by Gregor Xane
"A stupid mistake," the professor said, "you could have avoided if you'd just taken a trip to the video store."
"I admit it," Frank said. "It was stupid. But I can have it all fixed in under a week. Maybe in a day. I don't think it's that far off. I can use the global replace to change the title, and I can erase the horns without any trouble at all. Just let me look back over the specs again."
"It's too late," Morris said. "I can't complete this project with you. I won't work with someone I can't trust."
"It was a mistake. A stupid mistake."
"It probably isn't my place to say this, Frank," the professor said. "But if you're making mistakes like this, you should really consider seeing a therapist. Lemon Purse is probably the most famous opera of the last fifty years. The fact that you aren't at least familiar with the basic storyline is quite unbelievable."
"It's a musical comedy," Frank said, as if this were some kind of defense. "I never liked musical comedies."
"I take offense to that," the professor said, standing to leave. "It's a tragic farce." The professor loped across the room and left the door open behind him.
"I think you should leave now," Morris said.
"I can fix it," Frank pleaded.
"Leave now," Morris said, "And don't follow the professor into the elevator. His nerves are bad."
Frank retrieved his binder from the desk and turned to make his exit.
"Frank?" Morris called after him. "On second thought, just take the stairs."
Chapter 9
Frank met Steve at the Blue Mosquito. The place was empty and dark at five o'clock in the afternoon. Steve sat at the bar with a bottle of beer. The brand matched the advertisement on the coaster. Steve talked to the bartender, face turned up to the television over the bar. The bartender washed glasses. Neither seemed to take much interest in what the other was saying. Politely wasting time together.
Frank took the stool next to Steve, not bothering to announce his presence. He lit a cigarette and feigned interest in the over-muscled men wrestling on the TV.
"Where've you been?" Steve asked.
Frank could feel Steve's head turn, his eyes boring into him. But Frank didn't look away from the choreographed melee flickering overhead. The Mustang Giant was stomping on Buck Lava's chiseled chest. Frank didn't look at Steve when he gave his answer. "Springville Opera House."
"Your meeting lasted nearly three hours?"
Frank ignored the question and turned to get the bartender's attention, careful not to catch Steve's eye. "You guys serve French fries?"
Steve groaned.
The bartender shook his head, twisting a shot glass over his thumb, his hand covered with a stained rag. "We don't serve any food here."
A touch of panic rushed into Steve's voice. "What happened at the meeting?"
"We've got chips," said the bartender, reaching behind the bar. He tossed a heavily worn bag of snack chips on the bar top.
"He won't eat Nacho Crunchies," Steve said. "Will you, Frank? Only French fries."
The bartender shrugged, snatched the chips and tossed them under the bar.
"Only French fries will do," Steve sang in a mocking falsetto.
"Any place near here sell French fries?" Frank asked the bartender.
Steve laughed. "He can't concentrate on anything else when it's decided."
"Yeah," said the bartender. He threw down his rag and glared at Steve and Frank, as if he suspected they were playing a game with him. "You want French fries. We got a Burger Shack right up the block." He jerked his thumb angrily over his shoulder like he was throwing them out.
"Can I come back in here with them?" Frank asked.
The bartender put both hands on the bar. "You gonna buy a drink to go with your beloved French fries?"
"Yeah," Frank said. "So, I can bring them in?"
The bartender rolled his eyes, gave Steve a significant glance, and walked away shaking his head. He threw his rag over his shoulder, pushed through a swinging door, and disappeared into the back of the bar.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" Steve asked.
"What's the matter with that guy?" Frank watched the door swing back and forth in its frame.
"Forget it, Frank. He's just like that. Now, tell me what happened?"
"Nothing happened." Frank searched his wallet for French fry money. "I really thought they served food here."
"They never have, for as long as it's been open." Steve swigged his beer and turned his attention back to the television. Buck Lava wept, blood streaming down his face. The Mustang Giant danced around the ring. Steve bared his teeth when he said, "Just go get your god damned French fries."
• • • • • •
Steve moved to a booth near the back of the bar and waited ten minutes for Frank to return. The windowless door opened and Frank's silhouette appeared against the glaring streetlights. He walked up to the table and dropped a grease-soaked brown paper bag onto the tabletop. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a cache of napkins and threw them down next to the bag. He slid into the booth, spread out three layers of napkins, and dumped his fries. He reached the forked fingers of his right hand into the greasy mound and scooped up a mouthful.
"What the hell are you doing?" Steve asked. "That looks like three orders of fries."
"It's four. I'm really hungry." Frank smashed another wad of stringed potatoes and grease into his mouth.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?"
"I asked for three orders. They gave me four."
"At the opera house."
"Like I said. Nothing."
"You wouldn't be drowning yourself in French fries, if nothing happened."
"I lost the job. They want me to return the advance."
"That doesn't sound like nothing."
"It's nothing for me. Less than nothing. I lost money on it."
"They can't expect to get their advance back."
"No?"
"What the hell happened? Weren't you finished with that project?"
"Pretty much."
"Did you say something to offend them?"
"Come on." Frank stuffed his cheeks full with fries. He looked up at the bartender who was now standing next to the table.
