“The energy in this truck is fuckin’ weird.” Clyde’s beady eyes bore into the rearview mirror from the back seat. Gwen and I worked expediently to get Clyde formally discharged, coordinating with the porter to get him arranged in my truck. When there’s a task to do right in front of us, Gwen and I get shit done well enough. But when you take the task away, the tension seeps back in. That’s probably what Clyde is referring to—the way we’re both sitting stiffly in the front like two kids forced to share a bench on the school bus. Weird? Absolutely.
