Willard back in the spring … a breakup as passionless as our relationship was in the first place. It would be nice to have a date, even if it was going nowhere.
Especially if it was going nowhere.
“I’d like that,” I said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Awesome that way (Crank)
Work on Monday was whack. First of all, I’m a short-order cook, not a frickin’ waiter. But we were short two waitresses and only one cook, so out onto the floor I went. Instead of grooving to music in the kitchen and being left alone, which I prefer, I was running this way and that, getting drinks, mopping up spills, and making an ass of myself.
Times like this I wish I’d stayed in school.
I had a table of four: two mommies and their brat kids. It goes like this. One mommy asks for a refill. I get it. Then the other one wants a refill. I get that. Then the kid wants a piece of pie but can’t decide what type. So I wait, and I wait, and the kid dithers, and I wait some more, and finally the mother says he can’t have any pie at all. That starts a tantrum, disturbing the rest of the restaurant, and I’m trying to get their check together when the kid swings his arms and four plates covered with the remains of their food crash down on to the floor.
Let’s just say up front—I’m not very good with people.
I managed to get out of there before losing my mind and without hurting any small children, or their mothers. Barely. But not without snarling at my boss. I knew it was my turn, but seriously? Am I the person you want serving food to your kids? I don’t think so. Maybe if you wanted to scare them.
Whatever.
I caught the green line back to Roxbury. The four of us rent a crappy little warehouse there, where we live upstairs and practice downstairs. It works mostly, but sometimes it’s a little too incestuous for my taste. Mark and Pathin are always bitching at each other about something or other, and sometimes the tension between Serena and me is thick enough, you could cut it with a steak knife. She knows how to piss me off, too. Not that pissing me off is that hard. Plus, they were all bullshit at me, because I’d cancelled Tuesday practice to buy a car, which I’d been saving toward for more than six months. I was sure there’d be bitching about that.
When I got there, the scene was exactly what I expected. Pathin was sitting at his drum set, arms crossed over his chest. His eyebrows were drawn together, and he had a deep frown on his face. Mark stood a few feet away, face red. He was not quite shouting, but his voice was tense, raised just a little, as he spoke.
“You don’t understand!” he said. “What I’m looking for is … integrity. We’ve been building up a fan base around our own music! We don’t have to do covers any more.”
Pathin said, “We have to pay the rent.”
“I know that! But the EP is doing better now.”
“Not enough to pay the rent.”
I stopped and looked at the two of them. Serena, who was tuning her guitar across the room from them, sat her guitar down, slid out of her seat and walked toward me. Her hips swayed as she walked, and she caught my eyes. She was an attractive girl—long, flowing black hair, milk chocolate skin and a body that just wouldn’t quit. When we performed, she wore heavy mascara, black leather, spike heel boots, and usually a camisole or tank top that highlighted the tattoo that rose from between her breasts. Another small tattoo above her eyebrow depicted a small butterfly. When we weren’t doing a show, she leaned toward loose flowered dresses and flip-flops.
“How long have they been going on like this?” I asked.
She frowned. “All afternoon. I’m going out of my mind.”
“Sometimes I think all of us living together is a bad frickin’ idea.”
“You’re just realizing this now?”
I shrugged. Her words always had double meanings, and I was sure this did, too. She’d been hinting at wanting to be more than
Especially if it was going nowhere.
“I’d like that,” I said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Awesome that way (Crank)
Work on Monday was whack. First of all, I’m a short-order cook, not a frickin’ waiter. But we were short two waitresses and only one cook, so out onto the floor I went. Instead of grooving to music in the kitchen and being left alone, which I prefer, I was running this way and that, getting drinks, mopping up spills, and making an ass of myself.
Times like this I wish I’d stayed in school.
I had a table of four: two mommies and their brat kids. It goes like this. One mommy asks for a refill. I get it. Then the other one wants a refill. I get that. Then the kid wants a piece of pie but can’t decide what type. So I wait, and I wait, and the kid dithers, and I wait some more, and finally the mother says he can’t have any pie at all. That starts a tantrum, disturbing the rest of the restaurant, and I’m trying to get their check together when the kid swings his arms and four plates covered with the remains of their food crash down on to the floor.
Let’s just say up front—I’m not very good with people.
I managed to get out of there before losing my mind and without hurting any small children, or their mothers. Barely. But not without snarling at my boss. I knew it was my turn, but seriously? Am I the person you want serving food to your kids? I don’t think so. Maybe if you wanted to scare them.
Whatever.
I caught the green line back to Roxbury. The four of us rent a crappy little warehouse there, where we live upstairs and practice downstairs. It works mostly, but sometimes it’s a little too incestuous for my taste. Mark and Pathin are always bitching at each other about something or other, and sometimes the tension between Serena and me is thick enough, you could cut it with a steak knife. She knows how to piss me off, too. Not that pissing me off is that hard. Plus, they were all bullshit at me, because I’d cancelled Tuesday practice to buy a car, which I’d been saving toward for more than six months. I was sure there’d be bitching about that.
When I got there, the scene was exactly what I expected. Pathin was sitting at his drum set, arms crossed over his chest. His eyebrows were drawn together, and he had a deep frown on his face. Mark stood a few feet away, face red. He was not quite shouting, but his voice was tense, raised just a little, as he spoke.
“You don’t understand!” he said. “What I’m looking for is … integrity. We’ve been building up a fan base around our own music! We don’t have to do covers any more.”
Pathin said, “We have to pay the rent.”
“I know that! But the EP is doing better now.”
“Not enough to pay the rent.”
I stopped and looked at the two of them. Serena, who was tuning her guitar across the room from them, sat her guitar down, slid out of her seat and walked toward me. Her hips swayed as she walked, and she caught my eyes. She was an attractive girl—long, flowing black hair, milk chocolate skin and a body that just wouldn’t quit. When we performed, she wore heavy mascara, black leather, spike heel boots, and usually a camisole or tank top that highlighted the tattoo that rose from between her breasts. Another small tattoo above her eyebrow depicted a small butterfly. When we weren’t doing a show, she leaned toward loose flowered dresses and flip-flops.
“How long have they been going on like this?” I asked.
She frowned. “All afternoon. I’m going out of my mind.”
“Sometimes I think all of us living together is a bad frickin’ idea.”
“You’re just realizing this now?”
I shrugged. Her words always had double meanings, and I was sure this did, too. She’d been hinting at wanting to be more than
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