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I decide to skip dinner with Mom and go to George’s Place. Yeah, it’s a bit of a haul for a greasy spoon. Thing is, on Friday and Saturday nights, Bill optimistically calls the joint a roadhouse and has a decent band in. Plus, Lynnie waits tables while her old man tends bar. Sometimes, I go just to look at her. Mostly, though, I dig the band. There’s nothing these dudes can’t play ... although, I swear to god, I want to scream every time some drunken biker requests "Free Bird."
Which happens at least once a night.
George’s Place is not what you’d call upscale, so I don’t bother to change my clothes. Mom says goodbye and to tell Bill she says hello. She’s never surprised when I head over the hill for roadhouse night.
So, I get there and right away I notice that Lynnie’s been to see the Glisan Street hair dude. She’s got her hair up in this ... I don’t know ... pretzel-type deal. It’s all twisted and braided and pinned up. She’s wearing black pedal pushers (I only know what these are because she told me) and a matching turtleneck, with these bright red plastic dangly earrings that match her lipstick and her shoes.
I feel like a sparrow who showed up at a parrot party. No wonder Mom says Lynnie is a force of nature.