From EDGY:
So he figured he would wait quietly until his friend came to his senses, and in the meantime tipped his second scotch on the rocks. He had ordered the strong, old, peaty Glenfarclas, a departure from his usual choice, and it was ripping through him like a sharp rock. When some overly-muscled bigmouth at the other end of the bar whistled through his teeth, Jensen naturally turned around to look. The impetus was a skinny fashion victim in a thigh-high black cocktail suit. He felt his eyelids droop, and the booze break over him in a first big, wide wave.
The woman stopped cold for a moment, then strode boldly up to the bar, employing that deliberate manner that women used to show they hadn’t been cowed by circumstance. Slowly she gravitated toward Ash Jensen, and then hovered in an ambivalent fix, eyeballing the empty barstool beside his. Jensen smiled up at her; and after a moment, she eased her bony bottom onto the stool, plopped her Prada bag down on the bar, and remained private while the two of them adjusted to the additional human content.
When the bartender appeared, she ordered off the wine list, and later she gripped her chardonnay glass stem firmly with a set of maroon fingernails, lifting the rim to her small plump mouth, and swirling the wine before she swallowed.
“I take it you're alone,” he remarked, trying his best to be attentive but not solicitous, in the soft southern way he had seen better men behave. He perused her overly blushed cheeks and her small round breasts, which were spanned by a brocade suit jacket that puckered slightly. She was a package.
Suddenly she broke into an insinuating grin that unnerved him.
“I know you. You're Annette Jensen's husband! But I can't for the life of me remember your name.”
“Ashford… Ash… I'm sorry, but I don't recognize you at all, which I’m terribly embarrassed to have to admit. Were we formally introduced?” he parried, maintaining a friendly smile, but feeling a quickening all the same.
ALSO From EDGY:
He pulled into the driveway of the vacant part of the duplex, popped out of the car, and twisted the valve on the hose bib. Water splattered onto the cement. Feeling the rush of victory, he grinned to himself, hooked up his hose, and finished washing out his wheel wells. Then, with optimism unbounded, he pulled out the bucket, filled it up with water and detergent, and began sponging off the bumper, which was flecked with dead bugs. Their gummy splotches didn't want to come off easily, and he had to rub, use his brush, and then rub again, to get even a modest satisfaction.
Out of the blue, a screen door slammed open, and a young male voice cried out, “Hey asshole, what do you think you're doing?”
An electrical jolt rode up Arnold’s spine, and he looked up from his labors. On the opposite side of the car stood a young vato, wearing a sloppy baseball shirt that should have draped a morbidly obese veteran of the potato chip aisle. The kid had a net tied over his head, and on top of that a black kerchief festooned with white skulls. His moon face was frowning, and his personal Big Mac starter-paunch was thrust forward.
“No hablo,” answered Arnold.
“You better have a permission to be here, Bud, because if you don't, I'm going to kick your ass,” threatened the boy.
“How about I'm a big fucking guy,” screamed Arnold. “How’s that for permission?”
He rose up, unfurling the entirety of his monumental body, and, hurling the wet sponge, managed to strike the kid just under his chin. The kid swallowed up his face in shock, and took a step backward. His dark glistening eyes had darted inward. He had a big hunk of soap foam hanging off his neck. Arnold started toward him, but the kid retreated, arms outstretched, holding back the air like a fucking mime.
“Okay. Okay. You got a cool car there; I didn’t mean to fuck with you. I didn't mean nothing by what I told you, I swear,” said the vato, sucking up.
“Pick up my sponge,” Arnold ordered.
Obediently the kid bent over to reach it, his ass poking up inside the mountain of T shirt that covered his baggy jeans. He tossed the sponge back, and then went slinking off down the street, one arm stiff to his side holding up the pants.
Dave Arnold rinsed the sponge, and then went back to work on his bumper. In moments, he was hosing down the entire car surface, satisfied there was enough wax left on the car, because the water beaded up immediately. Then it dawned on him; that kid was an opportunity.
