Fiction


Tuesday, September 14th, 2010

 

My Street, Your House

By Cole Nowicki


He had never really been upside down, even as a child. There where scant few trampoline embellished front flips and even fewer meters traveled by hand, but; as the extra-large Latina woman held him upside down and shook him by the waist outside of the organic grocery store, his nose knocking on the crotch of her jeans, he felt oddly at ease.

He thought she was yelling something about a porterhouse, but many months later, as he tried to recover something out of the rum sodden wonton of his brain capable of wooing a blonde bartender, whose egregiously hard nipples held on valiantly to keep from exploding out of her top, it hit him in the face like a limp mackerel: 
“Get those quarters out.”

That was what she did. He couldn’t understand her through the silver rain of pocket change pocking the sidewalk in cents, but he got the gist of her intention.

A crowd had started to form.  He could see them congregating between the four Filipino men serving as her legs. A bag boy still holding a loaf of organic bread wrapped in two layers of plastic gawked, his jaw hanging so low a raven could have stolen his tongue.

The perimeter of spectators filled out. Small boys laughed, an old man winked, and a bald woman with a sunburn on her head took pictures with a cell-phone.

“What-yous be lookin’ at?” His obtrusive belt challenged the crowd. From his view on the bad side of town he saw a wave of heads shake.

There were a few seconds when he felt a little flattered that his expansive captor, even after pilfering his pockets and putting on this rotund spectacle of robbery would be so enamored with his behind that she’d have to give it more than a gracious squeeze.  That flame was quickly extinguished when she found his wallet and dropped him on his head into the dark.

The gurney rattled in the back of the ambulance, waking him up. His head felt wet, an I.V was in his arm, and the EMT attending made no effort at hiding his goofy grin. He wanted ask him if George Carlin was there but the first to last syllables of the sentence sounded similar to mouse farts.

“He’s conscious.” The paramedic beaming over him told the driver.

“Can you tell me your name, sir?”

“Charlie.” He wheezed. The paramedic looked down, cocked his head and thumbed at the seven o’clock shadow flourishing on his chin.

The light from the EMT’s small flashlight made Charlie’s eyes water.

“Charlie, my name’s Gabe. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

He didn’t know.

“I don’t know.”

 

*****

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