That was good. Pam, his real sister, was a registered nurse. His career achievements ranged from janitor to bartender to salesman at a ball-bearing factory.
Mira sighed and sat up a little. “Well, I just don’t understand why you always have to be there, taking care of her.” She crossed her arms and glared at him.
He didn’t have time for this nonsense. But he had to keep cool.
“Because she’s my sister,” he said, playing the sensitivity card, “and if she didn’t have me to keep her on her medication she’d slip away. I can’t let that happen.”
Where did this bullshit come from? He glanced around the stuffy little room, at the big, oppressive mess of it all. That sagging old bed had wrenched his back, and his hangover was in full swing. He had to get out of here. This all just had to stop. But he couldn’t put an end to it now. Now he just had to get out the door. He’d deal with everything else later.
Mira softened, smiled, and beckoned him over for a kiss. “OK,” she said.
For a moment he felt peaceful, light, almost like in his dream. But he had to go. He grabbed a small pipe from her coffee table and filled it with some of her pot, saying, “I’m taking this with me.”
“Just bring it back tonight. We’re supposed to be there at seven.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, or where she expected him to be tonight at seven. She wasn’t going to see him again for a while. Maybe not ever.
“Right,” he replied, tucking the pipe in a pocket. He hated the clothes he wore to work.
He turned to her to take his leave. God, she looked like hell this morning. Her hair was frizzed out, her eyes had that raccoon thing going on, her face was puffy from too much liquor. But he shifted a soulful look into his brown eyes, leaned forward and kissed her. She sighed. His head felt like it was about to explode.
“Got anything for a headache?” he asked, knowing Mira was always good for pills.
She nodded to her lumpy bag on a chair. “Some codeine in my purse.”
He took two tablets and put them in his shirt pocket.
“I have to cruise,” he said, heading for the door.
“OK. Come back as soon as you can. We have to catch the train by six-thirty to get there at seven.”
He left, still wondering what she was talking about. The street was empty. A sullen haze hung over the city. At eight o’clock in the morning it was already stifling hot. It was going to be one hell of a day. His head pounded. Those pills might knock him out on the way home, but damn it—he needed relief. He stopped and choked them down dry. In an hour or so he’d be home and feeling all right. He’d sweet talk Ellie and smooth things over. It was becoming routine.
Where the hell was the car? He couldn’t remember where he’d parked it, or much else of last night. He had sneaked out of work in the afternoon and gone over to Mira’s. They fucked, then got drunk; then she decided to call in sick. They went out, ate, drank way too much, came back and fucked some more. All in all a pretty good night, he guessed, but the details were sketchy. And the little detail of where he parked the goddamn car was pretty aggravating. This all just had to stop.
They had turned the corner last night at that building with the flower boxes. There was the park they walked past, and they’d gone under the train line, then up a couple blocks. He approached his old hatchback with trepidation. There was glass all over the sidewalk, and around his car. The rear window was smashed. His fancy tape deck and speakers were gone. Sure, they were hot when he bought them, but that didn’t mean it was OK for them to be stolen from him. He climbed in his car and sat there, picking up fragments of his window and tossing them in the gutter. Why couldn’t anything just go right and work out for him?
He meandered along gray streets. All the loose litter in his car was sucked out of the windowless hatchback as he brought the car up to speed on the freeway. The wind and noise were downright intolerable. Couldn’t use the air conditioning—not that it worked all that well anyway. It was going to be a long ride home. He felt sick, and the exhaust fumes circulating in the car weren’t helping. Maybe the carbon monoxide would kill him before he made it home. Or maybe he’d conk out from that codeine. He gripped the wheel and headed down the road.
What was he going to tell Ellie? What was he going to do about Mira? This had to stop. Mira was smart enough to know what was going on. Surely she was. So she was waiting for him to break it off with his ‘sister.’ But he couldn’t. He and Ellie had been together since high school, and he had moved in with her last year. Just last week they’d talked marriage. Of course, he’d talked marriage with Mira, too, but he didn’t mean it with her. At least, he didn’t mean it as much as he meant it with Ellie. Oh, he was a mess.
Ellie must know too. She must. So why did she stay with him? Maybe it was one of those things where she didn’t even know why, but one day she’d get fed up and split. Except she wouldn’t split—she’d kick his ass out is what she’d do. Maybe today. He couldn’t entertain that thought now. He needed her. She was good to him, and he wanted to do right by her. And he usually had, until Mira got him drunk that first night he’d stayed with “Tom,” a fictional co-worker, who either didn’t have a phone, or whose phone was never operational for one reason or another. How lame.
What was wrong with him? Ellie was stable, a real practical partner. Mira was a flake with no assets other than a quick wit, a hot body, and access to free booze. Ah, but he liked her for that. And how could he begrudge himself that fondness? He knew it wasn’t right at all, but it certainly wasn’t all wrong. All he knew was that it had to stop.
He fished in his pocket for his lighter, and pulled out that pipe. Lighting it was going to be tricky in this wind. Fortunately it was early Saturday morning, and the traffic was light. He crouched down around the pipe with his lighter, sort of generally guiding the wheel with his shoulders. He sparked the bowl, inhaled deeply, and quickly resumed a proper driving position. He then coughed his lungs out and spat onto the passenger seat. His madness had never been more apparent.
The stench of heavy industry blew through his violated vehicle. A few miles down the road his low-grade nausea became a gnawing hunger. Maybe he needed something on his stomach. He was coming on Lake Station, where there was a diner he’d eaten at a few times before. A big sign on the roof said, “Eat.” Just the ticket.
A patchwork of mismatched linoleum squares covered the floor. The walls were coated with vaporized oil and tobacco residue. He plopped himself on a tired old stool at the battered counter. A bunch of sad sacks accompanied him there, yawning, staring hypnotically at their coffee, devouring their food.
Sweet Jesus, who was this hot little brunette pouring him coffee? Those eyes, those lips—oh, he did have an appetite.
“Know what you want?” she asked, snapping her gum.
What a loaded question.
“What’s good?” he asked, openly checking her out.
“Everything’s good,” she said, impatiently looking around while straining to keep hold of the coffee pot. “Should I come back in a minute?”
“No, no,” he told her, waving a hand. “I’ll take some pancakes. And maybe some bacon.”
“You can get the special of pancakes, bacon, and eggs for less than pancakes with a side of bacon,” she advised him.
“OK, then. Scramble my eggs, all right?”
She nodded, turned, and slid the coffee pot onto a burner while simultaneously slapping his order onto a wheel at the window to the kitchen.
He sipped coffee and pondered his predicament. There was no way he could just dump Mira,