"You gonna buy a beer to go with those fries?" the bartender asked, hands on his hips, the stained rag draped over his left shoulder.
Frank didn't answer. He just chewed and looked up at the man with wide, inquisitive eyes.
"Yeah, he'll have a beer," Steve said. "What do you want, Frank?"
Frank swallowed and shook his head.
Steve mouthed the words, 'What the fuck is wrong with you?' at Frank, and then offered his apologies to the bartender. "Sorry, buddy. He'll have a Golden Grand. Draught."
The bartender grunted and returned to the bar.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Steve asked aloud to Frank once the bartender was out of hearing distance.
"I was eating my French fries."
"So?"
"I didn't want to talk with my mouth full." Frank pushed more fries into his mouth. His lips shone with grease. "It's rude."
"You're right, it is. Now, why did they fire you?"
The bartender returned, slammed a full glass down in front of Frank, splashing beer onto his French fry napkin, and walked away.
Frank watched the bartender disappear again into the back room, sopping a couple of fries in spilled beer.
Steve turned away before Frank shoved them into his mouth. "What did you do, Frank?"
"They didn't like the portfolio. We had a misunderstanding."
"What kind of misunderstanding?"
"I misprinted the title on every page."
"Dumb. But. That's an easy fix."
"I put little demon horns all over everything."
Steve laughed. "You're not serious."
Frank turned his attention back to the TV bolted to the ceiling above the bar. The Harlem Heartbreaker put a platform boot to Jerry "the Hoo
ligan" Mikanowski's forehead. Frank swigged his beer and licked his lips.
"You are serious." Steve sat back in the booth, spreading his palms flat over the table. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"I don't know. It seemed to fit. I thought the opera was called Demon Purse."
"You were only a letter off."
"Yep."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I don't know. Look for another gig, I guess."
"You need a little money until you get back on your feet?"
"No. I got a little saved up."
"No, you don't."
Frank picked up another fry and a sliver of wet napkin came with it. He peeled this off with much care and popped the fry into his mouth.
"You're starting to make me sick over here." Steve watched Frank slurp up another fry, it slithered in like a fat yellow worm.
"Can you get me Serapuems?" Frank asked.
"Why? Didn't Vo prescribe some for you?"
"I won't be able to see Vo anymore. I won't be able to pay my CareCo premiums."
"I could help you with that."
"Don't worry about it. I can let it go for a few months."
"You really shouldn't."
"Yeah. Gaps in coverage and all that."
"Right."
"Can you get me some Serapuems?"
"Of course."
"Good." Frank scooped up the last of his French fries. "Delicious."
Chapter 10
Steve returned to work after his midnight lunch break. The neon mortar and pestle blinked overhead as he walked through the sliding glass doors. DrugMart was slow this time of night. He worked just one night shift a month, but it was often enough that his workplace had invaded his dreams. And it was easy now, as he weaved his way to the back of the store, for Steve to see why. The place was eerie after dark. The fluorescent lights buzzed and crackled across shelves of brightly colored merchandise, tightly packed packages of competing bold design. The never-ending music loop, innocuous at noon, now seemed carnivalesque. The patrons moved slower through the aisles, just passing the time, lonely and bored. A waxing machine hummed across the tiles somewhere near the back of the store. Cardboard lay broken and in disarray. Stock boys looked up with looks of wonder, surprise, looks of shame (they were doing a job no one was supposed to see) as Steve walked past them to the pharmacy counter.
There was a short line at the register. Branda, the night pharmacy tech, stapled a receipt to the folded top of a prescription bag, while an old woman struggled with swiping her credit card through the scanner. The man next in line held a box of condoms close to his thigh, trying to conceal the label with his hand and coat sleeve. But the box conspired against him; its cartoonishly phallic blazing sword trademark; the sparkling metallic letters announcing the brand, Excalibur!
The man standing at the end of the line held nothing in his hands. Filthy fingertips hung from the bottoms of frayed coat sleeves. His nails were long and dirty. His overcoat was wrinkled, its front stained with fallen condiments. He stood too close to the condom man. His unshaven face loomed over the man's shoulder.
At first, Steve thought this man was a vagrant. But vagrants usually didn't wait in line. They just wandered the store. He then decided that the man was probably just waiting for his monthly dose of anti-psychotics.
Steve could tell that the man had just walked into the store. The smell of the night's cool wind was swirling around him, along with a deeper, mustier, more personal scent. And the man's photosensitive eyeglasses were now rapidly revealing his eyes.
Frank's eyes.
Steve hadn't seen Frank in over three weeks, not since he'd handed over a bag full of Serapuem samples in a dark corner of the Blue Mosquito. It didn't look like the sleeping pills had brought much sleep or peace of mind to Frank. His lenses now revealed dark circles and hollowed cheeks.
"You have a nice lunch, Steve?" Frank asked. Stained lips cracked as he smiled. "Probably not much open this time of night?"
Steve wanted to say that he'd eaten a huge bag of greasy fries, but managed to control himself. Frank was obviously having a rough time. He looked unstable and serious, incapable of handling snide remarks.
