Stick Out Your Tongue
by
Raud Kennedy
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2012 Raud Kennedy
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover photos by Manson Kennedy
Discover other titles by Raud Kennedy at www.raudkennedy.com
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Raud Kennedy
Also by Raud Kennedy
Portland – Short Stories
Mad Rabbits
Top of the World
Streaking Venus
Sex on the Beach
Twice Dead
Black Oak
Glimpses – Poems
One
It all began on a Saturday last fall. The day had started out no differently than any other Saturday. I’d slept over at Scott’s. He was my boyfriend at the time, not a bad guy, but too high maintenance for me. He had big white-collar career dreams and planned on rising up through the ranks at this insurance company he worked at. He must’ve liked a challenge because he was starting in the basement mailroom. Me, I couldn’t handle being cramped in a concrete cell without any windows all week long. Nope, I’d go postal and burn the place down. Just give me my bicycle and a packet to deliver, and everything is cool.
I worked for a courier service riding around downtown Boston picking up deliveries and dropping them where people told me to. Pickups and drops. The name of the company was Bean Pod Delivery. Sounds cute, eh? But try being asked a zillion times a day if you’re from Bean Pod. No, I’m from Piss Pot. The person who came up with the name should be capped.
Like I said, the day had started out normal. I woke up earlier than Scott because I had to work a half-day. It was the first night that week I’d slept over, so I was feeling pretty ornery. It was time for my man to get his mojo workin’. I gave him a little ‘assistance’, and he woke up just the way I wanted him. To tell you the truth, I kind of used
Scott. I wasn’t in love with him, but he knew what to do in bed and didn’t have a lot of hang-ups about sex, which was one of the few areas he didn’t.
After we made our toes curl, he collapsed on top of me and started to space on his big-O endorphin high. I’m kind of a small girl, so when a guy spreads his elbows and uses me as a body pillow, I can only go without breathing for so long. If I didn’t smoke, maybe I could’ve let him nap a while, but to hell with that. “Get off me, you dope,” I gasped.
“Sorry,” he mumbled and rolled off. His eyes were closed, and I knew he’d soon be asleep again. He slept a lot on weekends. Like he had to rest his brain from all that strenuous work in the mailroom. But I didn’t mind, it kept his important parts rested.
I pushed the blind aside so I could look outside and see what the weather was like. The leaves were dropping, their color had turned brown and gold. The window was open a crack, and the air breezing in smelled different that morning. The beginning of the end rode on that musky smell of molting leaves, like Scott’s breath next to me. “I’ve gotta go to work,” I said and threw the covers back. I went into the bathroom to use his shower. For a guy, he kept his bathroom really clean, Odd Couple Felix clean. He’d have a conniption fit if he knew how many times I’d used his razor to shave my legs. I’m not the girliest of girls, but hairy legs are way too granola crunchy, like go save the planet for me, okay? When I was clean and dressed in my baggies and tank top, I went back into the bedroom and messed Scott’s hair. “See you later,” I said and smooched his cheek. Considering he’d just done a two-mile breaststroke, I figured he was asleep again, but he rolled over and opened his eyes.
“Are we doing bands at the Rat tonight?” he asked.
I swung my courier bag over my head, strapped on my crash helmet and hefted my bike to my shoulder. “Yeah, we’re meeting Dave, and whoever is his flavor of the week, at Foley’s around eight,” I said and opened the apartment door. “And wear boots, I think it’s a surf punk band.”
He nodded his head as he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. “Got it, wear boots,” he mumbled.
I stepped into the hallway and closed the door. “Got it, wear boots,” I echoed back quietly. Actually, that’s my nickname, Echo. Ever since I was little, whenever I heard something that sounded funny, like it was a strange combination of words, or was said in a funny way, I echoed it. If you don’t know me, it comes across as wise ass, which I am a lot of the time, but mainly it’s just habit. I’d tell you the name my mother gave me, but I don’t like it. It’s a name that suits some stiff ass blue blood on Beacon Hill, not a street rat like me.
Scott’s was in Cambridge across the Charles River from Boston, a really crunchy granola, hairy legged sort of town, but his apartment was rent controlled. So for two hundred a month, even I’d live there. I rode across the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge on my bike, a real babe, though you wouldn’t know it from looking at her. I’ve disguised her with rags and stickers, kind of like me. Then I headed through Back Bay. With all its tree lined streets, I wouldn’t mind living there, but my friend, Zoë, said I’d have to marry an old codger sugar daddy to afford it, and spreading for a guy who’s into screwing a girl the age of his granddaughter would get old fast. When I hit the financial district, I locked my bike to a meter maid’s best friend where I could see it from inside the Blue Diner and went inside.
This place was a real greasy spoon in an old style aluminum diner, but the service was fast and the people weren’t dicks. There’s nothing worse than getting a bitchy waitress first thing in the morning who slams your plate down and leaves you high and dry with an empty coffee cup, or worse yet, a full cup but with no cream. Ask anyone who drinks their coffee with cream, coffee with no cream just doesn’t satisfy, like Scott when he’s drunk. God I bitch a lot, you’d think I was Sinead O’Conner.
So the Blue Diner was greasy, but it’s hard to screw up eggs and toast. I climbed on a red capped stool and turned my coffee cup upright. The morning guy, Chad, immediately filled it and scooted the cream down the counter to me. I loved that place. Chad was a regular guy, the sort you find all over Boston, barrel chested and balding, with a thick chowder head accent. He ran the front, and his girlfriend, Gladys, ran the sweatshop that was the kitchen.
