I would like to hunt down and beat senseless the asshole who wrote “Walking on Sunshine.” That’s what I said to the waitress when she asked if I wanted more coffee. I wasn’t saying it directly to her, nor was I offering it as any kind while I was thinking out loud. I do that a lot. She just looked at me like I was some kind of nut. I get that a lot.
I haven’t always been like this. It was good for a while, my life that is. I had a normal childhood, was a mediocre student and grew into a sub-par member of “polite” society. I was truly unremarkable. Average height, blue eyes, shaved head and maybe a few extra pounds. That’s been me since as long as I can remember. And now, here I am: a middle-aged, twice-convicted felon sitting in some greasy spoon on the south side of town at 3 p.m. on a dreary Saturday, waiting on two guys to show. Probably wasting my time.
When you deal with the kind of people I do, you do a lot of waiting. A lot of waiting in rundown places on the south side of town. Sometimes they show up late, sometimes not at all. Not unless, of course, there’s money involved, which in my case, there usually is. Small bills, usually. Purchasing my salvation one gram at a time. Not today, though, at least not yet. The motherfucker’s already fifteen minutes late. That’s usually not a good sign. Setting up this goddamn meet was a headache to begin with. Not too late for second thoughts, but why bother? I’m already here. A cluster-fuck in the making. Story of my life. Nothing’s ever easy; nothing ever goes smooth, not for me. Nothing except trouble; that’s never a problem. If misery loves company, then why the fuck do I always feel so alone? Everything I touch turns to shit. Some people travel life’s highway peacefully. Not me, no sir. I’m like a modern-day General Sherman, setting fire to everything in my path. Burning everything I come into contact with.
I should try calling this guy, see where the hell he’s at. Maybe not, don’t wanna seem too desperate. That’s a sure way to get walked all over. Coming off as desperate.
“Sir, if you’re done with your coffee and aren’t gonna order anything to eat, Al’s gonna tell me to tell you to keep it moving,” says the waitress.
I take a quick glance around the mostly empty diner. I’m assuming that Al is the big oaf at the grill with the cigarette dangling from his mouth, its ash perilously close to becoming a topping on the cheeseburger he’s cooking. I don’t want any more problems. Judging by Al’s bulk and the way his nose appears to have been broken many times over, the nose of a certified brawler, I sure as hell don’t want any problems with him.
“Look, sweetheart, what’s your name?” I ask.
She points to her nametag and fixes me with a look that is equal parts sympathy and hostility. “Well, sweetheart,” she says with contempt, “can you read?”
“Yes, yes, Roxy, I can. Look, Roxy, I don’t want any trouble. Not with you, not with Al, not with anyone. I’m waiting for someone. They’re running late, apparently. Tell you what: I’ll have one more cup of coffee, and if they don’t show by the time I finish it, I’ll leave. Deal?”
She says nothing, just does an about-face, walks towards the counter, the coffee pot and Al. She says something to Al, but I can’t hear it. Turns out I don’t need to. The gaze he fixes me with says it all. I’ve bought myself some time. Not much. Hopefully enough. Roxy returns a few minutes later with the pot of coffee in one hand and a small plate, upon which rests a sickly-looking piece of pie, in the other. In one motion, she sets the plate down and begins refilling my cup. I see that the pie is cherry. I fucking hate cherry pie.
“Is the pie fresh?” I ask.
She looks down at me, her eyes telling me that there are some questions a man of even my questionable status should already know the answers to and others that should just never be asked. She shrugs and then walks away.
The door opens, and a young guy enters, bringing with him a chill and a tension that fills the restaurant and hangs in the air thicker than Al’s cigarette smoke. Even though I’ve never met him, I know this is who I’m waiting for. We’ve talked on the phone a few times in the last month, trying to set this up, but we’ve never met face to face. This was bound to happen, though. This business we’re about to attend to has been a long time coming and is the type of shit best done in person. It was agreed that I’d be wearing a Chicago Blackhawks cap, and I am.
The young man scans the deserted cafe, his eyes quickly settling on mine. He hesitates for just a moment, then strides confidently towards the booth I’m sitting in. Head up, chest puffed out, a severe look on his face. Thought we’ve never been in the same room, there is something instantly familiar about him. He’s trying to look tough, but some of his inner turmoil is showing. He’s just as nervous as I am. That’s what I tell myself anyway. There’s a very good chance that this deal could end badly for both of us, and why shouldn’t it? Everything else does. I’ve had my share of back-alley deals and shady characters, but this is different. Any chance of backing out vanishes as he slides into the booth opposite me. He’s still trying to act confident. Not a bead of sweat of a single nervous tic. The kid’s good. Steely. Reminds me of me. He’s the same age I was the first time I ended up in the penitentiary. Fifteen years for armed robbery. We stare at each other, waiting to see who’ll blink first. I already know it’s gonna be me, and he does, too.
“Vince?” I ask, praying my voice doesn’t betray my anxiety.
“Dad?” he replies, “Mom’s told me a lot about you…”
About Dan Grote
