through Gary’s windshield, the ball courts, ball fields, deserted.
“Remember that time in farm league you shit your pants in the outfield?” said Gary.
“Food poisoning.”
“Didn’t we all eat the same thing that day?”
“I got a bad hot dog.”
“Right, I remember. A bad hot dog.”
“What’s your point?”
“There’s no point. It’s a reminiscence, man.”
“Reminisce about something else.”
“Roger that, pants-shitter.”
Catamounts, have you noticed all the empty storefronts downtown these days? Dugan’s Drugs is gone. Manny’s Dry Clean, too. Greco’s Meats is boarded up with plywood. Eastern Valley Plaza is still humming, of course, all those cappuccinos, DVDs. That fat lady boutique thrives, too. Main is a wasteland, though. Most of the signage dates back to SALT II. That neon jackboot still hangs over the door of Dino’s Shoe Repair, but Dino is dead. His sons gutted the store years ago.
The Bean Counter, with its fake antiques and framed clippings from the old Eastern Valley Gazette, it feels like a taunt at the dead part of town. I’m not sure which history the Bean Counter means to borrow its ambiance from, but it has something to do with dark varnish and doilies, paraffin lamps, freight trains packed with gewgaws and taffy and nobody forgetting the Maine .
Liquid Smoke’s real name is Mira, if one is given to believe name tags, and she’s seeking the attentions of a suave older gentleman, if one is given to believe Gary. It’s not hard to see why he’s smitten. This girl has a straight silk drop of hair like all the teenie sirens on TV. Her bare skin achieves a sort of golden strobe effect when her apron sways out from her halter top.
Today the Retractor stepped up to the counter and sighed his order in the manner of some jet-setter marooned in New Jersey by circumstance—“You’ll never believe where I had to spend the night!”—a man perhaps suicidally bored by the lingonberry muffin and half-caf hazelnut ice coffee he’s about to consume.
Liquid Smoke looked annoyed, filled his order with sullen speed.
“How are the scones today?” said Gary.
“You want a scone or a muffin?”
“No, I was just inquiring after their quality. I’ve yet to find a suitable American scone.”
“So get the fuck out of America.”
“Do you have a young chap?”
“Like a blister?”
“A beau. A boyfriend.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I realize I’m a bit older. My body is probably softer than you’ve come to expect, but I can make you very happy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Because the world is both simpler and more complex than a beautiful woman like yourself could ever imagine.”
“Have I seen you here before?”
“I love your coffee.”
“You’re one of the crazy Horizons people, right?”
“Depends who you talk to.”
“No, I mean from down the block. Near the old lumberyard? That place? That home for the mental? What’s it called? Nice Horizons, right? They come here all the time. It’s okay. But don’t creep out on me. And don’t ask me for the bathroom key. I’m not cleaning up any more crazy person poop.”
The Captain seemed a little shaken. I led him over to the cream and sugar.
“She’s just a kid,” I said.
“And we’re geezers,” said Gary. “Washed up at the age Jesus was just getting rolling.”
“Look what happened to him.”
“Fucking Romans. Fucking New Romans, too. You know, the problem with women today is that so many of them have worked
out their daddy shit. Guys like me have no shot. Goddamn therapy culture.”
Gary crunched his ice, spit it back into the cup.
The only other customer, an older guy in a vintage New York Giants football jersey, coughed. He was reading the Collected Colette, a lit cigarillo in his teeth. He peeked out from behind his Colette.
“It’ll be okay,” I said to Gary.
“No, it won’t.”
“It won’t?” I said.
Gary stood, gazed out the window.
“Didn’t they
“Remember that time in farm league you shit your pants in the outfield?” said Gary.
“Food poisoning.”
“Didn’t we all eat the same thing that day?”
“I got a bad hot dog.”
“Right, I remember. A bad hot dog.”
“What’s your point?”
“There’s no point. It’s a reminiscence, man.”
“Reminisce about something else.”
“Roger that, pants-shitter.”
Catamounts, have you noticed all the empty storefronts downtown these days? Dugan’s Drugs is gone. Manny’s Dry Clean, too. Greco’s Meats is boarded up with plywood. Eastern Valley Plaza is still humming, of course, all those cappuccinos, DVDs. That fat lady boutique thrives, too. Main is a wasteland, though. Most of the signage dates back to SALT II. That neon jackboot still hangs over the door of Dino’s Shoe Repair, but Dino is dead. His sons gutted the store years ago.
The Bean Counter, with its fake antiques and framed clippings from the old Eastern Valley Gazette, it feels like a taunt at the dead part of town. I’m not sure which history the Bean Counter means to borrow its ambiance from, but it has something to do with dark varnish and doilies, paraffin lamps, freight trains packed with gewgaws and taffy and nobody forgetting the Maine .
Liquid Smoke’s real name is Mira, if one is given to believe name tags, and she’s seeking the attentions of a suave older gentleman, if one is given to believe Gary. It’s not hard to see why he’s smitten. This girl has a straight silk drop of hair like all the teenie sirens on TV. Her bare skin achieves a sort of golden strobe effect when her apron sways out from her halter top.
Today the Retractor stepped up to the counter and sighed his order in the manner of some jet-setter marooned in New Jersey by circumstance—“You’ll never believe where I had to spend the night!”—a man perhaps suicidally bored by the lingonberry muffin and half-caf hazelnut ice coffee he’s about to consume.
Liquid Smoke looked annoyed, filled his order with sullen speed.
“How are the scones today?” said Gary.
“You want a scone or a muffin?”
“No, I was just inquiring after their quality. I’ve yet to find a suitable American scone.”
“So get the fuck out of America.”
“Do you have a young chap?”
“Like a blister?”
“A beau. A boyfriend.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I realize I’m a bit older. My body is probably softer than you’ve come to expect, but I can make you very happy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Because the world is both simpler and more complex than a beautiful woman like yourself could ever imagine.”
“Have I seen you here before?”
“I love your coffee.”
“You’re one of the crazy Horizons people, right?”
“Depends who you talk to.”
“No, I mean from down the block. Near the old lumberyard? That place? That home for the mental? What’s it called? Nice Horizons, right? They come here all the time. It’s okay. But don’t creep out on me. And don’t ask me for the bathroom key. I’m not cleaning up any more crazy person poop.”
The Captain seemed a little shaken. I led him over to the cream and sugar.
“She’s just a kid,” I said.
“And we’re geezers,” said Gary. “Washed up at the age Jesus was just getting rolling.”
“Look what happened to him.”
“Fucking Romans. Fucking New Romans, too. You know, the problem with women today is that so many of them have worked
out their daddy shit. Guys like me have no shot. Goddamn therapy culture.”
Gary crunched his ice, spit it back into the cup.
The only other customer, an older guy in a vintage New York Giants football jersey, coughed. He was reading the Collected Colette, a lit cigarillo in his teeth. He peeked out from behind his Colette.
“It’ll be okay,” I said to Gary.
“No, it won’t.”
“It won’t?” I said.
Gary stood, gazed out the window.
“Didn’t they
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