Standing in line, behind the guy wearing that shirt, I couldn’t help but notice.
Spend enough time in West Texas, I have, and it get curious.
I ordered a cool cup of coffee on a hot August afternoon, waiting for an opening. Finally, I just asked. He pointed to the front of the shirt, in graffitti script, he read, “Smell like something died.”
Amarillo. I asked. Then we commiserated that Lubbock, on the right afternoon, smells much worse.
I’ll admit that I always love my time in West Texas.