The lights were bright. Blinding. They needed to get out from under them and quick.

“We gotta get the fuck out of here,” Spooks said.

No shit, he thought. But they were boxed in. How had they even gotten here in the first place? Last he remembered, they were at Jerry Fritz’ place, probably five or six in the morning when they left. No, earlier; it was still dark outside. They were going to drive to the church before they got any drunker. It was the kind of terrible idea you have only when you’re shitfaced. And now they were stuck in a goddamn parking lot downtown.

He looked around. Cement desert stretched out in every direction, the Dallas skyline surrounding them like mountain ranges. The lot was caged in by a black metal fence. And the lights. The goddamn street lamps pushing their exposing glare down on them. They were sitting ducks out here.

“Woof!” Spooks said. “Over there!”

Over where? Christ, the astigmatisms were bad enough, but now he was seeing double, triple. And if he drove around in circles all morning looking for the way out… No. They couldn't get taken in again. This time they wouldn’t get off so lucky.

“Woof! Woof!”

“Spooks, chill!”

Spooks was the Weimaraner riding shotgun. Spooks could talk. Spooks was also a terrible racist and the reason they had to leave the party in the first place. He couldn't take the dog anywhere near a taco stand, lavanderia, basketball courts… why he thought he’d be cool at the show was beyond him. They bailed when Spooks started running his mouth off at some of the colored dancers in the cabaret green room.

“Over there!” Spooks pointed with his snout.

Everything was spinning, but he saw it. The exit. He weaved the car over the white parking lines toward the closed bar gate. Yanking on the parking brake, he got out of the car and grabbed the beam. It was painted yellow. It was made of wood. He wasn't expecting that. Plastic, maybe, but wood? He tried to lift it, but it wouldn't go. Then he rocked it hard, back and forth until the two-by-four snapped off the gate mechanism.

He heard from back in the car: “Let's go! Woof, woof!”

For some reason it felt safer to take it with them. Evidence, he thought. He threw the yellow beam into the Plymouth between the two front seats, one end pressed up against the windshield, the other extending into the backseat. Slam on the brakes and there goes the windshield. Fine. They pulled off the lot and the car bottomed out as they turned onto the city streets, the pale blue of sunrise creeping over the city’s shoulder.

“We need to get to the church,” said Spooks.

"Fuck that," he replied. "Fuck the church." Fuck Padre. "We're going south."

They drove the surface streets to the short stretch of freeway connecting to the interstate. He couldn’t read the signs and missed the onramp three times. On one of the turnbacks, he veered off the road and into a grass median, but wouldn’t remember even after seeing the dirt and grass caked up under the bumper and into the wheel well the following afternoon while he layed on the ground wretching. They got to the interstate and he relaxed. Straight shot now. The Gulf was only five hours away. They were going.

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