Long ago, I-35 between D, and F/W was a toll turnpike. And in those days, you entered through a turnstile, and a machine spat you out an old fashioned computer punch card, the likes of which are now found in museums. At the other end, you gave the nice man the punch card, and some money, and went on your way, marveling at the New World.

The whys are long forgotten, but not the characters, or the events. Youngblood was driving, I was riding shotgun, and Powell was in the back seat with baby Kira. (Baby Kira is now a stunning 30-something, calls me "Uncle Jack", and is the co-executor of the estate.) Powell was also stinking, rotten drunk, but again, I don't remember the whys.

We motored away from the Dallas turnstile, headed for Fort Worth. Youngblood just absent-mindedly passed the punch card back over the seat to Powell. Powell was happily blowing on his harmonica. He was pretty bad as a blues harpist, but it made him so unabashedly happy to blow the thing, that we tolerated it. Baby Kira was asleep on his chest, arms around his neck. So for some 20 miles or so, we were entertained alternately with hilarious bouts of drunken babble, as only Powell could deliver, and pretty bad blues harp. Then we noticed that it had been very quiet in the back seat (too quiet?), for a noticeable length of time.

As it turns out, Powell had put his harmonica in his shirt pocket, and dozed off/passed out. Baby Kira, in what could only have been a God-sent editorial commentary on the harmonica playing, had awoken, and promptly puked down Powell's shirt pocket, harmonica and all. Ever the understanding father figure, he extracted the harmonica to test it's playability under extreme conditions. This resulted in such a disgusting display, that Youngblood and I both turned and put an immediate halt to the testing, under penalty of vehicular expulsion on the spot. Powell got the message, and we motored on with the memorable visage of a drunken, sullen, puke-covered Powell leaned over in the back seat with a now expurged baby Kira again asleep on his chest. But he wasn't sleeping.

The remainder of the trip was quiet, and uneventful, as Youngblood and I exchanged small talk, ignoring the carnage that was the back seat. Then out of the darkness, and into the bright lights of the turnstile, we came to a squinty-eyed stop at the nice man, and Youngblood reached his hand back for the punch card. Out of the back seat comes this reeking, giant, gnarled hand, and drops into Youngblood's palm a marble-sized, drooling spitball that once was a fine example of the modern world's computer punch card.

Youngblood looked in his hand, dropped the required amount of change into it with the spitball, and offered the palm out to the nice man with nary a word. As it has come down through history more or less word-for-word, the following exchange took place. Nice man: "Good Lord, you chewed on it!" Youngblood: silence. Nice man: "Whud you chew on it fer?". Youngblood: silence. Nice man: "Don't you know we have to run these through a machine?". Youngblood turns the palm down, the nice man reflexively accepts the mess, and Youngblood guns his old Chevy back out into the welcome darkness. Powell is out cold again, Youngblood and I exchange looks of utter resignation, and we motor on to my place without further comment. He drops me off, and away they go, just another day in the life.

JLF.