Damn you, Jackson! damn you, damn you, Jackson!
That's all I could think as I drove.
Why should he be on my mind? Why not?
That was the kind of a day it was. And that was before the worst of it.
This old hulk of a car. I hated it. It was ugly and dented. But it worked
so there I was stuck with it. I told myself often enough that's what I got,
demanding my freedom. My independence. My freedom to be an artist, and to choose
my jobs for their challenge and expression of me not just for money.
So: I'm poor and have a junky ugly dented car I have to fix nearly every weekend.
What's that got to do with Jackson? Nothing whatever.
But the driving had.
In a way.