She takes my order. "Scattered, covered, chunked and topped." I've heard from her that she's been bruised by her man at home. She called the cops and threw him out at that. But times are tough, two paychecks go farther than one, and her man is her man, and so, he's back in.
It's four kids they're raising and they're living in that stereotypical trailer park and the bills are always coming in.
I study people and she intrigues me. And I get her wrong.
I figure her for a country music fan as I admire her long red hair pulled back in that cute ponytail. Wrong. It's metal she likes. I once asked her if she was going to an upcoming Metallica concert. "Naah," she shrugged. "They ain't hard enough for me." She later revealed to me a few of her tattoos. No cute butterfly on the ankle for her. That dragon just about covered her entire lower back.
I'm a regular. I'm polite and I tip well. I add some Tabasco sauce to my order and read a few pages from my book. I then head home, silently and peacefully. There's drudgery to my days, but thanks to that midnight serving, I'll get a bit of color in my dreams.
I cross the dam and the moon is high. I know how good I've got it.
Title Quote: "Stuck Between Stations" by The Hold Steady
The rest of the album is typical R. Kelly, as frustrating, perverse, and pleasurable as his best recordings. Kelly seems to have no superego; he is willing to say anything that occurs to him, no matter how strange he sounds or how self-incriminating it might seem. Many people facing serious criminal charges related to sexual conduct would not include a song called “Sex Planet” on their CD, or, if they did, would probably omit the line about a “trip to planet Uranus.”
