was called Café Society now, and the two yups, sexless and strong, spooned ice cream or frozen yogurt into their mouths, tanned legs stretched across the sidewalk and crossed at the ankles, gleaming mountain bikes leaning against the storefront window under a shiny wash of white neon.
Dave wondered where the hell he was going to live if the frontier mentality rolled the frontier right over him. On what he and Celeste made together, if the bars and pizza shops kept turning into cafés, they’d be lucky to qualify for a two-bedroom in the Parker Hill Projects. Get put on an eighteen-month waiting list so they could move into a place where stairwells smelled like piss, and rat corpses rotted their stench straight through moldy walls, and junkies and switchblade artists roamed the halls, waiting for your white ass to fall asleep.
Ever since a Parker Hill homey had tried to jack his car while he was in it with Michael, Dave kept a .22 under the seat. He’d never fired it, not even at a range, but he held it a lot, sighted down the barrel. He allowed himself the indulgence of wondering what those two matching yups would look like at the other end of the barrel, and he smiled.
But the light had turned green, and he was still stopped, and the horns erupted behind him, and the yuppies looked up and stared at his dented car to see what all the commotion was about in their new neighborhood.
Dave rolled through the intersection, suffocating on their sudden stares, their sudden, unreasonable stares.
T HAT NIGHT Katie Marcus went out with her two best friends, Diane Cestra and Eve Pigeon, to celebrate Katie’s last night in the Flats, last night, probably, in Buckingham. Celebrate like gypsies had just sprinkled them with gold dust, told them all their dreams would come true. Like theyshared a winning scratch ticket and had all gotten negative pregnancy test results on the same day.
They slapped their packs of menthols down on a table in the back of Spires Pub and threw back kamikaze shots and Mich Lights and shrieked every time a good-looking guy shot one of them The Look. They’d eaten a killer meal at the East Coast Grill an hour before, then drove back into Buckingham and sparked up a joint in the parking lot before walking into the bar. Everything—old stories they’d heard each other tell a hundred times, Diane’s recounting of the latest beating from her asshole boyfriend, Eve’s sudden lipstick smear, two chubby guys waddling around the pool table—was hilarious.
Once the place got so jammed folks were standing three deep at the bar and it started taking twenty minutes to get a drink, they moved on toward Curley’s Folly in the Point, smoking another joint in the car, Katie feeling the jagged shards of paranoia scrape the edges of her skull.
“That car’s following us.”
Eve looked at the lights in the rearview. “It ain’t.”
“It’s been behind us since we left the bar.”
“Friggin’ Katie, man, that was, like, thirty seconds ago.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” Diane mimicked, then hiccuped a laugh, passed the joint back to Katie.
Eve deepened her voice. “It’s quiet.”
Katie saw where this was going. “Shut up.”
“Too quiet,” Diane agreed, and burst out laughing.
“Bitches,” Katie said, trying for an edge of annoyance but catching the crest of a giggle-fit wave instead. She fell onto the backseat, losing it, the back of her head landing between the armrest and the seat, cheeks getting that pins-and-needles sensation they always got those rare times she smoked pot. The giggles subsided and she felt herself go all dreamy as she fixated on the pale dome light, thinking this was it, this was what you lived for, to giggle like a fool with your giggling-fool best friends on the night before you’dmarry the man you loved. (In Vegas, okay. With a hangover, okay.) Still, this was the point. This was the dream.
F OUR BARS , three shots, and a couple of phone numbers on napkins later,
Dave wondered where the hell he was going to live if the frontier mentality rolled the frontier right over him. On what he and Celeste made together, if the bars and pizza shops kept turning into cafés, they’d be lucky to qualify for a two-bedroom in the Parker Hill Projects. Get put on an eighteen-month waiting list so they could move into a place where stairwells smelled like piss, and rat corpses rotted their stench straight through moldy walls, and junkies and switchblade artists roamed the halls, waiting for your white ass to fall asleep.
Ever since a Parker Hill homey had tried to jack his car while he was in it with Michael, Dave kept a .22 under the seat. He’d never fired it, not even at a range, but he held it a lot, sighted down the barrel. He allowed himself the indulgence of wondering what those two matching yups would look like at the other end of the barrel, and he smiled.
But the light had turned green, and he was still stopped, and the horns erupted behind him, and the yuppies looked up and stared at his dented car to see what all the commotion was about in their new neighborhood.
Dave rolled through the intersection, suffocating on their sudden stares, their sudden, unreasonable stares.
T HAT NIGHT Katie Marcus went out with her two best friends, Diane Cestra and Eve Pigeon, to celebrate Katie’s last night in the Flats, last night, probably, in Buckingham. Celebrate like gypsies had just sprinkled them with gold dust, told them all their dreams would come true. Like theyshared a winning scratch ticket and had all gotten negative pregnancy test results on the same day.
They slapped their packs of menthols down on a table in the back of Spires Pub and threw back kamikaze shots and Mich Lights and shrieked every time a good-looking guy shot one of them The Look. They’d eaten a killer meal at the East Coast Grill an hour before, then drove back into Buckingham and sparked up a joint in the parking lot before walking into the bar. Everything—old stories they’d heard each other tell a hundred times, Diane’s recounting of the latest beating from her asshole boyfriend, Eve’s sudden lipstick smear, two chubby guys waddling around the pool table—was hilarious.
Once the place got so jammed folks were standing three deep at the bar and it started taking twenty minutes to get a drink, they moved on toward Curley’s Folly in the Point, smoking another joint in the car, Katie feeling the jagged shards of paranoia scrape the edges of her skull.
“That car’s following us.”
Eve looked at the lights in the rearview. “It ain’t.”
“It’s been behind us since we left the bar.”
“Friggin’ Katie, man, that was, like, thirty seconds ago.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” Diane mimicked, then hiccuped a laugh, passed the joint back to Katie.
Eve deepened her voice. “It’s quiet.”
Katie saw where this was going. “Shut up.”
“Too quiet,” Diane agreed, and burst out laughing.
“Bitches,” Katie said, trying for an edge of annoyance but catching the crest of a giggle-fit wave instead. She fell onto the backseat, losing it, the back of her head landing between the armrest and the seat, cheeks getting that pins-and-needles sensation they always got those rare times she smoked pot. The giggles subsided and she felt herself go all dreamy as she fixated on the pale dome light, thinking this was it, this was what you lived for, to giggle like a fool with your giggling-fool best friends on the night before you’dmarry the man you loved. (In Vegas, okay. With a hangover, okay.) Still, this was the point. This was the dream.
F OUR BARS , three shots, and a couple of phone numbers on napkins later,
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