all be at a nice party and Ed will say, “Hey, Puddin’. Remember when Prince changed his name to that symbol? What did he make you call him then?” And we’ll all stare at him until he shuts up.
Because I mean, bottom line, Puddin’ is the greatest girl ever and who cares if she likes to say she does it, or used to do it, with Prince? We all have our problems, that’s my theory. The best thing to do is pretend we don’t hear our friends too well when they start going on about their crazy stuff.
I picked up the red phone to call Puddin’, but there weren’t any buttons on it. The woman came on the line and asked what I thought I was doing.
“I have diabetic disease,” I said. “I was trying to call my buddy Puddin’ to bring me my medicine.”
“This had best not be a trick,” said the woman.
“I could faint out here and that would ruin everything,” I said.
“You’re in this up to your neck,” she said.
“I’m not trying to squirm out of anything,” I said.
“I’ll call your friend for you,” said the woman. “What’s the number?”
I couldn’t think of what to do, so I gave her the number.
“If this is a trick you’ll live to regret it,” she said.
Right after that a guy parked beside my booth and started yelling at me. I pushed the speaker button.
“What time is it?” I said. “I know it’s not ten yet.”
“What the hell are you talking about? The thing won’t do right.”
“Are you supposed to be in a Volvo station wagon?” I asked. “Because you’re in an Infiniti.”
“What are you, a freak?” he said. “I put in my money and the thing won’t do right. Open it up and let me through, you freak.”
“Are you sure you put in fifty cents?” I said.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to push your nose in for you?” he said. “What are you going to do, arrest me over fifty cents? I make four hundred thousand dollars a year. You look like a freak.” I noticed that he had an innocent child in the backseat, a child who seemed blissfully unaware of his father’s hateful ways. I pushed “1924” and let the man through.
The confrontation exhausted me. I don’t enjoy getting into it with people. I sat on the floor and took a nap. Cars came up in a regular stream. I listened to them idle, and then the clatter of coins in the basket, and the clunk and whir of the arm going up and down and letting the cars through. Everyone was cooperating, everything was working correctly, it made a nice picture of the world, and the steady sounds cleared my mind of conflict and allowed me to doze.
I don’t know how long I rested that way before a banging disturbed me. I jumped up and grabbed the package and saw the face of Puddin’ smashed comically against the window. I hustled her inside.
Puddin’ was wearing a wifebeater T-shirt of white corrugated cotton, a plaid skirt that seemed to be held together by a safety pin, and fishnet hose. Her hair was dyed bright white and she had on gray lipstick. Puddin’ is young, and goes through a lot of phases.
“Crouch down,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
“India brought me in her van,” said Puddin’.
“Did anybody see you?”
“Yeah, lots of people. I looked in almost every other tollbooth before I found you. I almost got run over twice. Are you sick?”
“No.”
“I had a weird message on my voice mail. Somebody said you were sick. Do you need some Xanax?”
Even though she was in an awkward position she managed to wiggle out of her fluorescent pink backpack and kindly tried to dig out some Xanax for me.
“It was nice of you to come,” I said. “You’re a real trooper, Puddin’.”
“What are we doing out here?” said Puddin’.
“Just stay low to the floor like that and don’t let anybody see you.”
I handed down the package, which was about the size and shape of a big book, wrapped tightly in newspaper.
“I want you to tell me what this is,” I said. “I want to know what kind of
Because I mean, bottom line, Puddin’ is the greatest girl ever and who cares if she likes to say she does it, or used to do it, with Prince? We all have our problems, that’s my theory. The best thing to do is pretend we don’t hear our friends too well when they start going on about their crazy stuff.
I picked up the red phone to call Puddin’, but there weren’t any buttons on it. The woman came on the line and asked what I thought I was doing.
“I have diabetic disease,” I said. “I was trying to call my buddy Puddin’ to bring me my medicine.”
“This had best not be a trick,” said the woman.
“I could faint out here and that would ruin everything,” I said.
“You’re in this up to your neck,” she said.
“I’m not trying to squirm out of anything,” I said.
“I’ll call your friend for you,” said the woman. “What’s the number?”
I couldn’t think of what to do, so I gave her the number.
“If this is a trick you’ll live to regret it,” she said.
Right after that a guy parked beside my booth and started yelling at me. I pushed the speaker button.
“What time is it?” I said. “I know it’s not ten yet.”
“What the hell are you talking about? The thing won’t do right.”
“Are you supposed to be in a Volvo station wagon?” I asked. “Because you’re in an Infiniti.”
“What are you, a freak?” he said. “I put in my money and the thing won’t do right. Open it up and let me through, you freak.”
“Are you sure you put in fifty cents?” I said.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to push your nose in for you?” he said. “What are you going to do, arrest me over fifty cents? I make four hundred thousand dollars a year. You look like a freak.” I noticed that he had an innocent child in the backseat, a child who seemed blissfully unaware of his father’s hateful ways. I pushed “1924” and let the man through.
The confrontation exhausted me. I don’t enjoy getting into it with people. I sat on the floor and took a nap. Cars came up in a regular stream. I listened to them idle, and then the clatter of coins in the basket, and the clunk and whir of the arm going up and down and letting the cars through. Everyone was cooperating, everything was working correctly, it made a nice picture of the world, and the steady sounds cleared my mind of conflict and allowed me to doze.
I don’t know how long I rested that way before a banging disturbed me. I jumped up and grabbed the package and saw the face of Puddin’ smashed comically against the window. I hustled her inside.
Puddin’ was wearing a wifebeater T-shirt of white corrugated cotton, a plaid skirt that seemed to be held together by a safety pin, and fishnet hose. Her hair was dyed bright white and she had on gray lipstick. Puddin’ is young, and goes through a lot of phases.
“Crouch down,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
“India brought me in her van,” said Puddin’.
“Did anybody see you?”
“Yeah, lots of people. I looked in almost every other tollbooth before I found you. I almost got run over twice. Are you sick?”
“No.”
“I had a weird message on my voice mail. Somebody said you were sick. Do you need some Xanax?”
Even though she was in an awkward position she managed to wiggle out of her fluorescent pink backpack and kindly tried to dig out some Xanax for me.
“It was nice of you to come,” I said. “You’re a real trooper, Puddin’.”
“What are we doing out here?” said Puddin’.
“Just stay low to the floor like that and don’t let anybody see you.”
I handed down the package, which was about the size and shape of a big book, wrapped tightly in newspaper.
“I want you to tell me what this is,” I said. “I want to know what kind of
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