Hustle

hey said to meet him under the bridge."

He's setting the dashboard clock. "I know. I know what they said."

"I wish Patel hadn't moved to Oregon. Great for him; I'm just nervous buying off some new guy." She scratches the bridge of her nose.

"And I'm not? Patel likes him. They went to film school together. What is it with this clock?" He jabs his thumb at the small buttons. "Always resetting."

"Maybe. Maybemaybe." She smiles at him, lets a hand go towards his lap. Her fingers run over his polyester slacks. A broken nail snags a stray thread. "I just need to get high."

The night sky looks like something out of a horror movie. Thick clouds packed tight against each other tent over the city. What little bits of moon you see are quick slits of yellow. Their frequency is irregular, but not hurried. Weatherman calls it a cold front, normal for November, but there's been no rain for two weeks, which is not normal for any month considering the city is below sea level. The Mississippi moves slightly, the waves only gently kissing the hulls of shrimp boats, Dole carriers, boat casinos. One pier is white with seagulls.

He flips the turn signal, guides the mini-van into the Elysian Fields exit. The streetlights remind him of an airport runway and a sudden memory of John Wayne in The Fighting Seabees. "Goddamn Japs," he mutters, shakes on the steering wheel like it's a turret gun. "Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh!"

"I cannot wait. I cannot motherfucking wait." She unbuckles her seat belt, grinds up to him. "I want to fuck," she says into his ear. Her breath smells like milk. "Bad," she coos. "I want to fuck you high."

"Will you let me drive?" and he pushes her off.

She pulls down her sun-visor, checks her make-up in the vanity mirror. "I know, baby. It's just been so long, y'know?" She rolls down her window, sticks her head out. Her long, black hair whips into the breeze like the tassels of a nine-tails. "This feels so good."

"Under a bridge." He shakes his head.

"You bet. Like a Joe Landsdale story."

"Christ, don't say that."

 

hey look over the edge of the bridge into the deep and swiftly running water below. A pigeon lights next to her hand.

"This is the right bridge?" she asks.

He takes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, taps it against the heel of his shoe. When he lights the cigarette, the smoke belly dances of the end. "They said 39th Street and Pepper. We're on 39th," he points west. "Pepper right yonder. Only Pepper in the city."

"Well, could they have meant 39th fucking Avenue and Pepper?"

"Ain't no 39th Avenue. They tore it up ten years ago when they redid the trolley lines."

"I feel like that lost Russian dog, Laika, the space dog."

"Maybe this is a test. Maybe they're watching us."

"I just wanted to have a little fun before tomorrow."

"To see we're cool, y'know? That we're not cops or anything."

"Maybe he could have even had E? Wouldn't it be great to try that?"

"E's a kid's drug. I mean, nobody cares about weed anymore. My boss smokes it and he's sixty."

"So we're old? You just turned 32 and I'm 34 next June."

"You want to wait? Maybe he'll show."

"I'm not old. I'm sexy. I am sexy, goddamnit, and I want to feel it."

"It's late, but we can if you want to."

"I bought bath oil for tonight and red candles."

"Ah, damn. We'll wait."