The man leaned back against the door to keep it barred. Then he looked to Ree and asked, breathless, “Do you have any Grant Morrison Animal Man trades?”
Ree had seen some rushed customers before, but this guy was asking about a comic book the way a Western hero who’d just walked ten miles through the blazing sun asked for water.
Ree casually scanned the wall for the section with Morrison’s work and said, “Um . . . sure. I can get one for you, but they’re on your left, between Seven Soldiers of Victory and Batman & Robin.”
He turned to his left and pawed at the trades with gloved hands. His left glove was bloodied, several of its fingers torn and hanging off his hand.
“Is it less than twenty dollars?” he asked, fumbling with his wallet.
What the hell is up with this guy? Ree wondered. “19.95 . . .” she said.
The man pulled out a crumpled twenty and slapped it on the counter, leaving blood on the bill and the glass. “I don’t need a bag, thank you.”
He turned on his heel and pulled the door open, rushing out of the store while flipping through the book.
When the door was shut, Ree traded a WTF? look with Anya and said, “There’s my crazy for the day.”
“You get one of those a day?” Anya asked.
Ree shrugged. “Most of the customers are nice, but there are some weirdos. He at least was in a hurry.” The real winners are the ones who corner me to talk about their RPG characters for hours, don’t let me get a word in so as to actually participate in the conversation, and then leave without buying anything.
A minute later, once Anya had resumed ranting about the mad antics of her director, Ree heard a BOOM! from outside. Ree guessed from the echo that it came from the alley by the gallery, but mostly, she focused on the fact that there was a BOOM! at all in a neighborhood/age where/when one should not hear a BOOM!, especially one that sounded more like a bomb than a backfiring engine.
“The hell?” Anya asked.
“Watch the store for a sec?” Ree said more than asked, grabbing the crowbar from under the counter. Said crowbar had +2 N3wb Bane engraved on the back, one of Bryan’s many personal touches. She rolled back the comics shelf and strode out of the store, past the gallery, then into the alley, scanning the street as she went to look for shady people who looked capable of making a BOOM!
The usually boring alley was fifty feet deep, holding several Dumpsters and ending with a tall wooden fence that was the other side of a local church. There was no immediate evidence of a thing that would have gone BOOM!
Instead, Ree saw, halfway down the alley, a pile of colorful shredded paper that looked not quite like newspaper. She approached and looked over the pile and saw that it consisted of shredded snippets of a graphic novel. Several strips of comic page were plastered to the wall, with what looked like bloody prints on them. Ree walked over to the wall and saw from the slivers of art that they were pages from the book she’d just sold.
Ree tried to add up the situation and make it resemble sense in her mind: So this guy comes in looking like he’s a Backstreet Boy in ’99 chased by crazed fans, buys a graphic novel in a crazed rush, and then runs out to shred the comic in an alley, does something to a wall, and somewhere in there, there’s a BOOM!
Ree shrugged. “Above my pay grade,” she said to the alley, and then walked back into Café Xombi.
“I’ve got nothing,” she said upon returning to her perch. She replaced the crowbar and leaned back against the rear counter. Anya raised an eyebrow, which Ree answered with a what can you do? shrug.
• • •
Anya stuck around for a couple of hours, long enough to help Ree settle back into a state of relative Zen. A few more customers came and went, mostly the awesome regulars who would buy drinks, stay to chat for a few minutes, then go on their way.
After they left, a couple of Yu-Gi-Oh!-loving teenage boys came in, bought one booster pack each, and then played several excited games, discussing school and the girls they had crushes on as if Ree couldn’t hear them.
The people-watching and overheard conversations were one of the best perks of working retail or food service. When you’re out doing your own thing, it’s easy to forget that the person in the uniform T-shirt or polo shirt is their own person.
While the Yu-Gi-tots played, some students swung by for coffee, talking about classes and midterms as they waited for Ree to make their macchiatos.
Just after five, Jeff the Lawyer came in for his comics (Batman, Astro City, and Morning Glories) and a recap of the week’s television (Fringe, Community, and The Walking Dead), but after the Animal Man guy, the day had reverted to normal.
