They were driving from San Francisco down to Monterey, and Davis wasn’t feeling well. He had waxed immortal the night before, fueled by drink and Guided by Voices. It seemed to Davis that Ellen was driving badly, changing back and forth into the lane, bumping methodically over the strips of tars, just to worsen his nausea.
“You have to pull over.” He didn’t make it out of the car and pressed his The Club is Open T-shirt over his face so tight that the puke shot up inside his sunglasses.
She stared out the windshield, her arms crossed. “You’re disgusting.”
“Do you have a napkin or something?”
“Remember that we’re staying at Doris Day’s Bed & Breakfast tonight?” She rolled down her window.“I guess I should get another shirt.” He half expected her to drive away as he rummaged in the trunk.
She rolled down her window. “She might even be there, you know.”
But she wasn’t and he slept in the big bed with the window open and had a shower and a very good dinner after that.
Autobiographical with the names changed? It sounds familiar.
Everything is autobiographical.