“You working today?” Chad asked.
“Yep,” I said, and waved hello at Gladys in the kitchen as I slurped my coffee.
Chad smiled. “Then you’re in luck. Our omelet of the day is a protein special, sausage, bacon, green and red peppers, all smothered in Swiss cheese.”
“I’ll take it,” I said and slurped more coffee. “Got any newspapers around?”
He slid a Herald down the counter. “Have mine.”
“Thanks, I’ll try not to spill on it.”
The first thing I do when I get a paper is check my horoscope. That day’s said, “When encountering obnoxious persons, don’t let them agitate you. Remain calm.” Me get agitated? Never. The headlines were full of the same boring crap as always. The President had announced another new assault on hate crimes. I hate crimes too, but all this guy did was talk, gas and more gas. Then there were the daily announcements of more world strife, hunger and nonsense. If I didn’t always have to be doing something, I’d probably never look at the newspapers. One story did catch my eye, though. In Toledo, Ohio a group of striking school teachers took control of a high school building and demanded higher pay, but before the police showed up for a face off, yardsticks against guns, a group of militia separatists, calling themselves, The New Americans, stormed the building and took the teachers hostage. Now it was guns against guns. Their demands were a statewide vote on seceding from the Union. If the South couldn’t do it, what made them think little Ohio could. I’d like to secede from the Union too. Hell, I’d like to secede from the planet, but the only way to get off it is way too painful, especially if you’re a guy in cult that’s chasing a comet.
After the omelet, which was more of a gut bomb than a protein pick me up, I rolled into work. Piss Pot was in a former chop shop. The Boston Mafia used to break up stolen cars there and sell the parts as new. The grease in that place was never going to go away. I can still smell the Liquid Wrench now. There was a mechanic, Ned, who worked on the yellow courier cars and some of the bikes, and he filled in for the dispatcher when he went on his lunch hour. I always tried to take my lunch break then because Ned would dispatch us street rats on car runs that went to hell and back, and then laugh, saying he’d made a mistake. He was also the owner’s pit bull. He did the hiring and firing, so a certain amount of ass kissing was in order. When I rode into the garage, Ned was in his train engineer overalls sweeping the floor with a push broom. He was tall and skinny as a rake handle and bald as a bowling pin. “You’re late,” he said as I hopped off my bike.
I looked at my watch. “Bullshit.” I was three minutes early, no slow service at the Blue Diner.
Ned leaned on his broom handle. “I’m joking.”
“You’re such a social retard.”
“Then teach me how to socialize,” he said, polishing his broom handle with a jack off motion.
I rested my bike against the wall and started for the office. “I’m gonna sue you for sexual harassment.”
“I’ll have to pay in trade,” he said and leered at my bike.
“If you touch it, I’ll Bobbit you,” I said and stepped into the office. Ned and I played this game almost every morning. He wanted my ass but there was no way he was going to get it, so all he was, was gas. But I meant it when I said he was a social retard. I felt sorry for him. He’d say things that would make you shiver with the heebie jeebies. He probably didn’t even know what a social retard was, but hell if I was going to give him a sympathy lay.
The office wasn’t much bigger than a cash hut at a gas station. There were a couple of car couriers inside. I couldn’t remember their names, I never could, so I smiled and said, “Hi.” I grabbed my radio from the lock up where they charged them over night and strapped it to my bag’s shoulder strap running across my chest. That way while riding in traffic, I could get to it without having to stop. Sitting in front of a wall map of Boston and its burbs, looking like Jabba the Hut with a scraggly beard, was Randy, the dispatcher. I liked Randy. Just because he looked like Jabba and scowled a lot didn’t mean he was into eating live frogs and tossing people into pits for monster food. He was more like Charlie Brown gone to seed. Beer belly, chronic smoker, hungover a lot of the time, but still easy going and warm hearted.
“Hey, Echo,” he drawled. He was from somewhere out West. “How ya doing?”
“I had a Blue Diner gut bomb for breakfast.”
“Living on the edge, huh?”
“Out there with the Pillsbury Doughboy,” I said and stuck out my bloated stomach like I was pregnant.
He pushed his morning box of Duncan Donuts across his desk toward me. “Have a donut.”
“Push it any closer and I’ll ralph in it.”
Randy pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know how you feel.”
“Did you go to the Spit last night?” The Spit was a tavern in Somerville near where several of the guys lived. It was actually called the Barbecue Pit, but I called it the Spit because the only thing I’d do with their food was spit it out.
“Hell if I was going to stay home on a Friday night and watch TV,” he said as he shuffled through a few pickup sheets.
“No long hauls, okay?” I pleaded, holding my gut. A long run out to Brookline would not be good for the digestion.
“Don’t worry kid. It’s slow, even I’m getting bored.” He handed me a sheet of pickups to copy down on my clipboard. “It’s the same old Saturday pickup. You can stretch this one out for hours. There are thirteen packets, and all of the drops are in Back Bay and on Beacon Hill. You know how those folks are, they don’t wake up until it’s time for brunch.” He took a swig of Diet Coke and swallowed a few tabs of aspirin.
I handed back the sheet and stuffed my clipboard in my bag. “Thanks Randy, I’ll check in when I’ve made all the drops,” I said as I moved to the door.”
“Take your time. Dave’s on the streets too.”
“What’s he doing working my Saturdays?” I usually worked Saturdays alone. It was slow, and they only needed one bike.
“There’s a girl at Mills & Nash who only works Saturdays. He wants to hit on her.”
