Bobby saw the tights and he didn’t know the name for them. There was a specific name for them–there is for everything, Bobby reasoned–but he didn’t know it; he could pick those leggings out at a glance, though. He thought of them as fractalized fishnets or paisley-patched punkers. Girls had been wearing them forever, it seemed: they used to wear them in the hotel hallways in the old days when Tuesdays were a party night because no one had any idea what day it was.
Girls wearing those tights were never Deadheads: they would go out of their way to mention it and Bobby liked that, laughed at that. “Then why are you here?” he would ask them and they would just laugh. Bobby would laugh, too, if they were cute.
Dear Doctors Without Borders:
Please stop helping the Ebola.
“Damn and blast ye HIDES, ya landlubbin’ scoundrels!”
“It’s such an honor to meet you, Bob. We’re all such huge fans of everything you’ve–“
“YAAAAAAR, a prize lance of scuppers thou be, with some for it lack a booboo day MUCH THUSLY!”
“–ever done and…um, are you having a stroke?”
“Of no use to me the man is, ‘cept for what that crew of scurvy dogs of mine might do to his soft, fat ass.”
“Hey now. No need for that kind of talk.”
“The women and children: are they of the purest White? No Welsh in there now? It affects their price, y’see.”
“Come to me, kids. Don’t talk to the pirate man.”
“YOU STAND THERE WHEN CAPTAIN GREYBEARD IS WALKING THE PLANK!”
“That doesn’t even make any sense, Bob.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You all right, big guy?”
“Long tour, brother.”