the Town were teeming with Claire Keeseys, drawn to the neighborhood by its cheap rents and safe streets, baring their shoulders and legs after a long winter’s hibernation. The Town was a stocked lake and fishing was back in season. This fog, whatever it was that had descended on him at the beginning of the bank job and lingered in the days that followed—it was finally lifting.
He shook his head and crumpled up the muffin bag. His not telling the others about her triggering the alarm: that was not going to haunt him anymore. It was over with. In the past. Time to move on.
“C HECK THIS OUT, ” said Jem.
Doug set down his liter slam of Mountain Dew and accepted the wrinkled Victoria’s Secret spring catalog. On page after page, Jem had applied a drop of water to each of the lingerie models’ breasts, puckering the thin paper and raising persuasive nipples.
Doug nodded, turning the pages. “And you say this project only took you half the morning?”
“Some days, you know? You just wake up horny. I have all this fucking energy, I already worked out twice today, shoulders and calves. What do you do, days when you can’t focus on anything because your mind keeps running back to your dick?”
“Some call it ‘applying the pine tar.’”
“No, no,” said Jem, shaking his head. “No, I don’t do that anymore.”
“Excuse me, what?” Doug smiled. “You don’t do that anymore?”
“They say weed saps your ambition? I say, yanking it does. Saps your drive. Makes you soft, more ways than one. Always leaves me tired, dopey. I’m serious.”
“You’ll be down in the basement
three
times a day, working out, and all that’s gonna happen is, spume’s gonna back up into your system, turn you gay. I seen it happen, man. It’s tragic.”
“Voice of experience here.”
“Radical idea just came to me out of the blue. How about going easy on yourself, getting a regular girlfriend?”
“I think I do awright. And I’m gonna start doing even better. Abstinencemakes the dick grow fonder. Hey, you’re the last person should be giving shit. Mister fucking life change already.”
Doug dragged the remote off the glass-topped coffee table and opened up the cable menu over the soft-core pool-table scene playing on Jem’s black box Spice Channel. He found a kung fu movie on pirated pay-per-view, put it on the huge TV. “Your eyesight improves, maybe you can get a smaller screen.”
“Hey, how about this. Tonight, right? They say yanking it also gives you hairy palms, right? Okay, we get that spirit gum like we used for the Watertown job, the stuff that gave us fake chins and cheeks? Slop it on our hands instead, then shred up a wig, stick fur on there. Walk in the door at the Tap with all the yuppies, give the place a big wave. High-five the bartender with our furry mitts.”
Doug grinned. “You walk in reading your catalog?”
“I will spill water on my
crotch
before I walk in, a nice round little cum stain.” He mimed walking into the bar for Doug, open hand raised, hips thrust forward, big Irish smile. “Evening, friends!”
Doug said, “This, right here, is why we don’t have regular girlfriends.”
“
For Christ,
then it’s working.” Jem hopped down Fonzie-style onto his green leather couch and grabbed a PlayStation controller. “Bruins,” he called.
They played NHL ’96 on Jem’s Trinitron, first a couple of straight games with the crowd noise roaring in stereo, then they ignored the puck and skated their players around the ice looking for trouble, doling out hard checks until helmets popped off and the view zoomed in and the computer men threw down their gloves, the announcer bellowing in sim surround,
FIGHT!
At one point, Jem turned to Doug, eyes bleary with game glee. “Like old times, kid! Can you tell me why we don’t do this every fucking day?”
Eventually Doug had to step out past the tower speakers to take a piss. The worn checkerboard bathroom tile, the rotten shower
He shook his head and crumpled up the muffin bag. His not telling the others about her triggering the alarm: that was not going to haunt him anymore. It was over with. In the past. Time to move on.
“C HECK THIS OUT, ” said Jem.
Doug set down his liter slam of Mountain Dew and accepted the wrinkled Victoria’s Secret spring catalog. On page after page, Jem had applied a drop of water to each of the lingerie models’ breasts, puckering the thin paper and raising persuasive nipples.
Doug nodded, turning the pages. “And you say this project only took you half the morning?”
“Some days, you know? You just wake up horny. I have all this fucking energy, I already worked out twice today, shoulders and calves. What do you do, days when you can’t focus on anything because your mind keeps running back to your dick?”
“Some call it ‘applying the pine tar.’”
“No, no,” said Jem, shaking his head. “No, I don’t do that anymore.”
“Excuse me, what?” Doug smiled. “You don’t do that anymore?”
“They say weed saps your ambition? I say, yanking it does. Saps your drive. Makes you soft, more ways than one. Always leaves me tired, dopey. I’m serious.”
“You’ll be down in the basement
three
times a day, working out, and all that’s gonna happen is, spume’s gonna back up into your system, turn you gay. I seen it happen, man. It’s tragic.”
“Voice of experience here.”
“Radical idea just came to me out of the blue. How about going easy on yourself, getting a regular girlfriend?”
“I think I do awright. And I’m gonna start doing even better. Abstinencemakes the dick grow fonder. Hey, you’re the last person should be giving shit. Mister fucking life change already.”
Doug dragged the remote off the glass-topped coffee table and opened up the cable menu over the soft-core pool-table scene playing on Jem’s black box Spice Channel. He found a kung fu movie on pirated pay-per-view, put it on the huge TV. “Your eyesight improves, maybe you can get a smaller screen.”
“Hey, how about this. Tonight, right? They say yanking it also gives you hairy palms, right? Okay, we get that spirit gum like we used for the Watertown job, the stuff that gave us fake chins and cheeks? Slop it on our hands instead, then shred up a wig, stick fur on there. Walk in the door at the Tap with all the yuppies, give the place a big wave. High-five the bartender with our furry mitts.”
Doug grinned. “You walk in reading your catalog?”
“I will spill water on my
crotch
before I walk in, a nice round little cum stain.” He mimed walking into the bar for Doug, open hand raised, hips thrust forward, big Irish smile. “Evening, friends!”
Doug said, “This, right here, is why we don’t have regular girlfriends.”
“
For Christ,
then it’s working.” Jem hopped down Fonzie-style onto his green leather couch and grabbed a PlayStation controller. “Bruins,” he called.
They played NHL ’96 on Jem’s Trinitron, first a couple of straight games with the crowd noise roaring in stereo, then they ignored the puck and skated their players around the ice looking for trouble, doling out hard checks until helmets popped off and the view zoomed in and the computer men threw down their gloves, the announcer bellowing in sim surround,
FIGHT!
At one point, Jem turned to Doug, eyes bleary with game glee. “Like old times, kid! Can you tell me why we don’t do this every fucking day?”
Eventually Doug had to step out past the tower speakers to take a piss. The worn checkerboard bathroom tile, the rotten shower
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