Previously in The Blues & Billie Armstrong…
There were new plans in her green eyes, there were maps and highways and calendars, and she seemed to be nodding in rhythm to an inner voice. The crowd oohed and aahed, and I took a hit from the joint and drank root beer Southern Comfort from the waxy cup. Not bad.
Sonny drove us home in the Fairlane, and at first I wondered why because the streets were choked with cars and pedestrians leaving the park and the carnival.
We could’ve walked home more quickly. But he pulled up in front of our house, parked at the curb, got out of the car and handed Billie the keys in exchange for her promise not to drive anywhere that night.