“That slut,” I said with a grin, meaning Dave, and walked back into the garage. Ned was waiting for me next to my bike, a wrench dangling from his hand. He looked like Mr. Goodwrench on crack.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said. “There’s nothing on it that needs fixing.”
He raised his hands, palms out, and wiggled them at me. “You sure your hubs don’t need to be lubed.”
“You’re such a pig.” I pushed him out of the way, jumped on my bike and rode out of there.
“Have a nice day,” Ned cooed after me. I thought of the smiley face T-shirt I’ve got where the face has a bullet hole in its forehead. Ned was getting worse, and it was really starting to annoy me, almost as much as a bitchy waitress in the morning.
The pickup was in a four-story walk up in the lower South End on Shawmut Ave, a nice building, but the neighborhood was what a realtor selling it would claim was ‘transitional’ to make it sound better. It was one of those areas yuppie couples get conned into moving into, but get scared out of within a year. Too much small time crime. Most of the rest of South End was cool, but especially cool if you have a hankering for your same flavor, as in gay.
When I arrived at the building, I carried my bicycle up the stoop and pushed the intercom button. “Bean Pod,” I called into the speaker, the first of a zillion times. The door lock buzzed open. I wheeled my bike into the entry area, leaned it against the wall, and climbed the four flights to the top floor where I knew from routine I’d find the packets stacked in the hall outside the apartment door. And there they were, as always. I’d never seen the pickup’s face, but I figured it was a guy because Randy said a guy always called in the pickups. Maybe he was shy, who knew. Maybe he didn’t want to trouble with putting clothes on. We’ve all been there, can’t be proper all the time. I picked up the packets and as I traipsed down the stairs, I shuffled through the envelopes, sorting them by address into the order I’d deliver them. They were all nearby. This Saturday was going to be easy. I’d do more stair climbing than riding.
The first drop was on Commonwealth Avenue near the Public Garden. I rang the buzzer and waited. There was no answer, so I rang it again. Still there was no answer. I didn’t want to make all the other drops and then have to ride back there after those lazy asses woke up, so I pushed the buzzer and held it down. After a zillion hours, this eurotrash daddy’s girl opened the door. She looked like she’d left her soul at the Club Joy disco last night, I mean, I’ve seen movie zombies that looked more alive than she did. I took my time letting go of the buzzer, then said, “Bean Pod Delivery.”
She flipped her long brown hair to one side and stared at me. “What do you want?”
I glanced at the address written on the envelope. “I’ve a delivery for a Sofia in apartment two. Do you live in apartment two?” I asked dryly.
Her eyes went wide, the red in them showed me how truly hungover she was. “Did Nicky send you?”
“I don’t know any Nickies, but I know a few Frankies,” I said, being smart.
“Just give me the envelope,” she snapped.
“Do you live in apartment two?”
“Yes, I’m Sofia, the second floor is mine,” she said, exasperated.
I held out my clipboard for her and offered a pen. “Please sign at the top of the page next to your address.”
She scrawled some lines that meant nothing, and I handed her the packet. As I did, she tried to hand me an envelope back. “What’s this?” I asked.
“You know what it is. Give it to Nicky,” she said, thrusting the envelope into my hand and disappearing behind the closed door. I put the packet in my bag, thinking nothing of it, just a return trip I’d have to let Randy know of so he could bill them for it. I don’t ride for free.
The next few drops were mail slot deliveries at private residences, then a couple of preppy guys who answered the door in their boxers. Remember when the President was asked if he wore boxers or jockeys? I can’t believe he actually answered. The rest were more eurotrash who acted pretty much the same way as Miss Sofia. Get a life. I was finished around noon and radioed into base. Randy said to call it a day and come on in.
“What about Dave? Is he still on the street?” I asked.
“If you could call it that,” Randy radioed back. “He’s been polishing his handlebars outside Mills & Nash for the last hour praying for them to call in a pickup.”
“Okay, I’m on my way,” I said.
“Hey, I heard that,” Dave said over the radio.
Mills & Nash wasn’t far away, so I rode in that direction. I saw him up ahead, stretched out on a park bench with his head resting on his crash helmet. I pulled up next to him. “Hey slut, what’s happening?”
He opened his eyes. “Hi Echo. Nothing. I’ve had three runs.”
“Who’s this chick at Mills & Nash?”
“She’s a babe, totally my type,” he said as he sat up. “Maybe you know her? Maybe you could set me up?”
“If she’s your type, I doubt I know her. I assume her bra size is bigger than her IQ?”
“I can’t help it, Echo. I’m a slave to big boobs.”
“Just go up there and pretend you have a pickup to make. Then while she’s searching around the desk, do your puppy dog thing or whatever you scam these chicks with.”
“Shit, that’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because, you slut, you’re thinking with the wrong head,” I said, and rode my bike into the street. “See you tonight at Foley’s.”
I started back toward the Piss Pot chop shop, but then I remembered Miss Sofia’s return drop, the envelope with Nicky scrawled on it. As I hung a U-turn, a fat lady in a mini-van honked at me. I gave her the evil eye, then smiled. I was rolling down Boylston at a good clip when a car door opened in front of me. I swerved to miss it and smacked into the car I was sideswiping. It knocked me off balance, and the ground rose up to meet me. My feet broke free of my pedals, and my crash helmet hit the pavement, then I went for a skid and rolled up against the nearest parked car. I prayed to Sid Vicious my bike didn’t get run over.
