When Jack first picks me up from the airport in Dallas, all I can do is laugh. He’s driving a 1998 Chevy Malibu that he calls “Maliboosies.” The sun visor is falling apart and a piece of cloth from it hangs in front of his face. It only starts when you jiggle the key and press the gas. Jack, in his J.Crew attire down to his skivvies, is surprisingly content with his newly purchased decrepit vehicle. It also does not match the picture Clinton sent me of a 2005 classier looking Malibu.
“Jack! What happened?”
“Oh, those mother fuckers made me bring the car back,” he replies. Apparently Jack fibbed on his applications and said he was currently employed at Bank (the company he got fired from a year ago). He said he was crying as he sulkingly returned the car to the dealership, but is lucky he “didn’t get his ass thrown in jail for fraud.” Plus he was able to purchase this knock-off version for the $2000 deposit he got back. And thus began our journey with Maliboosies, the sweetest little car I’ve ever seen, which idles at 30mph, and only has two settings of air conditioning, Off or Cold as a witches titty.
A blog about transition and the weird way that having less responsibility after being laid off helped me grow up. Watch me sweep my way to the top.
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