Note 25
Ryan Smith walks out of the Gate 10 exit ramp at New Orleans International Airport. He moves swiftly wearing black straight leg slacks, a black blazer, unbuttoned, over an Adolescents t-shirt. As he approaches Jenkins, Frank and myself, we notice that his hair has grown out a bit since the last time we saw him. It’s not really what you would call long, around five inches in length, and newly dyed purple.
“Yeah, fuckin’ hot waitresses on the plane,” Ryan goes on after our initial greeting. “Stuck-up cunts though... I don’t think they like punkers.”
Ryan had financed his trip with savings he’d compiled while working at the aeronautics parts factory where Ish is still employed.
“Hey man, we got this band started and shit,” Frank starts up quite emphatic about our one jam session. “You should play bass.”
“I don’t know how to play.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Jenkins counters then switches subjects. “Hey man, we met this cool chick that Frank’s fuckin’ now. Mama, or I should say, ‘Charlene,’ but we call her ‘Mama’ cuz she’s like 27 or somethin’... An’ then we met a buncha other chicks... an’ other people an’ some wastoids sorta from meetin’ her... She told us about this new wave bar in the Quarter and we been goin’ there all the time—”
“Quarter...?” Ryan interrupts. “What’s the fuckin’ Quarter?”
