On a cigarette run to CVS last weekend, I heard Tracy Chapman’s Fast Cars in the queue. At the time I was with my friend Ken Bemmy and we were both irrefutably hammered. I hadn’t been crunk since July of 2008—not by choice or necessity, but more out of a general lack of interest. I was busy OpenCourseWare‘ing through the bleak financial clime at adderall speed, which is much faster than Fast Cars, which I serenaded the CVS cashier with last Saturday during the extremely early morning hours in an off-key spectacle feat. Ken Bemmy.
The cashier dutifully sold us a box of Marlboro Lights; and when we left, Ken & I took to directing traffic with a broken baguette at the intersection of 14th & Harvard St. in Columbia Heights, until a coalition of vagrants and policemen implored us to “Get the fuck out of the street!”
We obeyed, of course, and the next night I returned to CVS & apologized to the cashier for behaving like a sad, horny fratboy in her store. She claims she doesn’t remember our Tracy Chapman. Neither does Bemmy. But tonight the CVS security guard confirmed to me that it happened, as I recount it here; and so my razor sharp memory is absolved.