“Hey, you little dirt bastard,” Arnold called out after him, but the kid was a block down the road.
Methodically Arnold loaded everything back into his car trunk, but the emptied bucket, which he wedged on the floor behind his seat. Then he took out a towel and quickly dried off the car body. The kid was further down the road now, but he could still see him. He got into the car, started it up, and backed out onto the blacktop. The drive was a straight shot, until the kid saw him coming and thinking evasion was going to be a possibility, ducked into an alley. Arnold followed him right in, caught up with him at the other end of that alley, cornered him, and rolled down the window. The gangster started hopping from one foot to another, like he'd had some training in boxing, which was kind of pathetic.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” the kid demanded.
“You want to move some coke?” asked Arnold.
“Oh shit! I can't afford no coke. What do I look like?”
From Metro North:
I wondered if I had stepped onto the set of a teen movie, because Bobby snorted and nodded his head at the news, looking around at all of us with an attitude that said we had been conspiring against him. Ed and I glanced at one another; and it was clear that we were going inside, mainly because Bobby looked like a rough customer. We both wanted look out for Arthur, but the bigger truth was that we were curious. Milly turned her back on Bobby and took Arthur’s arm; and Bobby walked behind them.
We entered the house through the side door under the portico. Arthur offered everyone a brandy, and I went and got the snifters out of the dining room bar cupboard, which had old-fashioned leaded glass doors, which stuck when I tried to open them. Meanwhile Arthur, in a fit of insecurity opened a bottle of Dalmain. The snifters were dusty so I had to carry them into the kitchen to rinse them and dry them with paper towels. When I got back into the living room with the tray, I found that I had one glass too many, because Bobby refused to have a drink with us. He also refused to sit down and instead stood by Milly’s chair waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Arthur ceremoniously poured the brandy, and then raised his glass in a toast.
“Here’s to a wonderful night, good friends, and new friends.”
“Salut,” said Ed.
We drank for moment in silence.
“You can go in the dining room if you like,” said Arthur.
“Okay,” said Milly, and she looked at Bobby and crooked her finger so that he would follow her.
Once the doors closed, Ed remarked, “I don’t know who’s crazier, him or us.”
“He’s young,” said Arthur.
“I don’t like him,” I said.
From the living room we could hear Bobby’s emotional plea for a second chance, which he was evidently not in the least ashamed to have us hear. “I know you don’t want to go over this again, Milly, but I’m sorry for what happened. I know you believe in us. I’ve always been on your side. When you make mistakes I’m there for you. I don’t make you have to go feel bad and suffer because I’m angry. I just accept what’s happened. I don’t think you’re being fair to me.”
Then Milly’s voice sounded. “Bobby, you took off and left me stranded. Not emotionally, but physically. I didn’t have any way to get home. A trucker stopped and chased me into the woods, and I had to run and hide to keep from being raped. This is not about my being unreasonable because you want to shoot your fourth game of pool. This is about your being negligent.”
“I own the responsibility for what happened, entirely. I’m never going to do that to you again as long as I live. But don’t throw away my love for you.”
Whatever else Bobby said was drowned in the paroxysms of his sobbing. After that, they lowered their voices, and we couldn’t hear them talking. Suddenly the doors opened, and Bobby walked out, turning down the hallway. Milly Giles stood in the doorway for a moment, and then moved toward Arthur’s chair, looking past Bobby, and then she grabbed up her purse and took off after him. Arthur stood up and took a few steps after her, then looked at Ed and me in disbelief, his sense of self crumpling like a Styrofoam cup in flames.
I ran out the front door and caught Milly before she got into the car.
“Milly, are you sure you want to do this? Don’t go unless you really want to go. He can’t force you! Don’t let him pressure you!”
“I don’t have any choice, really,” said Milly. Seeing what must have been a look of incredulity on my face, she added, “You don’t understand.”