Still, when business reached a lull, Ree occasionally replayed the BOOM! and the frantic customer’s visit in her mind.
The sun started to set, orange lights pouring in from the west-facing windows, and Ree closed up the shop. She set the still-good-tomorrow pastries and baked delectables in the fridge and boxed up the ones that were no longer fit to sell. She traded pastries for bagels with the folks at Sue’s Bagels, and cookies for veggies with Rachel at the co-op near her apartment.
Said apartment was affectionately known as “The Shithole” due to Ree’s deep belief that the ancient idea of giving your kids crappy names to protect them from evil spirits and SIDS was applicable to apartments as well. The Shithole was actually quite nice for its price. But thanks to its thoroughly unappealing name, no random spiteful gods of housing would come around and rob her and Sandra of an apartment that was affordable, cute, and large enough to have friends in without A) being run by a slumlord or B) residing in the “Good Luck Not Getting Shot by Drug Dealers” part of town.
However, The Shithole was a fifth-floor walk-up, which had nearly killed Ree and the handful of friends who had helped when they moved in two years ago. Now that Ree and Sandra’s stuff was safely ensconced on the fifth floor, Ree had no desire to move—ever, if possible—though she was willing to make a concession if Joseph Gordon-Levitt or Christina Hendricks asked her to run away with them.
Just inside the door was a pair of couches that formed the TV nook, one of Ree’s favorite spaces on Planet Earth. The nook’s walls were lined with overburdened plywood bookshelves and a pair of hard drives that contained her preposterously large movie and TV collection. Across from the TV nook was the dining area, with two card tables shoved together and a collection of metal folding chairs, three folded down and another three leaned against the wall.
The kitchen was mostly Sandra’s domain, since she’d spent a semester in culinary school before dropping out, just like she’d dropped out of nearly everything. Like Ree, Sandra was still on cruise control post-college (though in Sandra’s case, it was post-college-the-third-time and post-AmeriCorps-which-she-didn’t-even-finish-because-Thank-You-pneumonia). Currently, Sandra worked as a receptionist in a dental office and remained severely lacking in what Ree’s dad would call “life direction.” Ree had a life direction; it was just a seemingly impossible vector pointing to Hollywood.
Sandra wasn’t home, but the kitchen still somehow smelled like fresh bread. Ree put on some water for tea and walked through the living room to her bedroom. She took one step toward her bed and lobbed her bag to bounce off of it into the corner. Her bed was a mattress and box spring stuffed against two walls, with burgundy sheets, a black duvet, and a pair of pillows. She’d used a bed frame for a while pre-Shithole, but the “feeling like a grown-up” bonus hadn’t yet overtaken the “it’s an extra thing to move” negative.
Ree changed into sweats and returned to the living room, settling in until Sandra got home from the crosstown commute and they could make dinner or go out. Sandra’s boyfriend, Darren, would be by anytime, so Ree soaked up the solitude while it lasted. It was a different thing being home and alone instead of at work and alone. When she was at the café, there was always something theoretically to do; a customer could walk in any minute, and the coffee had to keep getting refreshed and the orders pro
cessed.
At home, she could just be. And so she was, splayed out on the couch with the TV on mostly for background noise. It was a Syfy original, and the horrible CGI monster looked like the redheaded stepchild of the baddies from Ernest Scared Stupid. She wrapped herself up in a blanket, and as she dozed off, her thoughts strayed to the crazy customer and his desperate, inexplicable Morrison kick.
Chapter Two
Tunnels and Trollops
A few minutes later, as she was nicely burrowed into her couch den, Ree’s phone started playing her dad’s ringtone (“Piano Man,” his favorite). Ree extricated herself from the blankets and fetched her crooning device.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, love. How’s the daily grind?” Ree could hear his self-satisfied smile through the phone—the one he used when he was patting himself on the back after a horrible pun. She couldn’t help but grin.
“Rough only because it was smooth. Boring day, save for one crazy. Anya swung by to chat for a while. What’s the word from the world of hair?”