I was lucky. I had road rash up one leg, but my bike was in one piece. I picked it up and waved off the drivers asking me if I was okay, then walked back to the car door I almost impaled my brains on. Standing behind it was a happy homemaker from the burbs. I guessed she was in town for her urban fix while the kiddies were at BB&N, a rich private school, listening to a lecture about Big Brother in 1984. She looked a little stunned, probably worrying about a lawsuit. I was pissed, but I also knew if I hadn’t been sideswiping her I wouldn’t have dumped it.
“God, are you all right? I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Don’t worry about me, hon, just check your mirror next time. If I’d been a drunk cabby, you’d be shredded from here to the Commons,” I said, got back on my bike and pedaled into traffic. My adrenaline was rushing hard, and I didn’t want to deal with her, but I’d give ten to one odds she’d check her mirror from now on. What a public service we street rats provided, the city should give us a bonus for every crash.
I turned onto Dartmouth and rolled into the South End. At the building where I made my morning pickup, I carried my bike up the stoop and pressed the intercom. A man’s voice answered, “Yeah, who is it?”
“Bean Pod,” I sing-songed.
“You already picked up.”
“I know, I picked them up. You’ve got a return packet.”
The door lock buzzed open, and I wheeled my bike inside. As I took the stairs two at a time, I pulled the envelope out of my bag. It had a big tear in it. Inside, I could see a load of twenties. Sending cash was against the rules. Checks, yeah, but no green. With what Piss Pot paid us, they didn’t think we could handle the temptation. When I’d climbed to the fourth floor, I closed the tear as much as I could and slipped it under the door, then turned and started loping down the stairs two at a time. But I wasn’t going to get away that easy. A gruff voice called after me. “Yo! Bean Pod chick! Hold up there.”
I was six steps from the ground floor. I stopped and waited. No way was I going back up there. This pickup was too creepy. Maybe there was a darker reason for why he never opened his door. I wanted to be as near the building’s exit as possible. Heavy footfalls came down the stairs, and then a guy rounded the corner of the banister. He had black hair slicked back from his forehead the way the euros wore it, and he had a tan, like he worked outside or didn’t work at all. He was good-looking in an Armani sort of way, except for his eyes. They had a mean glint, like rusted bullet dents in a road sign.
He held out the torn envelope. “What’s with this?”
I played dumb. “Sofia in apartment two on Comm. Ave. told me to drop it here. I assume you’re Nicky.”
“You open it?” he asked hotly.
“I crashed my bike,” I said, staring back at his mean eyes. “It must’ve torn in the fall.”
He looked me up and down. His gaze rested on my bloodied leg for a moment, then he smiled and pulled one of the twenties from the envelope. When he smiled, his face warmed, and the cold glint in his eyes changed to a sparkle. He held out the bill to me. “This is for Band-Aids.” The bill was crisp, fresh out of an ATM. I could smell the Denver mint. “Go on, take it. I’m not going to bite.”
I took two steps up the stairs and snatched it from his hand. “Nobody ever tips.”
His smile faded, and he winked one of his mean eyes at me. “Let’s keep this between you and me, okay?” I put the money in my pocket and nodded. He turned and started back up the stairs. “See you soon,” he said with a glance over his shoulder.
I carried my bike down the stoop and started riding. This was a total ‘I should’ve’ situation. I should’ve taken the torn envelope to base once I saw money in it. I should’ve passed on the twenty dollar tip. I should’ve stayed in bed with Scott. The drop’s eyes said it was more than a tip. “Fuck!” I swore aloud. It was almost Saturday night, and I wanted to have some fun, not worry about some dickhead named Nicky. I cranked it through traffic as hard as I could, using the danger of speed to push it from my mind.
J.J. Foley’s was an Irish pub on the edge of the financial district. From outside all you saw was a scraped up door and a sign. You wouldn’t go in there unless you knew to. It was a street rat hangout. You could always find a group of us lounging about after work. Once through the doors, there was a flight of stairs, then the bar and a back room full of booths. And when you crossed that threshold, time lost its teeth. Without windows, day and night didn’t exist. It was always the same hour, the cocktail hour.
When Scott and I got there that evening, Dave was already there, and he looked like he’d been there awhile. He was in the back room sitting in a booth across from a chick I recognized as the bimbette from Mills & Nash. We crowded next to them and introductions went around. Her name was Tracy, and Dave wasn’t kidding when he said she was his type. She was so top heavy she’d make a Weeble wobble, and she wasn’t afraid of using her cleavage to get attention. This girl would always get free drinks, whereas I have to get by on my charming personality. I’m not flat chested, but the way guys have fetishes cracks me up. I’m a boob man, I’m a legman, I’m an ass, man. That’s for sure. I’m not saying looks aren’t important, they are, but the way guys take them to extremes kills me because you know after they’ve had a few beers, they’ll go after any chick who’s around, skinny, fat, married or single, doesn’t matter. Which is kind of a shame, because I know there are a lot of guys out there who’ve lost best friends because they scammed on their friend’s girlfriend when they were wasted.
Scott hadn’t missed Tracy’s assets either. He was looking at them whenever he thought she wouldn’t notice. It was a game. She knew he was looking, all girls do, but guys have to play the game and make it look like they’re not, or else they come across as creeps. One of many subtle double standards. We want them to look, hell, we need them to look, but if they make it obvious, we feel offended. Whenever one of my girlfriends gives me that line about how there’s more to her than just her body, I laugh. Your body’s a big billboard, and you get what you advertise for. Right then, Tracy had the market saturated.
“Are you guys couriers too?” she asked. Her voice was on the high side, just shy of squeaky.
“I am, but Scott’s a mail snoop over at Dudley Insurance.” I grinned at Scott. “He’s the one that makes sure the mail bomb reaches the right desk.”