“I understand you were spending a lot of time with my brother. He trusted you,” I said, and even as the words were coming out of my mouth I hated them for their impotence, but all I could think of was the look on Arthur’s face as reality dissolved around him.
She paused for a moment and stared at me.
I was off balance and had to support myself with one hand on the car fender.
“I’d have to be born aloft by angels to deserve that kind of trust,” she said, and the words spat out as if she held us in contempt.
I wondered if I had stepped onto the set of a teen movie, because Bobby snorted and nodded his head at the news, looking around at all of us with an attitude that said we had been conspiring against him. Ed and I glanced at one another; and it was clear that we were going inside, mainly because Bobby looked like a rough customer. We both wanted look out for Arthur, but the bigger truth was that we were curious. Milly turned her back on Bobby and took Arthur’s arm; and Bobby walked behind them.
We entered the house through the side door under the portico. Arthur offered everyone a brandy, and I went and got the snifters out of the dining room bar cupboard, which had old-fashioned leaded glass doors, which stuck when I tried to open them. Meanwhile Arthur, in a fit of insecurity opened a bottle of Dalmain. The snifters were dusty so I had to carry them into the kitchen to rinse them and dry them with paper towels. When I got back into the living room with the tray, I found that I had one glass too many, because Bobby refused to have a drink with us. He also refused to sit down and instead stood by Milly’s chair waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Arthur ceremoniously poured the brandy, and then raised his glass in a toast.
“Here’s to a wonderful night, good friends, and new friends.”
“Salut,” said Ed.
We drank for moment in silence.
“You can go in the dining room if you like,” said Arthur.
“Okay,” said Milly, and she looked at Bobby and crooked her finger so that he would follow her.
Once the doors closed, Ed remarked, “I don’t know who’s crazier, him or us.”
“He’s young,” said Arthur.
“I don’t like him,” I said.
From the living room we could hear Bobby’s emotional plea for a second chance, which he was evidently not in the least ashamed to have us hear. “I know you don’t want to go over this again, Milly, but I’m sorry for what happened. I know you believe in us. I’ve always been on your side. When you make mistakes I’m there for you. I don’t make you have to go feel bad and suffer because I’m angry. I just accept what’s happened. I don’t think you’re being fair to me.”
Then Milly’s voice sounded. “Bobby, you took off and left me stranded. Not emotionally, but physically. I didn’t have any way to get home. A trucker stopped and chased me into the woods, and I had to run and hide to keep from being raped. This is not about my being unreasonable because you want to shoot your fourth game of pool. This is about your being negligent.”
“I own the responsibility for what happened, entirely. I’m never going to do that to you again as long as I live. But don’t throw away my love for you.”
Whatever else Bobby said was drowned in the paroxysms of his sobbing. After that, they lowered their voices, and we couldn’t hear them talking. Suddenly the doors opened, and Bobby walked out, turning down the hallway. Milly Giles stood in the doorway for a moment, and then moved toward Arthur’s chair, looking past Bobby, and then she grabbed up her purse and took off after him. Arthur stood up and took a few steps after her, then looked at Ed and me in disbelief, his sense of self crumpling like a Styrofoam cup in flames.
I ran out the front door and caught Milly before she got into the car.
“Milly, are you sure you want to do this? Don’t go unless you really want to go. He can’t force you! Don’t let him pressure you!”
“I don’t have any choice, really,” said Milly. Seeing what must have been a look of incredulity on my face, she added, “You don’t understand.”
“I understand you were spending a lot of time with my brother. He trusted you,” I said, and even as the words were coming out of my mouth I hated them for their impotence, but all I could think of was the look on Arthur’s face as reality dissolved around him.
She paused for a moment and stared at me.
I was off balance and had to support myself with one hand on the car fender.
“I’d have to be born aloft by angels to deserve that kind of trust,” she said, and the words spat out as if she held us in contempt.