turn?"
    Morrison has this
wicked laugh. "Didn't stop you before, why should it now?"
    He's got a point
there. It makes sense it does escapes me. At that point everything escapes me. Thinking about it
for a few hours or seconds, I don't know which, I stab the gas pedal and cramp the wheel. Swoop
into a maniac U turn against the light.
    Universe threatens
to turn over on its side. Citizens in the cars going the other way wetting themselves as I scream
through their ranks. My U turn is about two weeks too wide. Sloppy driving. Going to lose my Ben
Hur license.
    Lots of
freaked-out drivers slamming brakes. Tire shrieks like whips at the Roman arena.
    Wham! Suitable sound effect
as car lifts up and scoots over the curb, goes smashing down the sidewalk for about thirty feet.
Did I say a sloppy turn? If it got any worse, I'd be driving through somebody's house.
    We slam off the
sidewalk, lightly kissing the tail end of a parked car, crash with a grinding clatter as muffler
meets curb. Panic time. I whip the wheel in one direc­tion, not sure which way, just keeping
busy.
    Car makes an
unexpected surfboard twist and we suddenly find ourselves back on Van Nuys Boulevard, heading in
the opposite direction. Reading for what I don't know but going after it in something resembling
a straight line.
    Morrison's hanging
out the window. Yelling about something. What the hell is he doing? Maybe tossing his cookies.
Got his head bent down toward the street. Yeah. I bet he's tossing his cookies, either that or he
grew up poor and couldn't afford to have his tonsils taken out so he paid to just have them
loosened.
    The car sounds
loud. Very loud and getting louder. I hear a scraping noise, metal against pavement. Some­thing
snaps, car now sounds like a jet engine with bad compression. I look back in the rearview mirror
in time to wave goodbye to the rest of the muffler.
    "Hey, what did we
turn around for?"
    "Over there," says
Morrison, resurfacing inside the car.
    I look where he's
pointing. I see two chicks thumb­ing it in front of same kind of army/navy store, some­thing
appropriate like that.
    "They got the
secret of fire," says Morrison with a grin.
    "And crabs and
clap and—"
    "Psssssssst!" Sounds like
steam hissing out of a steamboat snake. Smartest thing he's said all night.
    I stop for another
light. This time I do it perfect. Cor­rect lane, smooth stop, proper distance. Only thing
spoiling it is that the light is green not red.
    "What are you
going pssssssssssst for?"
    "'Cause I am psssssssssst!" Morrison tilts the wine bottle, drinks an armadillo full of wine. Least it
looks like that to me. One man's apple is somebody else's or­ange.
    "Yes sir, I am
definitely psssssst!"
    As I ease through
the intersection on yellow (the light turns red before I get halfway through) I turn and look at
him. "It doesn't show on your pants. What's wrong? Find a woodchuck in your wine
ration?"
    Morrison waves his
arms. "Well, Jesus! I go a million miles out of my way to arrange us some entertainment and
immediately you start making social disease jokes and armpit jokes and all kinds of shit like
that. Where's the old respect for motherfucking nature?"
    "Huh?"
    "Crabs are
organic."
    I shift as I
accelerate and miss the frigging gear again. I swear the gears are moving around just to tease
me. Car stalls for the millionth time. Start the car as a stream of cars go detouring around
us.
    "We'll never get
there!"
    "Look, you wanna
drive, you're welcome. I'm doing the best I can. I can't help it. Somebody dropped a midget in
this gear box and he's moving things on