Scott straightened against the back of the booth. “For now. I haven’t been there very long. I’ve got plans, big plans.” He was trying to sound like he was already the CEO. Dave looked at me and rolled his eyes. We’d heard this story before. Scott was about to launch into his bit about rising up through the ranks of corporate America. If anyone could go from the mailroom to the penthouse corner office, it might as well be him, it just sounded boring to me. Hey, I’m bitching again. I should be more accepting. Everyone to their own, right?
“Who needs a beer?” I asked as I scooted out of the booth. Everyone did. It was time for me to stand a round. I looked to see what Dave and Tracy were drinking, then looked at Scott. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Back in a flash,” I said and went to the bar in the other room. It wasn’t too crowded yet, so it wasn’t hard to get the bartender’s attention. I knew him anyway. If the bar had been crowded, I think he’d still have noticed me. His name was Robin, as in Winnie the Pooh and Tiger Too. He was friendly with everyone, on the surface at least, but once you knew him and noticed the little glances he gave his customers, you could tell he was just being polite. He liked most of them, but some he thought were real dickheads. Thankfully, I wasn’t in that group, at least not yet, but that was still to come.
“How’s it going Echo?” Robin asked. “I thought I saw that bleached head of yours bop in,” he said, and kissed the back of my hand with mock graciousness. My hair was really short, almost shaved, except for a long lock that dangled in front of my right eye, and it was butcher paper white.
“I’m doing okay,” I said.
He looked down at the scrapes on my leg. “That looks like it hurts.” I’d cleaned it up, but road rash is something you just have to live with. “Want some aspirin? I have some if you do.”
“Thanks, but a few beers will do the trick,” I said and listed off our order. As he filled the pint glasses at the taps, I asked how he was doing.
“Real good. My girlfriend gets back in town tonight. I’m picking her up once my shift is over.” She was a sky waitress for Aer Lingus on the Boston to Dublin run. “She has a couple of free tickets to New York for tomorrow.”
“Got any plans for what you’re gonna do while you’re down there?” I asked. Being a street rat in the Rotten Apple was the ultimate.
“Just mess around, maybe look up a friend or two.” He set the last of the pints in front of me. I paid him and said thanks. “Take care of that leg,” he said as he picked up the tip.
I took two trips with the beers, then slid back into the booth. Scott had finished his corporate America spiel, and it was clear that Tracy had bought into it. She too had delusions of grandeur of a life in air conditioned buildings with fake press board ceilings and fluorescent light tubes pulsing above. Dave definitely did not like this development. It was a threat to his quest for the holy ta ta’s.
He and Scott had gone to college together. They’d met at U Mass in Amherst their freshman year and had remained friends since. I could never tell why. They were so different. Scott, like I’ve said, was pretty anal, whereas Dave was mellow and didn’t take much of anything seriously. Except for his quests, of course. He was a real cynic, maybe even more so than me, if you can believe it. I’d met Scott through Dave when I first started working at Piss Pot a little over a year ago. A bunch of us couriers got together at Foley’s, and Scott tagged along with Dave. I’d just split up with this rocker dude who was in a band and I think I was looking for someone safe, pretty and predictable. From one extreme to the other. So I was on the rebound, call me weak, but I told you he knew what to do where it counted. Who cared if his dreams of corporate America sounded like torture room 101 in Orwell’s 1984. It’s not like we were soul mates or anything.
“What kind of benefit package do they have at Dudley?” Tracy asked. I looked at Dave. He rolled his eyes again, this time with more than just annoyance. The self-destruct switch had been flipped. He nudged Scott in the ribs and said, “Excuse me dude, I gotta take a leak.”
Without taking his eyes off of Tracy, Scott slid out of the booth, saying, “They have the full package, Harvard Health, family leave, just what you’d expect from an insurance company.”
I watched Dave disappear into the bathroom.
“That’s great,” Tracy said. “Mills & Nash kind of skimp on the health program.”
“Hey, it’s a law firm, what can you expect?” Scott said with a laugh. Tracy squeaked too. She had a glow in her eye, one of those pheromone glows. The kind of glow you get when you think a guy is cute and you like him. Scott caught it, then glanced at me uncomfortably.
I slipped out of the booth. Their conversation wasn’t my cup of tea. If he wanted to flirt with her about benefit packages and maternity leave, that was fine by me, but I wasn’t going to suffer through it. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I’m gonna play some tunes on the juke box.” I guess his flirting should’ve bothered me. There was a point when it would’ve, but then I simply felt indifferent and that’s when I knew it was time to shake things up. I picked up my beer and started into the other room.
“Play some Prince,” Tracy called after me.
“Sure,” I lied. Listening to Prince was no way to get into the mood for a surf punk band at the Ratskeller. What the hell does that guy want to be called now anyway? The artist formerly known as . . . Give me a break. I didn’t think he was old enough to have a mid-life crisis.
I was flipping through the song lists, looking for some Poison Ivy or Rancid, when Dave stepped alongside me. “Play something angry. I’m sick of Scott’s bullshit,” he said.
“Don’t sweat him. He just likes to gas off for attention every now and then,” I said. “He’s just flirting, it’s like doodling on your clipboard during the slow times.”
“Doesn’t it piss you off?”
“Like I said, he’s just gas. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Besides, she’s just another bimbette.”
“Yeah, a bimbette I brought here.”
“That’s right, all you see is mammary heaven slipping through your fingers. Get a grip Dave, this ain’t worth the angst,” I said and punched in a tune by Rancid.
