I was parked two rows down from Cindy’s Jetta with a clear view of the walkway down from the east side of campus. Without a Staff Parking permit, I was risking a ticket.
The night was young and I was hunkered low in my seat. I am six foot four, so hunkering is difficult. On the floor between my feet was a six pack of Bud Light.
I drank the first beer.
Clouds obscured the night sky. The wind was picking up, blustering through my open windows, bringing with it the metallic scent of imminent rain. Students drifted in and out of the parking lot, using it as a sort of shortcut into campus.
Like a chain smoker, I finished beer number two, started on three. Drinking in the car…not exactly a role model for today’s youth.
A light drizzle began to fall, turning the dust on my windshield into a thin film of muck. The drizzle turned into something more than a drizzle, although I wasn’t sure what that might be. Heavy drizzle? In southern California we don’t have many words for rain. We do, however, have nine different words for tan.
My windshield morphed into a surreal canvas as splattering raindrops fused with parking lot lights. Living art.
Which reminded me. I hadn’t painted in a while. Maybe I should. Except lately I didn’t feel much like painting. Instead, I felt like getting drunk every second of every day.
I opened beer number four. Two left. I considered getting more. Really considered it, but that would mean leaving the parking lot. Leaving Cindy’s car unattended. Derelict in my duties as boyfriend and bodyguard. And driving with a heavy buzz probably wasn’t a great idea.
Still, another six-pack sounded good. Too good.
Shit.
I needed to find my mother’s killer. I needed to catch him, and I needed to serve justice, and I needed closure. No kid should find his mother dead. No kid should have to see what I saw.
It’s a wonder I’m not more fucked up.
Hell, after what I’ve been through, I should be allowed to drink as much as I want. Maybe I would talk to Cindy about that.
Or not.