Cody wondered why his Dad named him Cody when that brick came through the windshield . A fast dance of safety glass filled the front seat. The dash board was ugly enough, cracked and cratered from being parked under the sun in asphalt parking lots.
He grabbed his smokes and took out his cell phone, hitting a number on redial.
"Fuckin A, Jesus Belch, Mother did it again and I'm jerked around myself" he said. He flipped down the top and shoved it back into his pocket.
Across the street there was a parade of clowns passing by a burger joint and a blood bank. Cody rubbed his eyes as if to clear away some bits of collected morning funk.
"What's going on here?" he asked no one in particular.
The four of them were sitting in front of the crumbing storefront, waiting for J. David, as always. He was supposed to show up with a bundle of cash in his arms, all hundred dollar bills. J. David was going to stuff the bills down their shirts, behind their ears, into their pants until they looked like circus clowns bulging with money. At least that’s what he told them 25 years ago.
ReplyDeleteMitch was reading a Sgt. Rock comic book and squirting yellow mustard onto a hot dog that was still cooking on a little hibachi at his feet. Rory was watching a seagull scream at a French fry lying in the gutter across the street. Deb was directing ant traffic around a pool of Mr. Pipp that spread around her right shoe. Serge was tasting the sausage at John’s Waffle House in his mind.
“What are you going to do with all that money?” Mitch asked Serge. The question usually came up twice a day. That has been the pattern for several decades now.
Mitch snapped out of his reverie, wheeling towards Serge, sending an arc of mustard out across the sidewalk and into a stunted palm tree. “Upgrade to kielbasa, maybe. I’m not sure yet.”
The Praying Mantis came ambling up the sidewalk from the coffee house. He was a bony, crink-backed old surfer famous for his amazing insect-like surfing stance. The Praying Mantis had the ability to tilt his head sideways and stare into your face while walking straight ahead, jabbering in a weird Bird Rock patois. They say his stare could kill you if you were drunk and the moon was right.
“Gimme a hot dog,” the Mantis said to Mitch. Mitch stuck a seared dog in a bun and slathered it with yellow pus-thick mustard. The Mantis took it and held it by pinching it between his wrist and his hand. He chewed on it while staring Mitch full in the face. His triangular head pivoted on shortest neck of any man alive. “Gotta fortify myself. There’s a Pump House Gang reunion tonight.
“Skip Frye taught me this trick,” he said. He winked one of his enormous eyes.
A phone started ringing inside the office behind them. It was the first time any sound had come out of the building for at least 12 years.
“You gonna go in and answer it?” said Deb.
“Naw,” said Mitch. “It’s probably J. David. He said he’d been calling in a little while. Let ‘em wait. We got lunch to finish.”
The hibachi sputtered. A moth fluttered in front of the decaying curtains of the office’s windows. War was declared. Oil leaked. The market went South and the Mantis went back to the beach, never blinking once along the way