against a barely legal guy in a faded cut, polo, and chinos who ordered “that coffee thing,” she knew it was time to head a little east for a hot beef drink.
She spotted Stu and Nadal, with his mocha skin and waist-length dreadlocks that had gotten stuck in his bike gears once while he changed his tire, standing in the corner. No matter how crowded it got, they managed to press into that corner like driftwood finally making it to shore. Nadal hugged her only slightly less emphatically than Stu.
“Hey, Nadal?” She had to yell to be heard over the blasting ambient music and chatter. “I hear you’re my new delivery guy?”
Nadal smiled. “Any tricks I should know?” he asked in his deep Jamaican accent.
“Don’t fold the patterns.”
He laughed. “Anything Stu didn’t already tell me?”
“Probably not. It’s different than delivering bottles of breast milk across town, huh?”
“It will be nice to work for a business, not a person, you know? No tired ladies saying ‘Oh, this is not cold enough,’ or ‘Oh, I am missing my expensive jacket. Why didn’t you check the dry cleaning bill before leaving the store?’ I am telling you, the richer the bastard is, the lazier they get.”
Stu interjected, “And tomorrow, of course, my first day, they’re closing off two blocks around the park on every side for the Pomerantz funeral. You know what would happen if their cleaning lady died? Nothing. They’d find a new cleaning lady.”
“Are you jamming it?”
“Yes, we’re jamming the egregious social inequality manifested by this horse and pony show of a funeral. We’re shouting on every social network. Thousands will be there, at least.”
“Have you got a good chant?”
“You are so mainstream, Laura.” He hailed the bartender for another drink. “Once you put up a placard you need a permit. If we’re just standing there, there’s nothing they can do.”
“You don’t think that nineteen-dollar drink might manifest an egregious social inequality?” she said. Nadal lifted his glass to her.
“That’s what I like about you,” Stu said. “You keep a guy honest. You going to be there? Or are you going to weep at the funeral?”
“I think I’m going to Rikers tomorrow.”
He must have not heard her, because he lifted his drink. “To the Countess of the Corset!” he cried, toasting either Gracie or the journalistic prowess of the New York Post , which had given her that name years before. Laura wasn’t sure which.
She turned back to Nadal. “Were you on the Pomerantz’s route?”
“Next door was a lady I brought a McDonald’s Happy Meal every other night.” He turned to Stu. “That’s you now, buddy.”
Stu slammed his drink. “I’m tired of this frou-frou shit. I need a whiskey.”
Nadal shook his head. “They were fightin’ like cats last time I went.”
“When was that?” Laura asked.
“Night before last. Cops were at the door just as I was leaving.”
“Leaving? How long did you stay?”
He raised his eyebrows. “About fifteen minutes.”
“So the police must know they were fighting,” she said. Nadal shrugged. “Did you hear what they were fighting about?”
“Nah, I was busy.”
Stu rested his head on her shoulder before banging his head against it. She patted his cheek, but couldn’t save him from the Happy Meal lady. He’d have to do that himself.
Laura wrapped her scarf around her neck and announced her departure. She had to get up early for Jeremy tomorrow and wanted to be fresh, or at least sober. Stu followed her out.
“Why do you care what they were fighting about?” he asked, as soon as they were on Broadway. He hadn’t brought his jacket, and his hands were jammed into the depths of his pockets to hold his shivering shoulders close his body.
“Just curious.”
“You shouldn’t get involved, Laura, unless you want the cops at your door again.”
“Thanks for the advice. You’d better go inside before you freeze.”
“Let
She spotted Stu and Nadal, with his mocha skin and waist-length dreadlocks that had gotten stuck in his bike gears once while he changed his tire, standing in the corner. No matter how crowded it got, they managed to press into that corner like driftwood finally making it to shore. Nadal hugged her only slightly less emphatically than Stu.
“Hey, Nadal?” She had to yell to be heard over the blasting ambient music and chatter. “I hear you’re my new delivery guy?”
Nadal smiled. “Any tricks I should know?” he asked in his deep Jamaican accent.
“Don’t fold the patterns.”
He laughed. “Anything Stu didn’t already tell me?”
“Probably not. It’s different than delivering bottles of breast milk across town, huh?”
“It will be nice to work for a business, not a person, you know? No tired ladies saying ‘Oh, this is not cold enough,’ or ‘Oh, I am missing my expensive jacket. Why didn’t you check the dry cleaning bill before leaving the store?’ I am telling you, the richer the bastard is, the lazier they get.”
Stu interjected, “And tomorrow, of course, my first day, they’re closing off two blocks around the park on every side for the Pomerantz funeral. You know what would happen if their cleaning lady died? Nothing. They’d find a new cleaning lady.”
“Are you jamming it?”
“Yes, we’re jamming the egregious social inequality manifested by this horse and pony show of a funeral. We’re shouting on every social network. Thousands will be there, at least.”
“Have you got a good chant?”
“You are so mainstream, Laura.” He hailed the bartender for another drink. “Once you put up a placard you need a permit. If we’re just standing there, there’s nothing they can do.”
“You don’t think that nineteen-dollar drink might manifest an egregious social inequality?” she said. Nadal lifted his glass to her.
“That’s what I like about you,” Stu said. “You keep a guy honest. You going to be there? Or are you going to weep at the funeral?”
“I think I’m going to Rikers tomorrow.”
He must have not heard her, because he lifted his drink. “To the Countess of the Corset!” he cried, toasting either Gracie or the journalistic prowess of the New York Post , which had given her that name years before. Laura wasn’t sure which.
She turned back to Nadal. “Were you on the Pomerantz’s route?”
“Next door was a lady I brought a McDonald’s Happy Meal every other night.” He turned to Stu. “That’s you now, buddy.”
Stu slammed his drink. “I’m tired of this frou-frou shit. I need a whiskey.”
Nadal shook his head. “They were fightin’ like cats last time I went.”
“When was that?” Laura asked.
“Night before last. Cops were at the door just as I was leaving.”
“Leaving? How long did you stay?”
He raised his eyebrows. “About fifteen minutes.”
“So the police must know they were fighting,” she said. Nadal shrugged. “Did you hear what they were fighting about?”
“Nah, I was busy.”
Stu rested his head on her shoulder before banging his head against it. She patted his cheek, but couldn’t save him from the Happy Meal lady. He’d have to do that himself.
Laura wrapped her scarf around her neck and announced her departure. She had to get up early for Jeremy tomorrow and wanted to be fresh, or at least sober. Stu followed her out.
“Why do you care what they were fighting about?” he asked, as soon as they were on Broadway. He hadn’t brought his jacket, and his hands were jammed into the depths of his pockets to hold his shivering shoulders close his body.
“Just curious.”
“You shouldn’t get involved, Laura, unless you want the cops at your door again.”
“Thanks for the advice. You’d better go inside before you freeze.”
“Let
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