Ree’s father was a hairdresser (for now) and had stuck with it longer than any of his previous careers. In the years after her mom left, Ree’s dad had almost always worked 60 hours or more. Only recently had he been able to stay afloat without overtime.
“Fortunately, it’s a growth industry. I had a few referrals this week, which helped. Any word on the writing?”
Ree’s dad was her biggest (sometimes it felt like only) fan. And he was thankfully taking her request from their last conversation to not talk about Jay. Any topic in the world was preferable to that jackass.
“Nothing since yesterday. I’m out of options with Orion Overdrive, unless one of the agents who never responded to submissions before actually writes back this time. I sent out another dozen submissions to agents last week, including the guy who said that he wanted to see something else from me when he rejected Shibboleth Showdown. But the Lindelof lead came back with nothing.”
She could feel the smile in his breath. “Well, you’re staying on it. What are you working on now?”
In truth, she hadn’t written a word since the breakup, even when she opened a new document intending to free-write to get the anguish out of her brain. The words just didn’t come. She had gone back and looked at Orion Overdrive after the last rejections, to try and see what didn’t click, but her heart wasn’t in it.
It wouldn’t do any good to lie, so she said, “Yeah, about that. I’ve been in kind of a funk.”
Her dad hrrm’ed in the phone. “Anything I can do?”
Ree shook her head by instinct, though of course her dad couldn’t see it. “I’d rather not have you running from the law on an assault rap, so probably not.”
“You know I’d do time for you, love.”
“Of course, Dad. But you’d last about a millisecond in prison.”
“What about all that Taekwondo you taught me? I’ve been practicing the roundhouse kick.” Her father trying to do Taekwondo was hilarious, charming, and completely unintimidating.
“Take a knife-fighting class and then maybe we’ll talk.”
“We’re talking right now.”
Ree groaned. “This is me rolling my eyes.”
“I’m not going to acknowledge that. How are the Rhyming Ladies?”
“They’re fine. Pretty soon Priya will disappear down the hole of end-of-semester papers, and Sandra’s been extra busy since one of the other receptionists is out sick.”
A thought struck Ree. “Hey, any word back from banker lady?”
“Alas, no. I left a voicemail, but it’s all echo chamber.”
“Bitch,” Ree said with a half-smiling sneer. Her dad was awesome, and he’d been single for way too long.
“I’m not exactly the world’s most eligible bachelor, dear, your bias aside.”
“Bias my ass, you’re awesome and you deserve to be happy.”
He chuckled. “Thanks.”
The locks on the door opened one by one, and Ree looked over the couch to see her roommate walk in. Sandra gave her an only-the-wrist-moves wave.
Sandra Wilson (Strength 15, Dexterity 13, Stamina 13, IQ 17, Will 12, and Charisma 13—Geek 3 / Scholar 3 / Dancer 1 / Teacher 1 / Waitress 1 / Chef 1 / Professional 1) was just over six feet tall, had long curly black hair, a perfect olive complexion, and a build sufficiently Amazonian that Ree occasionally had to choke down a bout of homicidal jealousy.
Every group of friends had the hot girl, the funny girl, the smart girl, etc. The roles were usually visible only in contrast. Like in a sorority where all the girls are gorgeous, one is maybe a shade more camera-ready.
But Ree, she was the funny girl, the jester for her Rhyming Ladies, a crew who dated all the way back to college. Technically, the three women’s names didn’t all rhyme, it was just the name that had stuck. Ree had tried Ree and the Holograms, The Fabtastic Four, and The A-Team, but in the end, and prompted by her father’s humor, they were the Rhyming Ladies.
Most of the time, when people scoped out her friends, they zoomed in on Sandra’s statuesque figure, Anya’s marvelous curves, or Priya’s look-straight-through-you eyes.
Yes, the geekboys headed for Ree if a conversation ensued that showed off her massive geek cred. But the rest of the time, well, she got to watch and make jokes.
Not helping, she scolded herself. Focus. Be positive.
Ree returned to her father. “That’s Sandra. I should go, there needs to be dinner or I’m going to eat the couch.”