Dave drank the rest of his beer and looked at the floor. “Lighten up, dude,” he told himself. “You’re right, I need to keep my priorities straight. Scott can fuck her mind with his bullshit, but I’ll be the one taking her home and doing the real thing.”
I patted him on the back. “Now that’s the good slut I know. Feel better now?”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m getting another beer, you want one?”
“Sure.”
When he came back, he handed me a pint and said, “What’s with the leg, anyway?”
“Car door on Boylston.”
“Harsh toke.”
“Yeah, but my bike made it through.”
“Lucky rat.”
I smiled in agreement. I had more in common with Dave than Scott. Maybe that was a work thing, but I always kind of liked him because he was always so up front with me. That’s probably because he didn’t see me as a quest. I’d have to get Dolly Parton implants to be that. I’d look ridiculous riding my bike with all that silicone bouncing around.
Dave gave me mischievous grin. “I’m thirsty for a shot, you want one?”
“You buyin’?”
“Yep.”
We went to the bar and Robin mixed two of his special surprises. They were pink and smelled sweet, and I didn’t have a clue what was in them. Dave clinked his glass against mine. “Here’s to Tracy’s big ta ta’s and Scott’s corporate bullshit.”
“Chin chin.” I tossed back my shot, then said hoarsely, “How pissed would you be if they got together?”
“You kidding? Why are you asking me, it’s you who should be pissed.”
“Scott’s expiration date is coming up. His shelf life is past.”
Dave took a step back and put his hand on his hip in an imitation of a black sister. “Echo, you are cold,” he said in an exaggerated tone.
“Get real, Dave. Who’s planning on conning Tracy into bed just because she’s got ta ta’s the size of pom poms?”
“Yeah, but that’s dif. . . Well, maybe it isn’t.” He paused to sip his beer. “You know, Echo, you think like a guy.”
I grinned back at him. “No, Dave, you think like a girl.”
“That’s a first.”
I glanced toward the back room. “Shall we see if they’re playing footsie yet?” I remember footsie. Footsie was something you played when your boyfriend came over to your parents’ house for dinner. But footsie got old fast, and soon you had to do more outrageous things to keep your high. What that was, depended on what side of the table your parents were sitting on. When Dave and I went into the back room, Scott and Tracy were leaning over the table toward one another. If their beers hadn’t been in the way, they would’ve been holding hands. They were telling each other their stories. A Norman Rockwell moment, clean and pretty on the surface, but ignoring the dirt on the backside.
Like I said, Scott was all gas, but that’s because he was a nice guy. What’s that they say? Nice guys always finish last. It’s true, who would want to date Richie Cunningham when they could be with the Fonze. My rebound with Scott was fading. I’d feasted on stability and niceness, and I was starting to feel like I did after that Blue Diner gut bomb of an omelet. Tasty, but with a price, and not just to me. If Scott was really serious about that rising up through the corporate ranks shit, he’d be better off with a chickie who was into it too, like, how was work today, honey? Let me get your slippers. Here’s your paper. Dinner will be ready soon. You know, all that homemaker bullshit. So when I saw Scott and Tracy sharing this intimate moment, I was pissed, but not that pissed. I saw a way out.
“Hi guys,” I chirped. “Miss us?” I slid into the booth next to Scott and squeezed his leg just above the knee where it tickles bad. I wondered if he had the balls to break it off with me, or if he was going to weasel and cheat. But the worst would be if he did the passive aggressive thing and just sat on his ass being unhappy and not knowing why.
He pried my hand off his knee. “Knock it off.”
Tracy looked over her beer at me. “Did you play any Prince?”
“Yep, sure did.”
Dave grinned at me. “When did you start liking Prince?” I just smiled and didn’t answer. Dave didn’t care. He looked at Scott and said, “It’s your turn to stand a round.”
Scott stood up. “You got it,” he said and left to fetch the beers.
Tracy looked at Dave and me and asked, “What do you guys think you’ll do when you’re done being bike couriers?”
Dave stretched his arms out over the back of the booth. “That’s like asking if there’s life after death. Hell if I know. Maybe I’ll get the dispatch job.”
I scowled at him. “No way, you have to be as fat as a sumo wrestler to get that job. It’s tradition.” Randy, our dispatcher, would be there forever. Without him, Ned would become the dispatcher and Piss Pot would fall apart. I know I’d quit if that happened.
Tracy’s eyes focused on me. “What about you?”
“Who’s thinking that far ahead. I’m happy if I know what band I’m on my way to see. By the way, Dave, who’re we seeing tonight?” I asked. I didn’t want to have an HD, that means heavy discussion, about my future with a bimbette who bought Scott’s bull. I had no clue anyway. I’d never finished college, so that closed a lot of doors. Without a certificate saying I kissed butt for four years, not a lot of people would hire me, at least not where the big money was. I tried going back to school once, but I was like Rodney Dangerfield, I got so bored. I’ve a monkey mind. It wanders everywhere. Getting it to focus on reading a zillion page chapter on the Visigoths in one sitting is like trying to house-train a puppy to go wee wee on newspapers. My options were limited, and being a street rat was as good a job as the next, if not better. I guess I could’ve always gone to hair school, they’d love my shaved head. They’d call it retro punk or some such rot. I’ve a friend who did that, Zoë. She had a job on Newbury Street in a chichi salon where she was tipped at least twenty bucks for every cut she did, and more if she did color. The place was a crack-up. You even had to tip five bucks to the girl who washed your hair before the cut. This reminded me of the tip I’d gotten that noontime and of Nicky with the charming smile, but mean eyes. Just the bad sort I used to fall for, like the rocker dude, and maybe still do. But at Foley’s I didn’t want to think about it.
