disappointment. “Charlie, you know my limit is two hundred. You’re at one ninety right now, and we had an agreement you would pay it down last week.” He shrugs, as if to say, “What can I tell you?”
“Mo, ten bucks, gas. I’m good for it. If I’m late, I’ll pay you and I’ll mop your damn floors. Anything.” I’m groveling, but Mo just shakes his head and rings me up for ten dollars in gas. I feel bad, but not as bad as I would borrowing from Jimmy.
¤ ¤ ¤
The Pygmy Up is a deliberately funky dive that caters to yuppie stoners who get their weed at the dispensary around the corner. It’s got thirty different kinds of pies, tarts, and scones, fancy chocolate concoctions, and a decent cup of coffee. I scrounge enough change out of the glove box of my Z to cover myself. This isn’t a date and Tanya’s not in my good books at the moment.
She’s already inside, sitting in an overstuffed armchair with a latte and her attitude. I get a cup of the house blend and sit on the loveseat across from her. There’s a cat already on it; he makes a minimum adjustment to accommodate me, stretches, and starts to purr. Tanya checks me out like I’m wearing a clown suit, and I realize I’m still wearing the skinhead’s clothes.
“That’s kind of an odd look for you, Charlie.” She’s dressed in jeans again, but this time with a black silk blouse with the top four buttons open. Asians aren’t known for having large breasts, so it must be the Irish in her that’s stretching the fabric. Different boots, but just as cool and pointy. There’s latte foam on her upper lip; it’s cute, but then she notices me staring and licks it off, which is even cuter.
She puts down her drink and says, “Okay, look, you tell me what happened and where the hell you’ve been and I’ll fill you in on what was going on.”
“Everything?” I check her out; she doesn’t even blink.
“Everything.”
I know she’s lying already. On the other hand, I’ve got nothing for her, so it’s a draw. I wonder what to say next when her cellphone rings. She picks it up and says, “I can’t talk now. I’ll have more for you soon.” It gives me an idea. I tell her to go ahead, talk, and I’ll be back in a few.
I get up and walk to the back of the shop to the men’s room. The stall is cramped and dark. I latch myself in and try roaming. I watch my body slump forward like a junkie nodding out, then I move through the door and out into the shop to where Tanya’s talking on her cell. I catch her saying, “No, he didn’t bring the briefcase. What? No, look, you put me onto this clown.” She listens for a beat and then says, “Fine. It’s got to be one of three things. Either he still has it, or he turned it over to them even though I said not to, or they took it from him.” Another beat and she says, “I know it’s my fault. I’ll handle it.” And she clicks the phone shut. Her hand goes to the corner of her eye and I catch it: she grabs a lash with her thumb and forefinger and yanks it out. Then another one.
I go back to the body and move it out of the stall. I look in the mirror and see a guy in a white tee shirt and a baseball cap. I check out the eyes and wonder if anyone’s home. By the time I get back to my loveseat, I have a story to tell, from out of nowhere, as if I’d never lost it.
¤ ¤ ¤
I was watching
True Detective
when Tanya called. The show was almost over. She asked me if I was ready; I told her a few minutes. I already had my instructions. I got in my car but it was a warm night so I changed my mind and decided to ride my bike to the Cheesecake. I figured I would go across the street to Jimmy’s afterward and celebrate, and I didn’t want to drive home loaded. Riding a bike while high is one of life’s great pleasures.
I got to the restaurant at 10:25 and went to my designated corner and ordered a drink. There were a few late diners left, and some drinkers at the bar. At 10:30 sharp an
“Mo, ten bucks, gas. I’m good for it. If I’m late, I’ll pay you and I’ll mop your damn floors. Anything.” I’m groveling, but Mo just shakes his head and rings me up for ten dollars in gas. I feel bad, but not as bad as I would borrowing from Jimmy.
¤ ¤ ¤
The Pygmy Up is a deliberately funky dive that caters to yuppie stoners who get their weed at the dispensary around the corner. It’s got thirty different kinds of pies, tarts, and scones, fancy chocolate concoctions, and a decent cup of coffee. I scrounge enough change out of the glove box of my Z to cover myself. This isn’t a date and Tanya’s not in my good books at the moment.
She’s already inside, sitting in an overstuffed armchair with a latte and her attitude. I get a cup of the house blend and sit on the loveseat across from her. There’s a cat already on it; he makes a minimum adjustment to accommodate me, stretches, and starts to purr. Tanya checks me out like I’m wearing a clown suit, and I realize I’m still wearing the skinhead’s clothes.
“That’s kind of an odd look for you, Charlie.” She’s dressed in jeans again, but this time with a black silk blouse with the top four buttons open. Asians aren’t known for having large breasts, so it must be the Irish in her that’s stretching the fabric. Different boots, but just as cool and pointy. There’s latte foam on her upper lip; it’s cute, but then she notices me staring and licks it off, which is even cuter.
She puts down her drink and says, “Okay, look, you tell me what happened and where the hell you’ve been and I’ll fill you in on what was going on.”
“Everything?” I check her out; she doesn’t even blink.
“Everything.”
I know she’s lying already. On the other hand, I’ve got nothing for her, so it’s a draw. I wonder what to say next when her cellphone rings. She picks it up and says, “I can’t talk now. I’ll have more for you soon.” It gives me an idea. I tell her to go ahead, talk, and I’ll be back in a few.
I get up and walk to the back of the shop to the men’s room. The stall is cramped and dark. I latch myself in and try roaming. I watch my body slump forward like a junkie nodding out, then I move through the door and out into the shop to where Tanya’s talking on her cell. I catch her saying, “No, he didn’t bring the briefcase. What? No, look, you put me onto this clown.” She listens for a beat and then says, “Fine. It’s got to be one of three things. Either he still has it, or he turned it over to them even though I said not to, or they took it from him.” Another beat and she says, “I know it’s my fault. I’ll handle it.” And she clicks the phone shut. Her hand goes to the corner of her eye and I catch it: she grabs a lash with her thumb and forefinger and yanks it out. Then another one.
I go back to the body and move it out of the stall. I look in the mirror and see a guy in a white tee shirt and a baseball cap. I check out the eyes and wonder if anyone’s home. By the time I get back to my loveseat, I have a story to tell, from out of nowhere, as if I’d never lost it.
¤ ¤ ¤
I was watching
True Detective
when Tanya called. The show was almost over. She asked me if I was ready; I told her a few minutes. I already had my instructions. I got in my car but it was a warm night so I changed my mind and decided to ride my bike to the Cheesecake. I figured I would go across the street to Jimmy’s afterward and celebrate, and I didn’t want to drive home loaded. Riding a bike while high is one of life’s great pleasures.
I got to the restaurant at 10:25 and went to my designated corner and ordered a drink. There were a few late diners left, and some drinkers at the bar. At 10:30 sharp an
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