drunk twinks

Driving on the right was absolutely terrifying for me as passenger. I
seemed far too close to the vehicles on the other side of the road, and when
we overtook a slower lorry, the oncoming traffic hurtled straight for me.
Pete was a good driver, though, and took no unnecessary risks. After a while
I relaxed and started to notice the strange Flemish town names. My efforts
at pronouncing them made Pete smile, and when I overheard two locals
conversing in a shout outside a bar, my mimicry of them was so accurate that
he nearly drove off the road, laughing so much.

“Come on, pack it in,’ he grinned at me, “you’ll have no voice left if you
go on like that!’ Then, more thoughtfully, he added, “Perhaps this trip
could be fun, after all.’

The Belgian port loomed up, gantries black and menacing in the fog. I went
back to the lorry. Pete got in, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Were you having trouble with that sailor?’ I asked him. He shot a
surprised look at me, then smiled.

“No, I often meet him on this trip. He doesn’t have much to do while we’re
out at sea.’ He hesitated, then stretched out across the steering wheel, his
chin on his hands, and stared at me. “There’s a lot you don’t know about,
isn’t there?’

This enigmatic question caught me off guard. What did he mean? I knew that
I wasn’t an experienced traveller like him, but it was a peculiar remark,
all the same. It certainly did nothing to put me at ease, only made me feel
more out of place. No appropriate answer came to mind, so I just kept quiet,
watching the cargo doors of the boat opening.