I shoved Dave’s arm. He was zoning on Tracy’s tits. “Snap out of it, dude, what’s the band called? You said it was a surf punk band.”
He looked at me somewhat glossily. “Yeah, that’s right. They’re called Bill’s Turf Burns, and they’re out of San Diego.”
Tracy looked amused. “What’s surf punk?”
“Picture the Beach Boys tripping on a drug cocktail of acid and crack, that’s surf punk,” Dave said.
“Sounds interesting.”
“Oh, it’s more than interesting, it’s a kick ass good time. See this chipped tooth.” Dave grinned and pointed to his tooth second left of center. “I got this in the mosh pit at the Rat.”
“Owe! That’s terrible. You know an orthodontist can fix that. Did someone push you in?”
Dave scowled. “Push me? I did a stage dive into the pit and chipped it on some guy’s head. It hurt him a lot more than it did me.”
“You can always get it capped,” Tracy said sympathetically. Dave was losing interest. I could tell he was weighing just how much pithy shit mammary heaven was worth putting up with. Tracy was nice enough, but she was into her own thing. Here it was, Saturday night, and she was still dressed like a receptionist. At least I’d gone home and changed into my Sex Pistols T-shirt. I wondered why she’d said yes to a date with Dave. He sure didn’t look like her type. He’d showered and changed, but I couldn’t see how his black leather jacket with its spiked collar fitted into her world. Maybe she was slumming it, taking a walk on the wild side to make sure her mundane life was better than ours. And maybe it was. She had a car and lived in a nice place up in Nahant, which is a fancy burb on the seashore thirty minutes north of Boston. The only thing bad about it was that you had to pass through Lynn to get to it. There’s a saying about Lynn that goes, “Lynn, Lynn, the city of sin, you never come out the way you came in.” I didn’t know. I hardly ever got out of town. I didn’t have a car.
“It’s no big deal,” Dave said, referring to his tooth.
Scott returned with the beers. I stood up so he could have the inside seat. I always did that. The inside seat makes me feel claustrophobic like I’m trapped. He passed the beers around and slid into the booth. “I was thinking,” Scott said. Dave and I let out a collective groan. “Maybe we should blow off the Rat and do something different. We could check out Jake Ivory’s.” Jake Ivory’s was a sing along piano bar on Lansdowne Street frequented by the bridge and tunnel crowd, the people who came into the city on weekends to ‘party down’. Definitely not my cup of tea. I was about to say something sarcastic, when Tracy jumped in. “My friends and I go to Jake Ivory’s all the time. We’ve never had a bad night there.”
“What a surprise,” I mumbled into my beer before I took a sip.
“You guys can do what you want, but I’m going to the Rat to check out Bill’s Turf Burns,” Dave said. I guessed he’d made up his mind what mammary heaven was worth.
“Me too,” I said. “No offense, Tracy, but Jake Ivory’s isn’t my scene.” If I went there, I’d get a lot of looks like I was strange because of my hair, not to mention that I had army boots on and the ‘Never Mind The Bullocks’ T-shirt. I’d be an outsider like a white person in Japan. A barbarian. Where were my pastels and big hair. Even if I wanted to, I would never fit in.
“None taken,” Tracy said coolly and smiled at Dave. “I’ve always been curious to see what the inside of the Rat looked like. Besides, surf punk sounds interesting.”
“Oh come on you guys, you’re stuck in a rut, you need to do something different.” Scott’s voice had taken on a preachy tone. He’d seen the light and was going to try to convert us. I don’t blame him, you always want your pals with you when you go someplace new. I wouldn’t want to be alone in Jake Ivory’s either. But he wouldn’t be, he’d have Tracy. “Scott,” I said, “we don’t have to do everything together. If you and Tracy want to go to Jake Ivory’s and have a Lawrence Welk sing-a-long, it’s fine by me. I won’t get bent out of shape. I’m an adult, at least some of the time.”
Dave gave me a serious look. I wasn’t sure if he was pissed at me for giving his mammary heaven an out, or just didn’t want to be around if Scott and I were going to have it out. Nobody wants to be around a couple who’re having a break up fight. I always beeline for the door when I see that coming. Dave hid behind his beer and waited for Scott’s response. Scott stared into his pint, then I saw the shift in his manner. He’d made up his mind. He thrust his shoulders back and looked up from his glass. “You sure you don’t mind? I’m just tired of the scene at the Rat. It’s always the same thing.”
I smiled fakely. “No, not at all, go for it,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. At that point I just wanted to get it over with. Breaking up with Scott was starting to look like it was going to be easier than I thought.
Dave downed the rest of his beer. “Then we better get going, Echo.” There was an abrupt edge to his tone, so I knew he was pissed, but most likely at Scott for making the moves on Tracy. It didn’t have to happen that way. If I’d put my foot down, Scott would’ve backed off, but I was looking for an out, so I let Scott play the screw up.
I stood up and gave Scott and Tracy a wry smile. “Join us later if you get bored.”
Scott smiled blandly, pretending like everything was cool. “We might just do that.”
“Later dude and dudette,” Dave said and walked out of the bar. I followed his back through the now crowded Foley’s, letting him clear the path. When he was pissed, he exuded hostility, you could practically smell it, and people wanted to get out of his way. Carrying a bicycle seat, which is the same as carrying a length of pipe, and strapping a crash helmet on his head only added to the effect. Once we were on the sidewalk, he said nothing, just put his bike back together and rode into the street. He rode fast at first, and I had trouble keeping up with him, but then I could see his concentration fading as his anger cooled. He kept looking around like he wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing. Which was probably the case. If he didn’t wake up, he’d catch a car door like I did. I rode up alongside him.
