nanobots self-replicating down at the Commons as they perform their DoS attack in pursuit of total mass exercise ecophagy.”
“Eco-what?”
“Ecophagy,” his son repeated. “As in consumption of the entire ecosphere.”
“Nanonerd humor. Nice.”
“Just swipe the card at the door for entry. You probably won’t even have to interact with another human.”
“It’s not one of those fire-and-brimstone classes, is it?”
“Hot yoga, you mean?” Paul laughed. “The only thing hot will be the scenery. That might do you some good, as well.”
Rick ran his index finger with its permanent E string groove around the laminated edge of Paul’s ID card. “I’ll have a go,” he said finally.
“Give it hell, Riff!”
Now it was Rick’s turn to throw a look of mock disdain, just as he threw bills down on the table for the check. “Riff Rotten gives as good as he gets.”
I’m in hell now,
he thought.
So what more do I have to lose?
“Hey, where’s Rivington Street?” he thought to ask.
“Lower East Side. But up-and-coming. If you see a bail bonds place next to a pho restaurant, you are probably in the right place.” Paul gave a laugh.
Father and son exchanged a real hug back on the street. “By the way, your grandparents gave me some of your mom’s old LPs last time I saw them. Any interest?”
Paul threw up an apologetic hand. “I don’t even own a CD player anymore, Dad. Let alone a turntable. MP3s are where it’s at.”
“Think your brothers would like them?”
“
Dad.
They probably don’t even know what LP stands for.”
Rick watched as his son strode off, Greece putting an extra spring in his step.
“Yo, yo, on your left!”
Rick managed to sidestep last-minute to avoid being taken out by the blond guy on a bicycle that looked like something straight out of a Terry Gilliam movie. It appeared to be a high-performance mountain bike retrofitted with antique parts, capable of flattening random passersby and the occasional stray dog. A box attached to the back towered with paper sacks. “Thanks, man!” The blond boy gave a wave and a honk from an old brass bicycle horn as he sailed effortlessly into the intersection and disappeared into the sea of taxis.
Rick just shook his head, feeling ancient. Retrofitted into the modern-day metropolis. There had been a time when New York felt like it belonged to him. Was it in the seventies, when he first met Simone here? Or had it been in the eighties, when he decimated it with rock and roll? Talk about ecophagy. Either way, too many decades had piled on since then. He walked slowly, trying to find his bearings and the correct subway line to get him back to Manhattan. Pre-production work in the studio was almost complete. Time to start chipping away at the rock.
Sidra
Propositions
“Just the girl I was looking for!”
Sidra didn’t look up from the register tape in one hand or the pile of cash in the other. Charlie’s hair could be on fire, for all she cared. She and Mikey shared a cash register, and each week she reconciled her books.
“Favor to ask you, Sid.”
“Shush. Counting.”
Seven-eighty? Or was it . . . Shit.
She crushed the tape in her hand. “What. Do. You. Want.” Each word suffered between her clenched teeth.
Two more weeks,
she told herself.
Two more weeks until he’s out of the borough, out of my sight.
Charlie stood directly in her line of vision, hips cocked. His hair was not on fire, but spiked as prickly as Sidra’s mood had turned at the sound of his voice.
“It’s not me. It’s Banana Louie. He misses you.”
Sidra shoved the money into a paper bag. There was no way she was going to be able to count straight with her ex-boyfriend leaning over the counter and giving her the sad eyes.
“I’m not watching him while you’re on the road, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Charlie pulled his six-feet-two frame over the counter instead of walking around it like a normal person. The chain leashed to
“Eco-what?”
“Ecophagy,” his son repeated. “As in consumption of the entire ecosphere.”
“Nanonerd humor. Nice.”
“Just swipe the card at the door for entry. You probably won’t even have to interact with another human.”
“It’s not one of those fire-and-brimstone classes, is it?”
“Hot yoga, you mean?” Paul laughed. “The only thing hot will be the scenery. That might do you some good, as well.”
Rick ran his index finger with its permanent E string groove around the laminated edge of Paul’s ID card. “I’ll have a go,” he said finally.
“Give it hell, Riff!”
Now it was Rick’s turn to throw a look of mock disdain, just as he threw bills down on the table for the check. “Riff Rotten gives as good as he gets.”
I’m in hell now,
he thought.
So what more do I have to lose?
“Hey, where’s Rivington Street?” he thought to ask.
“Lower East Side. But up-and-coming. If you see a bail bonds place next to a pho restaurant, you are probably in the right place.” Paul gave a laugh.
Father and son exchanged a real hug back on the street. “By the way, your grandparents gave me some of your mom’s old LPs last time I saw them. Any interest?”
Paul threw up an apologetic hand. “I don’t even own a CD player anymore, Dad. Let alone a turntable. MP3s are where it’s at.”
“Think your brothers would like them?”
“
Dad.
They probably don’t even know what LP stands for.”
Rick watched as his son strode off, Greece putting an extra spring in his step.
“Yo, yo, on your left!”
Rick managed to sidestep last-minute to avoid being taken out by the blond guy on a bicycle that looked like something straight out of a Terry Gilliam movie. It appeared to be a high-performance mountain bike retrofitted with antique parts, capable of flattening random passersby and the occasional stray dog. A box attached to the back towered with paper sacks. “Thanks, man!” The blond boy gave a wave and a honk from an old brass bicycle horn as he sailed effortlessly into the intersection and disappeared into the sea of taxis.
Rick just shook his head, feeling ancient. Retrofitted into the modern-day metropolis. There had been a time when New York felt like it belonged to him. Was it in the seventies, when he first met Simone here? Or had it been in the eighties, when he decimated it with rock and roll? Talk about ecophagy. Either way, too many decades had piled on since then. He walked slowly, trying to find his bearings and the correct subway line to get him back to Manhattan. Pre-production work in the studio was almost complete. Time to start chipping away at the rock.
Sidra
Propositions
“Just the girl I was looking for!”
Sidra didn’t look up from the register tape in one hand or the pile of cash in the other. Charlie’s hair could be on fire, for all she cared. She and Mikey shared a cash register, and each week she reconciled her books.
“Favor to ask you, Sid.”
“Shush. Counting.”
Seven-eighty? Or was it . . . Shit.
She crushed the tape in her hand. “What. Do. You. Want.” Each word suffered between her clenched teeth.
Two more weeks,
she told herself.
Two more weeks until he’s out of the borough, out of my sight.
Charlie stood directly in her line of vision, hips cocked. His hair was not on fire, but spiked as prickly as Sidra’s mood had turned at the sound of his voice.
“It’s not me. It’s Banana Louie. He misses you.”
Sidra shoved the money into a paper bag. There was no way she was going to be able to count straight with her ex-boyfriend leaning over the counter and giving her the sad eyes.
“I’m not watching him while you’re on the road, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Charlie pulled his six-feet-two frame over the counter instead of walking around it like a normal person. The chain leashed to
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