||[Apr. 27th, 2006|11:15 pm]
It's likely he's the most unpunctual person I know. He got the nickname Traffic in high school, but I think that's likely due his dealings in the "pharmaceutical" trade rather than his constant tardiness. I'm not entirely sure how I got mixed up in his debacle, but I've been in the courtroom for close to 45 minutes and my fingers are aching to at least hold a cigarette.
His father owned a bar, where he worked, only on weekends, and somehow managed to spread the word wide enough to turn it into one of the only party bars in this whole God-forsaken town. The In-Crowd was always there in full force and the dance floor was hopping right up past the last call. Unfortunately, Traffic had a bad habit of not checking IDs.
That's why we're, or at least I am, here: He took a girl home one night after the bar had closed, both of them completely hammered. If he'd checked her ID that night, he might've realized he was only looking at a learner's permit.
Fifteen minutes later, he blows through the courtroom doors, sweating and out of breath, stops by my seat to tell me "Sorry, I was caught in traffic." He smiles and I scoff as I get up to go have a cigarette.
-Modern Medicine for the Moth-Eaten