“You pissed at me?” I asked.
“Fuck it, she was a bimbette like you said, but Scott’s being a little shit. You know he’ll put the moves on her. You set him up to cheat on you, didn’t you? And I thought you were just kidding around. Why not just break up with him?”
“I don’t know, call me weak. The moment just hasn’t come around to bring it up.”
Dave sneered. “That’s right, why do today what we can put off till tomorrow. She was right, you know.”
“Who was?”
“Tracy. What the hell are we going to do? We can’t be couriers forever.” He was upset. There was obviously more bothering him than just the bull at Foley’s. Maybe he’d been stewing on this thing for a while and I’d never noticed. He was twenty-four, a couple of years older than me, and he had a degree, I think in English. That had to be worth something. But it wasn’t my problem, and I sure didn’t have any answers for him. I was simply doing my thing, hoping something would come along. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to say something reassuring, but I really didn’t know what to say. But also, I didn’t want to deal with it. The future scared me. Something inside me was nagging me to do something more than just ride my bike around, but I wished that little voice would tell me what it was or shut up.
I looked at Dave. His eyes were watering, whether from wind or emotion, I couldn’t tell. We caught eyes, and a flush of emotion swept over me. He was cracking my hard cookie shell. I smiled at him and pulled out ahead. Falling for Dave was definitely not safe. He was too likable, too much my type. He was free because he didn’t care what most people thought. That’s what made him appealing. The potential hurt factor was way high. Who’s the idiot who said it’s better to try and to have failed than to never have tried at all? What a bunch of rot. He was definitely talking about football or something stupid. You have to weigh the risks when you’re putting your emotions on the line. It takes a damned long time to get over a bad break up. We’re talking at least a year or more of misery and making a total fool of yourself. First there’s the begging to be taken back, then there’s the seven nights a week with your best friend, Haagen-Dazs, watching Giligan’s Island reruns and looking through old photos. Miserable torture. Eventually, when you wake up and realize you’ve gained a zillion pounds and look like shit, you figure it’s time to pack the photos away some place, like the deepest recesses of your closet. This is pretty easy, because you don’t feel anything anymore, you’re just numb like your lips after sucking on a popsicle. I’m talking from experience, so no thanks, I’ll take a rain check. Besides, I’m not the silicone sort of girl.
We rolled into Kenmore Square and locked our bikes to the railing out front of the Rat next to a couple of other courier bikes I recognized. The guys checking IDs at the door would keep an eye on them there. You could never be too careful. Someone might see through my bike’s disguise of dirt and stickers, especially in this area. Kenmore Square was always crowded with students from Boston University, Emerson, and who knows where else. There are so many colleges in this town I don’t bother to keep track of them. It was also near Lansdowne Street up behind the baseball park where the Red Sox play, which was where all the clubs were and that street became a zoo at night. Thousands of drunk people with fake ID. Kenmore Square got the overflow, and anything went. People didn’t much notice you unless you were a raving naked lunatic. And for some reason, all the local lunes liked to stand around out in front of the Rat. Maybe it was the stench of spilled beer they were drawn to, or maybe the cheesy germanesque writing above the door that spelled out, The Ratskeller.
We didn’t have to wait in line because we knew most of the guys who worked the door. That night it was Bluto, his nickname of course. I didn’t know if he had a real name. Maybe he didn’t like his either. He was big like a bouncer is supposed to be, and not too swift upstairs, but a nice guy. Whenever the line to get in was held up because the place was jammed to capacity, he’d start entertaining everybody with jokes he’d heard. He was an institution. If someone knew a fresh joke, they’d step out of line and run it by him. If it made him chuckle, he’d let them in without waiting.
“Hey Bluto,” Dave said, slapping him on the shoulder and shaking his hand.
“Well if it’s not Dave and Echo,” he said, smiling. “Aren’t you missing somebody? Where’s what’s his name, Scott?”
Dave sneered. “He turned traitor on us and went to Jake Ivory’s for a sing song.”
“That dump? What’s gotten into him?” Dave glanced down at me and said, “A receptionist at Mills & Nash.”
Bluto looked slowly from Dave to me, his head moving like a bulldog’s. “Sorry to hear that Echo, but if he’s doing that, you’re better off without him. You should hook up with Dave here. I’ve never seen him with more than one girl at a time, several in a night, yeah, but always one at a time.”
Dave was sort of blushing. He got his share of chickies, but he wasn’t one to boast, so when someone talked about it, he got embarrassed. He said he used to be really shy when he was a kid, like when he was in junior high, he’d choke up whenever a girl talked to him. I guessed there was still some of that shyness in him. “Now that’s the slut I love,” I joked.
“He’s exaggerating,” Dave said.
“But when you show up, Echo, he tones it down,” Bluto said and gave Dave a wink. “I think he worries about what you think. I wonder why that is?”
Dave faked a punch at Bluto. “Shut your trap before I pop you good.”
Bluto wrapped his large arm around us and corralled us through the door. “Get on inside, you two.” Dave went on in, but Bluto’s hand still held my shoulder. “If Scott shows up, do you want me to let him in? He’s not one of us, you know.”
“It’s up to you. Maybe he’ll pick up some good jokes at Jake Ivory’s.”
Bluto scowled. “From that crowd? Forget it. They’re too busy singing Bing Crosby.”