Steve just smiled and nodded his head, distracted himself with the business of finding his keys in the pocket of his lab coat.
He unlocked the pharmacy door, turned the handle, and ducked into the back of the store. He rushed up to Branda and told her to go ahead and take her break. She didn't argue and disappeared into the break room. Steve heard the microwave beep and hum to life. He took the credit card from the old woman's hand and swiped it through the machine, ripped her receipt from the register, and dismissed her with a grunt. He threw the condom man's wrinkled bills in the cash drawer, stuffed his package into a paper sack, folded the receipt over the top, and stapled it shut.
Frank stepped up to the counter and said, "That was rude. Not even a 'hello.'"
"What?" Steve looked over his shoulder into the break room. Branda stirred an instant dinner and placed it back into the microwave for a few dozen more rotations. "Oh, sorry. It wasn't you. It was just that old lady struggling with the card reader. That drives me crazy. It's not that difficult."
"I don't know," Frank said. "I find it kind of tricky."
Steve looked back at Frank and said, "You would."
Frank didn't smile. He looked down and searched through his coat pockets. He piled an array of gum wrappers, dirty facial tissues, and wrinkled receipts on the counter top. "Don't worry about it," he said, and removed a tattered pack of cigarettes and put one in his mouth.
"You know you can't smoke in here." Steve looked toward the front of the store to make sure no employees were walking his way.
"I know. I'm just getting ready. I can't stay long. I have to get up early tomorrow."
"No, you don't."
Frank shrugged his shoulders and scooped the trash from the counter top and stuffed his pockets. "So, how are things, Steve?" Frank didn't look up from the business of filling up his coat. "I haven't seen you in awhile. How's Jill?"
Steve shook his head and walked back out through the door and met Frank on the other side of the counter. "Jill's fine. I'm fine." He sighed. "You look like shit."
Frank didn't respond.
"Come on." Steve stepped into an aisle filled with topical creams and powders, gesturing for Frank to follow. "Let's step over here and talk. I'll be able to see someone if they come up to the counter."
Frank followed, and they stood facing a wall of Vulvacor and Labial, talking to each other from the sides of their mouths.
"I'm going to be sleeping here in an hour or so," Frank said. "I took three Serapuems on the drive over."
"Three?"
"Four. I've developed quite a tolerance."
Steve lowered his voice. "Well, I can't get you any more until the end of the month. The distributors only drop off so many samples. And, technically, they're not even supposed to be giving me samples."
"That's not why I'm here." Frank placed a bag of cold sore tabs back on its hook, pulled a row of fungal cream forward to the edge of a shelf.
"What are you doing?"
"Fronting the shelves."
"Why?"
Frank straightened an assortment of fragranced enema kits. "I was wondering if you could get me some Vril patches."
"Vril patches?"
"Keep your voice down. It's embarrassing enough as it is."
"I didn't know you had a girlfriend." He couldn't have a girlfriend, the way he looks right now.
"I don't."
"Then why?"
"You know the answer to that. I shouldn't have to come out and say it."
"Hey, I'm sorry. I never really thought of it like that."
"Can you get me a box?"
"I guess."
"Tonight?"
"I don't know."
Frank slipped a tube of a water-based lubricant in his pocket and looked up threateningly at Steve. "Tonight?" he
asked again, raising an eyebrow.
"Put that back, and I'll see what I can do."
Frank placed the tube neatly back on the shelf and Steve disappeared behind the pharmacy door.
He returned with a paper bag stapled shut with a bogus receipt.
"How many do I get?"
"Is thirty enough?"
"Well—"
"I don't want to hear about it. Just go." Steve pointed to the front of the store.
Frank took the sack. Steve waved away his 'thank yous' and ushered him down the aisle.
Steve waited until Frank was just beyond the giant brick wall of cased Killer Cola, and then called after him, "Hey, take care of yourself. OK?" Steve's voice revealed more guilt than he would have liked, and he tried to cover up with another good-bye, which came off sounding more sarcastic than he'd intended. "Give me a call. You know, when you're not too busy."
Frank didn't turn around, didn't wave.
Steve returned to the counter and found two people waiting for their prescriptions. He rang them up and took their money without looking at them. His mind was still following Frank down the aisle. His dark crumpled form had been in such sharp contrast to his surroundings, like a sewer rat crawling over a white lace tablecloth.
It's amazing how far someone could fall in just a few weeks. Steve sprayed the counter top and wiped it clean. He couldn't help but wonder what it would take to break him, to bring him down to where Frank was right now.
Then the phone rang, startling him. They didn't get many calls this late at night. He looked up at the phone and saw that the blinking light indicated an inside line. Someone was calling from register three at the front of the store. He picked up the phone. It was Selma Rae. Her deep, scratchy voice was unmistakable.
"Hey, hey," she said. "Do I got Steve on the phone?"
"How are you doing, Selma?"
"Good, good."
"What can I do for you?"
"Your buddy just left here. He just walked out the door. You could probably catch him if you wanted to."
"I saw him."
"Oh," said Selma, distracted. "That will be fourteen dollars even."
"You're talking about Frank, right?"
"Yeah. I just saw him."
"Frank's my brother."
