"Ah son," he said, "I know, I know. I . . . well," and then I heard his cup slosh. I was looking out at a station wagon where a woman was handing around soft serve cones to her kids. A little boy in the backseat was looking back at me.

"Your grandma tells me you’re playing now," he said.

"Yeah." I still didn’t look at him.

"What’re you doing?"

I was in a bad cover band that played sock hops and dances at country clubs. I’d been listening to Earl Klugh and Wes Montgomery, too, trying some of that out.

"Not much," I said.

The boy pulled his nose up with his thumb and grinned. He had braces. His mother had on a green scarf.

"I guess you don’t go in for Bob Wills and such," he said.

"No," I said.

"Not many do anymore," he said. "That’s why this car’s such a piece of shit."

Then neither of us said anything. A long minute passed, then another. The little boy kept making faces between licks of his cone. Then the mother caught him. After a glance at me, she jerked him around by the collar.

I heard him splash bourbon into his cup again.

Then the car hop brought the tray with the food and hung it on his window and I felt like I could finally turn around.

"Anything else?" she asked. She was bleach blond and pudgy—I recognized her from school a couple years back but didn’t know her. She had on white jeans and a pink shirt with the tails tied into a knot below her breasts. When you looked at her all you saw was stomach.

"You all got any ice cream left in there?" he said.

"Sure," she said.

"Then get you one and charge it on my ticket. Girl who looks sweet as cake needs some ice cream to go with her."

She giggled.