For Captain’s birthday I gave him tickets to Florida Georgia Line. So that happened last weekend.
I contemplate my outfit: Cowboy boots? Check. Jeans? check. Shirt tied up above my belly button? Not sure about this one, but I’m going for it. If it’s just us and a bunch of teeny boppers I’m putting my tummy away.
We hop in Captain’s small sports car and head to the show. We drive past the show. We keep driving. We are driving to pick up Captain’s other car. Captain has a beat-up truck for commuting that lives in a parking lot near Rhode Island and we need the truck to go to the show. I ask Captain,
“Why do we need the truck?”
“So we can tailgate.”
We get to the parking lot. I have been to so few concerts in my lifetime and this was a revelation. It’s one giant parking-lot party. We’re lucky to find something that looks like a spot. I tell Captain,
“There’s a trash can there.”
He heads for the parking spot anyway. I try again,
“Do you want me to move the trash can?”
“I’ll just move it with my truck.”
And by “move it with his truck” he means that he will pull into the spot and knock the trash can over. That’s what trucks are for.
We jump out. Captain opens some beers, puts the tailgate down and says,
“Have a seat.”
“You can sit on it?”
“Yeah! Now you know why I wanted my truck.”
I sit on the tailgate, dangle my cowboy boots over the edge and sip my beer. This is a revelation. I’ve never wanted to drink in a parking lot before, but if you need to drink in a parking lot, this is the way to do it.
Captain tells me,
“We couldn’t have done this in the other car.”
Nope. We’d still be driving around looking for a spot because the other car does not double as a trash-can bulldozer.
|Even though the trash can is right side up.|