Do Not Disturb
Page 14
But now, with NeverGonnaWinMillions taking his sweet jolly time before me, his pencil now working on a new card, slowly filling in circles, the scratch of lead driving me I’ll-kill-you-now crazy, I can think of all sorts of ways to use that tool. How the fourteen accompaniments could complement the nine knives in a variety of he’ll-scream-so-loud ways. My hands tighten on reflex, and I feel the ice cream bar squish slightly, melting in my hot hands and this furnace of a store. Motherfucker. If this jackpot-chaser costs me any bit of chocolate nut bliss, I’ll start the mayhem right now.
I clear my throat, a suggestive action that prompts no response whatsoever. Scratch. Scribble. He pauses, looks up to the ceiling as if he is trying to remember a nostalgic date. Scribble. Fill. I sigh as loudly as humanly possible, and wonder how long it would take to sever his pencil-gripping hand with the baby saw enclosed in that Leatherman. I move closer and crouch to tie my shoes, the act an excuse to examine the tool closer, my eyes noting that it, just sitting in the harness, could be pulled out with one quick snatch. Flipped open so the sharp needles of the pliers are exposed. My fingers twitch around the candy. If I yank it out it’ll take a moment for him to respond, a moment to turn around. Am I fast enough?
I step back as the man straightens and pushes his scratch card forward. Thank God. I release a shaky breath and move an extra step away, closing my eyes tightly as I spend a moment cursing myself. My weakness. Weakness that almost ruined this moment. The man before me moves, stuffing his ticket in his back pocket and nodding to the cashier, his steps relaxed as he steps toward the door. My eyes try for one more glimpse at the Leatherman before I step to the counter, my eyes catching on the lit screen beside the register, advertising in proud letters a Hundred-Million-Dollar Jackpot! I set my items on the counter.
“Sorry ’bout that.” The man wheezes, his words whistling out through a month’s worth of beard growth. “The big drawing’s tonight. Everyone’s coming in.” He glances up, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Feeling lucky?”
Am I feeling lucky? I ponder the question, then shrug, anxious to move on before my mind takes a psychological journey that wanders into crazy town. “Sure. Give me ten quick picks. It draws tonight?”
“Yep. At ten. The display in the window’ll show the numbers, if you’re in the area that late.” He sniffs loudly, a day’s worth of snot sucking through his nose, then rips off a ticket and drops it on the counter, counting out my change on top of it. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I gingerly scoop up my haul and step out, the burn of the door’s cold metal delighting my fingers. I nod cheerily to JitterBoy and step off the curb, quickening my steps as I cross the street. Almost home. I inhale deeply, wanting to remember this. The roll and pitch of concrete underneath my shoes. The whip of hair across my face as I cross the street. The numb sensation under my palm, the soda too cold to hold, yet nowhere else to put it. Ten steps. Five steps. Three. One. I juggle items and pull on the door, the air inside only slightly warmer, my jog up the stairs increasing into a run as I worry about my ice cream.
I don’t need to worry. It is perfect when I finally open the wrapper. When I sit on the windowsill and bite into ice cream bliss, the crisp crack of an opened can of soda the perfect accompaniment. I sit there until my Snickers is gone and night has fully fallen, the lotto window display blinking happily at me. Saturday night. Maybe this could be a ritual. Saturday ice cream and soda snack. Buy a lotto ticket and spend the evening off camera. My end-of-week celebration of non-violence.
I stand, chug the rest of the soda, and toss the can. Then I head back to the lights. Time to work.
At ten forty-five, in between chats, I wander back to that window. Pick up my jeans and fish my ticket out of their pocket. Watch the scrolling marquee and verify that, out of ten quick picks, I have not one winner. Not two dollars, not two hundred million. Better luck next time. Maybe next week. I did it, despite my hiccup. I proved that I can handle it.
CHAPTER 15
AT 2:18 A.M. Bush plays through the sound system, the glass bottle of Budweiser vibrating against the metal desk in time to the bass. The world outside is quiet, but the lines of the Internet are alive, a buzz of late-night activity. Mike switches screens, fingers furious on the keys, a message tapped out as insults and trash-talking occur across a thousand miles of cyberspace.
Behind him, there is movement, a body rolling over in a bed. Jamie, her red curls sticking to her curves as she breathes his name. The woman he pays to keep his life in order, coming twice a week, Sundays and Thursdays, armfuls of groceries in chubby hands. She stocks the fridge, cooks up a storm, and then settles in on the couch. There they typically smoke weed, watch TV, and shoot the shit. Eat. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Laugh. Repeat. At some point he’ll move closer to her, throw his arm around, and pull her in. She has meat on her bones, enough that her sink into his chest feels like a comfortable pillow. One that breathes, provides comfort, smells of vanilla and woman. Sometimes she’ll unzip his pants, take out his cock, and carry him to a high-infused nut. Sometimes she won’t. They’ve never fucked, never kissed, but he likes to have her. She breathes life into the space, into him. He glances back at her, hits a few keys and turns down the music a little. Sometimes, in his life of solitude, he forgets common courtesies. How others live. Jamie is drunk, the line of bottles along the windowsill evidence of their night. Soon, he’ll join her. Finish this up and crawl into bed. Pull her against him. She’ll let him. She always does. He likes it when she stays. Likes the scent of a woman on his sheets, the huff of breath on his chest as she sleeps. He wonders, for a moment, if she’d come without the money. He doesn’t pay her to drink with him, suck his cock, sleep in his bed. But if he didn’t employ her for the other things, would they still be friends? Would she stop by? Hang out?
