The rock pile

I picked up a drunk guy in a suit who was in San Diego for a business conference. He was going from a suburban Olive Garden restaurant to the Hyatt Grand Manchester on Harbor Drive. Traffic on I5 was light, but downtown was a different story. It was getting busy with people looking for a good time on a Friday night.

We were stuck in a line of traffic when, out of the blue, he told me his marriage is good, but he constantly cheats on his wife. He seemed to feel genuinely bad. "I can't control myself," he said. "I'd fuck a rock pile if I thought a woman was underneath it."