He was unclear on the concept.
This was probably owing to the fact that he was dead asleep on the couch when the opportunity arose. A girl, online, needed a ride to Savannah. She could provide accommodations once we arrived, but the means of conveyance was a problem.
I had problems of my own. My car was still being pieced back together following a collision some weeks back. But Joey had just purchased a new Camaro. Well, new to him. Being a Camaro with a shady history, he ordinarily would not have trusted it outside of a 10-mile radius from his home.
Still, when I stood over him and asked, "Joey, you want to go to Savannah this weekend?" he was willing, even if the Camaro was weak.
He hadn't put together that it was our intention to take the Camaro. Being that I had no car, I'm not sure how it was that he expected us to arrive at our destination. I explained that it was this, or hitchhike across lower Georgia on our good looks in the cabs of truckers who were interested in a couple of young men traveling on their looks.
She lived in Marietta. It became clear when we arrived why every picture of her we'd seen was shot from the neck, up. In addition, she was polyamorous. Aggressively so. She had also been with a considerable number of men (and women), due to her lifestyle. She was nearing a milestone, in fact. We had the opportunity to help, if we wanted. However, Joey and I agreed that so doing would be strictly academic, and quite frankly, risky.
It also became clear that she was not requiring simply a ride to Savannah, but a move to Savannah. Stacked in her kitchen were boxes and boxes of art supplies, notebooks, clothes and other personal effects that needed to make the trip with us.
Again, we were in a Camaro. At this point, we were having reservations about their being enough room in the car for the three of us, much less the three of us and all her worldly belongings.
Still, we began packing, shoving and stuffing the car with all her things. (Little care was given to accommodating fragile stuff, of course.) At last, we climbed into the car and started down the driveway. As we pulled onto her cul-de-sac, the belly of the Camaro brushed the ground. It continued dragging over every pothole, dip and bump. On the interstate, Joey developed a technique of braking hard before every bump, forcing the back of the car to rise up slightly and allowing us to just clear the spot.
We arrived in Savannah in the small hours. We decided to make the most of it, and headed straight away to River Street. As we turned down the ancient lane, Joey's eyes filled with dread. He cussed.
"Cobblestone," he muttered.
I miss that car.