“Take care, love,” her father said.
“Love ya, Dad,” she said, then hung up.
Sandra slung her purse on the coatrack and said, “We’re going out tonight,” as she turned toward her own room across from Ree’s.
Ree called after her, getting off the couch. “Is something wrong?”
As Ree caught up to her, Sandra snorted in frustration. “Freakshows on parade today, so I need a drink. Plus, Darren’s about to start his term papers, so he needs a drink. And I want to see him one more time before he’s swallowed by term papers.”
Darren was a graduate student in history at the University of Pearson, focusing on the gender politics of proxy wars conducted by the USA and the USSR. You’d think that would be interesting, but from what Darren said, it was mostly seeing how many times he could flatter his professor’s research while quoting Foucault, Butler, and Hardt & Negri to prove his theory chops.
“Where are we going?” Ree asked as Sandra switched out of her business clothes into a skintight top and skirt that were less “dinner with grandma” and more “dessert with boytoy.”
Sandra grinned. “Trollope’s Trollops.”
Trollope’s Trollops was a college bar with more grad students than frat boys in the clientele, weekly burlesque shows, and open-mike debates. It was Darren’s favorite, strangely more for the debates than the burlesque shows. At least until Sandra joined the burlesque troupe, at which point he declared it his boyfriendly obligation to attend every show. According to Darren, said duty was “truly torturous.”
Ree clicked off the TV, silencing the comically gross trolls. As she walked into her room, she shouted, “Activate Bar Crawl outfit!”
• • •
Trollope’s Trollops was fairly busy, since Thursday had been claimed by the drinking weekend years ago in Pearson. Darren was already there, splayed out in a corner booth to claim space. Darren Hudson (Strength 15, Dexterity 11, Stamina 14, IQ 18, Will 16, and Charisma 13—Scholar 7 / New England Heir 3 / Grad Student 3) was even taller than Sandra, with café au lait skin and teeth so white they probably had their own wattage. Darren stood to embrace Sandra with a deep kiss, then gave Ree a quick hug before the three of them took their seats.
Ree’s heart rushed with vicarious excitement at her friends’ kiss, then went klunk with a dull ache. She was in no condition to date, not for a while. If she did, it would be desperation and loneliness, not desire. And that way lay madness and more hurt feelings.
Plus, whom would she pick? She didn’t have a shortage of suitors, but going home with one of the customers at Café Xombi would invariably be read as an invitation for all of the other regulars to ask her out, and then she’d have to kill them all, sleep with them all, or quit. Not a great set of options.
They ordered a pitcher of Urban Ale-ian, a local microbrew, which Darren paid for. Despite being a grad student—the larval form of the notoriously low-earning Professional Academic—Darren had money to throw around because of a gloriously bourgeois family background.
Oh, to have a wealthy family.
Ree had no such family fortune, so instead of a trust fund, she had student loans the size of Mount Rainier. If there was a continuum of financial savvy with Warren Buffett on one end, then Ree lived pretty close to the opposite extreme. Most of the time, she blamed her continued brokenness on budgeting for the L.A. trips, but that was a convenient excuse. No one had come to break her kneecaps yet, so she took it as a win.
Ree sat back, letting Sandra and Darren chatter. She looked over the bar to take in the laid-back energy. She needed to recharge her social batteries, which had been flashing red most of the day, barring Anya’s visit. Priya texted a few minutes into the pitcher, saying she was stuck at home with laundry.
Two beers later, Sandra asked Ree a question, but Ree hadn’t been paying attention.
Ree shook her head. “Sorry, what? I zoned out.”
“Do you want to go down to Turbo’s for a slice?” Their pitcher was empty, and Turbo’s was fantastic drinking/drunk food.
“Is the pope naked in the woods?” Ree said.
Darren raised an eyebrow, but Sandra laughed.
Ree and company donned their coats again and made their way through the bar. Ree licked her lips in anticipation of the pizza. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?
The trio walked up the stairs to where the bar emptied out into an alley that was as likely to host a game of Hacky Sack as a homeless guy selling tube socks.
Geekomancy Page 2
