We rolled into Brooklyn as the dash clock flipped 5:30 AM. Seventeen hours, there about, constant driving and Augie had never stopped clicking and clacking. He was probably completing a report on a client’s network, or fixing the next national election. Maybe setting up Oprah’s itinerary.
Wasn’t hard to find the bodega below Amelia’s apartment. It was much harder to find street parking nearby. Probably until rush hour, and all those folks who lucked by with nighttime meter spaces headed for work. I couldn't live in New York.
I drove around in a widening circle, fearing I might have to head for the garage where Amelia kept her Wrangler. But I hate paying for parking about as much as I do picking up the next round. Just because I accept someone’s offer for a beer, to me that doesn’t make me responsible to buy when those first glasses empty. Sounds too much like a pyramid scheme to me. Call me cheap. My mother calls me frugal.
Truth be told. I’m just not used to having money, yet.
I finally found a space on the street. Augie gave me a look. Hey. It was only a quarter mile farther from the apartment than the garage. I took it as a win. I just wanted to get some sleep. Wake after a little shuteye, find great quantities of food to push down my gullet. It didn’t have to be quality sustenance. Anything above ick-throw-it-in-the-trash, fine for me.