 | Turning to look me in the eye, Robert-not-Bob says, “Oh, annnnd…Wash Cabinet is de rigueur, but I understand Water Closet is still acceptable…” I smile at him and pick up the peppershaker to examine my warped reflection; how did I get that scar? He continues, “…told me about the SDU last month; you slick-frick! Playing stupid so she gains a faux mental edge means… Finally gonna ask her, aren’t ya?” I shrug. Grin. Memories of past conversations sidle into place—as if they just got caught out of their seats without permission. I envision Holly spread across the pallet. |
 | Interrupted—as she shoots a bowl of frothy beverage at me with a, “figured you could use this; I’ll be back with your special…” and then gives the international waitperson ‘I’ve-got-other-customers’ gesture. “You heard it. She thinks ‘you’re special’. I’d love to sit and dis-encourage you, but I’m headed over to Barbara’s…and don’t give me that eye-thing you do when you think about me getting so much when you get so little. Can you cover the check today?” I nod, waive at his departure, and fake laugh, which grabs hold of my caffeinated lack-of-sleep and becomes a giggle. |
 | “Laughing with—or at yourself?” Holly slides a plate of yellow, beige, and brown food in front of me with a garnish of red and a glass of orange; then takes a knee where Robert-not-Bob sat. Finger-clearing at the slaphappy tears I say, “I would like to go out with you.” Standing up and straightening her apron she replies, “I visit my uncle after the lunch crowd, today. He lives out by the airport in branded-housing. How about after? Tonight?” “I could take you to visit him in my loaner-car and we could go from there.” “You’ve got a sled?” |
 | “The use of one.” I nod. “Boring for you, while I hand-hold Uncle Deeter.” “I can keep occupied. Besides, this new civil-soc construct is interesting. Never been inside the new housing project.” “Ohhhh, I forgot your Social Engineering minor. Well sure then. Pick me up here at fifteen?” For the next four hours I eat and drink. Pay and over-tip. Confirm and smile-waive. Ride and zone out. Undress and Nap. Wake, shower, return (in my loaner-sled) and wait in front of Ray’s as bully-clouds threaten to suffocate the sun overhead. Holly exits. Momentarily shocked by the waitress-to-supermodel transformation, I stare. |
 | “I was less than honest, Joe,” she says, taking my arm as we walk. “I actually have to get a briefing at the Peste D'Hôpital. I felt funny explaining when customers might overhear. See, they’re predicting a trend: several suicides a day—and not only in the WC’s; some kind of ‘last meal’ thing.” Holly’s sandy hair frames her face. “You look wonderful,” I say. “Thank you,” she smiles. Tugging me to a stop, “how about this kiosk?” she asks, leading us into a metal, empty, bus-stop-sized sidewalk-booth. Touching an indent, she looks at me and down at the console. |
 | I’m expected to do something! I scan buttons and read multi-language instructions. She takes my left hand, guides my finger toward the console’s other indent, pushes buttons and retrieves a receipt. We walk. “Robert said you were inexperienced,” she says as I use the V-Sat. I roll my eyes. As the car enters traffic, Holly replies to Ohura. All the windows become dark-translucent, music thumps, sandalwood fills the air. “It’s a turn-on. Are you a virgin?” She asks. How to answer? Joe is, but not me? I shrug and look out the moonroof. “That’s cool.” She smiles and holds my hand. |
 | “Do you have a handy?” I nod. She holds out her palm. Giving her Lösch’s phone earns me a: “No-wonder, s’not-even-on. Men,” sigh. After a few seconds of fussing she hands it back, “Not sure how long, but I’ll call when it’s over.” The car stops. We get out. I say, “Hope you learn how to prevent people from killing themselves after eating your food.” Which earns me an explosion of full-on laughter. While laughing, Holly is stunning. I enter the elevator with a man wearing a hospital gown without one sleeve—displaying his star-shaped burn. Proud of his brand? |
 | Pressing the 12 – Park button, I glance at one-sleeve. His skin looks rough and flabby. Ish’s brand must have been under a red patch of felt! Ouch! “You ‘nterested ‘n halloween candy?” One sleeve’s English is extremely nasal. I turn. He cradles a handful of black and orange capsules and says, “You know this ’s the straight One-Oh-Five.” I squeeze off the elevator, hold it for three shuffling on, and step into a grassy, roof-park with bushes, flowerbeds, and trellises. He follows. “My family’s ‘n need. Twenty-five each?” On a bench, I take out piggyback dad’s notebook and write: Explain. |
 | “You can ‘nderstand, just can’t talk?” This is easier. I shrug and make the keep-going finger motion. As I learn about the Belgian assisted suicide program, I nod once in a while. Everyone is prescribed a 105 pill. Although one-sleeve steals unattended pills, the majority are purchased from in- or out-patients who do not intend to suicide by overdose. Recently he decided to sell and send his profits to his sister in Milwaukee. One-sleeve takes me to where he wants to eventually jump. We look down at the turnout. I tap the notebook. “Goin’ out messy’s the only plan left.” |
 | I tap. “Wanna go ou’ big. Was gonna spike somethin' with the 105’s, like tha' Tylenol guy back in the 70’s,” 1982, “in Seattle-someplace.” Chicago. I lose my balance and sit. Tap. “Couldn’t find anything tha' wasn’t tamper-resistant seven ways from fuck-me-Fred.” Nerve endings in the inner ear go first; I keep my eyes on the horizon for balance as my fingertips and feet fall asleep. “Ya gonna buy my stash?” I stand in a rush, bracing forward; arms thrust, legs pump. One-sleeve has enough time to register a shocked grimace before he disappears over the rail. A claxon blares. |
November's 11 thru 20
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