In Real Life. Lawrence Tabak

I got home I looked at trailers of the movie and read a little about Diane Arbus, the photographer, and looked at some of her pictures.

      So after a quick stop in the restroom to mop up a bit I’m ready to pick up where we left off. Because I think Hannah’s going to be impressed that I did all this research and I’ve even got some questions for her, because some of the photos were pretty weird.

      So as soon as I get to the back room, Jake, this college guy who is one of the night managers, he tells me to get an apron and start making pizzas. I barely have time to acknowledge Hannah, who’s working up front. We get really busy and I don’t even see her for most of the night. Instead I’m shoulder to shoulder with this new guy who is working to buy mods for his Honda. So all night it’s a monologue about whether a Borla exhaust system is better than a Bosch, whether twenty-inch rims are worth it and whether I think the black ones would look too dark on his black car and how much money he needs to save to lower the suspension. He has absolutely no clue that I couldn’t give a damn.

      So as we clean up, I’m thinking that an entire evening is an awful thing to waste. I’m bent over the counter, trying to wipe down the stainless so it doesn’t streak, which is impossible, when someone grabs me from behind.

      Hannah has wrapped her arms around me and has a chin on my shoulder. She’s whispering something into my ear.

      I can’t hear her, because my blood is pounding like Niagara Falls. I don’t care, as long as she doesn’t let go. But she does.

      “Well,” she says, “can you?”

      I turn around and shake my head and try to indicate that I don’t know what she’s talking about without appearing to be an idiot.

      “Couldn’t hear you,” I say.

      “Oh,” Hannah says. “Steve and me and a couple of friends are going downtown to watch a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at UMKC. I’ve got the rice.”

      She’s sort of bouncing up and down, singing something about a time warp dance. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

      “Rice?” I say.

      Hannah yells out to Steve and he comes over, a mop in his hand.

      “Looks like we got a Rocky Horror virgin! Seth, you’ve got to go with us!”

      I say sure. Dad’s out of town and I’m going to be up for another four or five hours anyway.

      After we wrap up the cleaning we follow Steve out to his car, a little Nissan. The night air is still hot and heavy, but not as unbearable as it had been on the way to work. Hannah insists I ride up front but when we stop to pick up Steve’s friends she says, “Hop back here—back seat for the short-legged.”

      I come around the back and slide in. When a guy and a girl come running out the guy jumps in the front and the girl hops into the back, so that I’m in the middle of this tiny back seat, thigh to thigh with Hannah and the new girl, who has long dark hair and looks, in the thin light, like she might be at least part Asian or Hispanic.

      Steve twists around and says, “That’s Steph.” He nods towards the front seat and says, “And this is Gunda Din.”

      The guy in the front seat, dark bangs almost over his eyes, looks back and says, “You can just call me Gunnar.”

      Steve cranks the car and shouts back, “Everyone got their seatbelts on?”

      I don’t. I watch Hannah grab a belt and clip it in and hear another click from Steph’s side.

      I realize my belt must be stuck under us somewhere.