Alexandra was showing our girls how to properly shave their legs, being as they were, impertinently pretending, usyruping to be so grown and independent, with only their Mum to guide them on those kinds of matters, and soon they were out of the bathroom, pink-skinned, with their heads wrapped in towels, bath-fresh, and we were lining up to hear coverage about the Chiefs, the Seattle team, and some other, remnant and sauce of endless small wagers made, and Starbucks money tossed indolently, ignorantly, into the void.
Old Pancake was a Son of Ishmael, if you dig the Holy Book, and all, and I could hear him cursing to himself out on the street. I knew what he was doing; bad wiring system in his RAV4, too small a battery, in the wise of Cold Cranking Amps and so forth, and he would push it down the hill in gear, and amazingly it would charge the battery enough that he could listen to his choice of radio Coastal Chanticleers or Wake Forest football during the day; he had a system of it, buying salvage car batteries and inverters and so forth, to charge his cellphone or have an afternoon's dissipation of brain cells.
Do ya ken, "Son of Ishmael"? Once and always an arrogant little self-important peckerwood, a "maid's son", and all, though he might brook with, shoulder-wise, with the offspring and germ of Nebuchednezzar, Darius and Cyrus alike, he was pond scum, himself that forsook promises for his own little football game, with horses and stuff, dressed like some kind of European woman, running around on Japanese wheels. Indeed, the "Son of Ishmael".
Trying to run it up to fourteen good amperes.
Otherwise, what was it? Tracking wagers, and all, or Facebook, or video porn of heavy machines like excavators and strip-mining heavy equipment.
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