What the hell is she doing here…around normal people?’
‘She’s my niece.’
I had to go on. It was impossible to stop myself. ‘There should be fucking legislation about keeping something that sickening out of sight.’
‘Soo…you don’t like fat people?’
‘That’s not people, that’s oil mountain! That huge bitch is a rolling vat of bacteria, a living, wheezing, farting health department violation. Man, don’t you know that it’s physically impossible for a fucking hippo her size to reach her feet with a bar of soap, let alone her twat and private parts?’
Milt pushed my change across the counter. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘don’t come back in here again. Take your coffee business somewheres else.’
I scooped the coins up. Consciously, somewhere in my brain, I was aware that I’d lost it completely. ‘Let me ask you a question,’ I bellowed. ‘What the fuck do you think a lard-globe that huge has to do to have sex? To procreate. How does it fuck? A person would have to have a twenty-inch dick to have intercourse with an elephant brontosaurus of her dimensions.’
Milt was walking away.
‘Hey,’ I yelled again, pushing the paper bag containing the coffee and bagel back across the counter and off the end so that it fell to the floor, broke open and spilled, ‘fuck you, zoo keeper! Fuck you and her and all the pig-animal infected human hogs everywhere!’
Milt perused me, untying his apron and coming around from behind the counter. But I was too quick; out the door and down the street to my taxi.
Chapter Seventeen
A COUPLE OF days later, after the diner deal, I’d knocked off early and pulled into the mechanics section of the Rodney garage to have Hot Rod work on my front brakes. Another driver, a night-shift guy everybody knew, Al Bridhoff, was there too having some tranny work done. Al had once gone to law school upstate. Albany or somewhere. He was now the garage shylock. Because he had power and controlled money, many of the Rodney cabbies went to him for advice.
We were talking and drinking vending-machine coffee when I decided to mention the telephone incident and Betty at the diner and some of the stuff my mind had been saying to me.
But right away I regretted bringing it up.
Bridhoff was a pipe smoker. I began telling him what had happened and he began trying to light his fucking pipe. I’d say something, then he’d start to reply but stop in the middle, attempt to relight the pipe twenty-eight more fucking times, then nod that we could go on. I felt like the chump, the mooch, groveling for this asshole’s magical syllables of insight. In less than five minutes I hated him and hated myself for initiating the conversation.
When I’d said what I had to say, Bridhoff sat down. He could see that I was annoyed at having to watch him with his moron pipe. He scratched his cheek thoughtfully and attempted to give the appearance of contemplation. ‘Well, sport,’ he said finally, playing with the lid on his Zippo lighter, clicking thetop up and down, ‘it sounds like you’ve been overdoing it just a bit.’
I didn’t answer. A dented cab fender had more intelligence than this shylock imbecile fuck.
Disgusted, I threw my half-full coffee cup in the garbage, and began walking away. Bridhoff stopped me, putting his hand up like a crossing guard. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘tell me what you did with all the telephone parts, the receivers and cords? Still have that stuff?’
‘No. It was broken junk. I threw it away.’
‘Evidence, huh?’
‘No. Junk. Not evidence of any kind. Useless fucking junk.’
‘Yeah, well, that wasn’t very good thinking, was it? Telephone equipment has value. I might’ve been able to help you there.’
‘There’s a dumpster in the alley behind my rooming house. The valuable telephone shit you’re looking for is under a cat carcass and six feet of garbage. Help yourself, sport.’
A day or two later something else happened. More insanity.
I was
‘She’s my niece.’
I had to go on. It was impossible to stop myself. ‘There should be fucking legislation about keeping something that sickening out of sight.’
‘Soo…you don’t like fat people?’
‘That’s not people, that’s oil mountain! That huge bitch is a rolling vat of bacteria, a living, wheezing, farting health department violation. Man, don’t you know that it’s physically impossible for a fucking hippo her size to reach her feet with a bar of soap, let alone her twat and private parts?’
Milt pushed my change across the counter. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘don’t come back in here again. Take your coffee business somewheres else.’
I scooped the coins up. Consciously, somewhere in my brain, I was aware that I’d lost it completely. ‘Let me ask you a question,’ I bellowed. ‘What the fuck do you think a lard-globe that huge has to do to have sex? To procreate. How does it fuck? A person would have to have a twenty-inch dick to have intercourse with an elephant brontosaurus of her dimensions.’
Milt was walking away.
‘Hey,’ I yelled again, pushing the paper bag containing the coffee and bagel back across the counter and off the end so that it fell to the floor, broke open and spilled, ‘fuck you, zoo keeper! Fuck you and her and all the pig-animal infected human hogs everywhere!’
Milt perused me, untying his apron and coming around from behind the counter. But I was too quick; out the door and down the street to my taxi.
Chapter Seventeen
A COUPLE OF days later, after the diner deal, I’d knocked off early and pulled into the mechanics section of the Rodney garage to have Hot Rod work on my front brakes. Another driver, a night-shift guy everybody knew, Al Bridhoff, was there too having some tranny work done. Al had once gone to law school upstate. Albany or somewhere. He was now the garage shylock. Because he had power and controlled money, many of the Rodney cabbies went to him for advice.
We were talking and drinking vending-machine coffee when I decided to mention the telephone incident and Betty at the diner and some of the stuff my mind had been saying to me.
But right away I regretted bringing it up.
Bridhoff was a pipe smoker. I began telling him what had happened and he began trying to light his fucking pipe. I’d say something, then he’d start to reply but stop in the middle, attempt to relight the pipe twenty-eight more fucking times, then nod that we could go on. I felt like the chump, the mooch, groveling for this asshole’s magical syllables of insight. In less than five minutes I hated him and hated myself for initiating the conversation.
When I’d said what I had to say, Bridhoff sat down. He could see that I was annoyed at having to watch him with his moron pipe. He scratched his cheek thoughtfully and attempted to give the appearance of contemplation. ‘Well, sport,’ he said finally, playing with the lid on his Zippo lighter, clicking thetop up and down, ‘it sounds like you’ve been overdoing it just a bit.’
I didn’t answer. A dented cab fender had more intelligence than this shylock imbecile fuck.
Disgusted, I threw my half-full coffee cup in the garbage, and began walking away. Bridhoff stopped me, putting his hand up like a crossing guard. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘tell me what you did with all the telephone parts, the receivers and cords? Still have that stuff?’
‘No. It was broken junk. I threw it away.’
‘Evidence, huh?’
‘No. Junk. Not evidence of any kind. Useless fucking junk.’
‘Yeah, well, that wasn’t very good thinking, was it? Telephone equipment has value. I might’ve been able to help you there.’
‘There’s a dumpster in the alley behind my rooming house. The valuable telephone shit you’re looking for is under a cat carcass and six feet of garbage. Help yourself, sport.’
A day or two later something else happened. More insanity.
I was
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