I clear my throat, a suggestive action that prompts no response whatsoever. Scratch. Scribble. He pauses, looks up to the ceiling as if he is trying to remember a nostalgic date. Scribble. Fill. I sigh as loudly as humanly possible, and wonder how long it would take to sever his pencil-gripping hand with the baby saw enclosed in that Leatherman. I move closer and crouch to tie my shoes, the act an excuse to examine the tool closer, my eyes noting that it, just sitting in the harness, could be pulled out with one quick snatch. Flipped open so the sharp needles of the pliers are exposed. My fingers twitch around the candy. If I yank it out it’ll take a moment for him to respond, a moment to turn around. Am I fast enough?
I step back as the man straightens and pushes his scratch card forward. Thank God. I release a shaky breath and move an extra step away, closing my eyes tightly as I spend a moment cursing myself. My weakness. Weakness that almost ruined this moment. The man before me moves, stuffing his ticket in his back pocket and nodding to the cashier, his steps relaxed as he steps toward the door. My eyes try for one more glimpse at the Leatherman before I step to the counter, my eyes catching on the lit screen beside the register, advertising in proud letters a Hundred-Million-Dollar Jackpot! I set my items on the counter.
“Sorry ’bout that.” The man wheezes, his words whistling out through a month’s worth of beard growth. “The big drawing’s tonight. Everyone’s coming in.” He glances up, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Feeling lucky?”
Am I feeling lucky? I ponder the question, then shrug, anxious to move on before my mind takes a psychological journey that wanders into crazy town. “Sure. Give me ten quick picks. It draws tonight?”
“Yep. At ten. The display in the window’ll show the numbers, if you’re in the area that late.” He sniffs loudly, a day’s worth of snot sucking through his nose, then rips off a ticket and drops it on the counter, counting out my change on top of it. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I gingerly scoop up my haul and step out, the burn of the door’s cold metal delighting my fingers. I nod cheerily to JitterBoy and step off the curb, quickening my steps as I cross the street. Almost home. I inhale deeply, wanting to remember this. The roll and pitch of concrete underneath my shoes. The whip of hair across my face as I cross the street. The numb sensation under my palm, the soda too cold to hold, yet nowhere else to put it. Ten steps. Five steps. Three. One. I juggle items and pull on the door, the air inside only slightly warmer, my jog up the stairs increasing into a run as I worry about my ice cream.
I don’t need to worry. It is perfect when I finally open the wrapper. When I sit on the windowsill and bite into ice cream bliss, the crisp crack of an opened can of soda the perfect accompaniment. I sit there until my Snickers is gone and night has fully fallen, the lotto window display blinking happily at me. Saturday night. Maybe this could be a ritual. Saturday ice cream and soda snack. Buy a lotto ticket and spend the evening off camera. My end-of-week celebration of non-violence.
I stand, chug the rest of the soda, and toss the can. Then I head back to the lights. Time to work.
At ten forty-five, in between chats, I wander back to that window. Pick up my jeans and fish my ticket out of their pocket. Watch the scrolling marquee and verify that, out of ten quick picks, I have not one winner. Not two dollars, not two hundred million. Better luck next time. Maybe next week. I did it, despite my hiccup. I proved that I can handle it.
CHAPTER 15
AT 2:18 A.M. Bush plays through the sound system, the glass bottle of Budweiser vibrating against the metal desk in time to the bass. The world outside is quiet, but the lines of the Internet are alive, a buzz of late-night activity. Mike switches screens, fingers furious on the keys, a message tapped out as insults and trash-talking occur across a thousand miles of cyberspace.
Behind him, there is movement, a body rolling over in a bed. Jamie, her red curls sticking to her curves as she breathes his name. The woman he pays to keep his life in order, coming twice a week, Sundays and Thursdays, armfuls of groceries in chubby hands. She stocks the fridge, cooks up a storm, and then settles in on the couch. There they typically smoke weed, watch TV, and shoot the shit. Eat. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Laugh. Repeat. At some point he’ll move closer to her, throw his arm around, and pull her in. She has meat on her bones, enough that her sink into his chest feels like a comfortable pillow. One that breathes, provides comfort, smells of vanilla and woman. Sometimes she’ll unzip his pants, take out his cock, and carry him to a high-infused nut. Sometimes she won’t. They’ve never fucked, never kissed, but he likes to have her. She breathes life into the space, into him. He glances back at her, hits a few keys and turns down the music a little. Sometimes, in his life of solitude, he forgets common courtesies. How others live. Jamie is drunk, the line of bottles along the windowsill evidence of their night. Soon, he’ll join her. Finish this up and crawl into bed. Pull her against him. She’ll let him. She always does. He likes it when she stays. Likes the scent of a woman on his sheets, the huff of breath on his chest as she sleeps. He wonders, for a moment, if she’d come without the money. He doesn’t pay her to drink with him, suck his cock, sleep in his bed. But if he didn’t employ her for the other things, would they still be friends? Would she stop by? Hang out?
