4. Stone Cold

The cool air felt good on my face. I walked around the block six times really fast, muttering things under my breath, and swinging my arms like I was on a serious power walk. Then I slowed down a little and kept going to McGinnis Boulevard. I stood there and watched the cars drive by for a while. I was a little more relaxed after that, but I still didn’t feel like going home. I wanted to talk to someone that would actually be able to talk back, so I kept walking. I walked through the park until I got down to Bedford. I hung a right on North 6th Street and walked until I was in front of my friend Mike’s building. His window was dark, so I went inside Sweet Waters, the bar a few buildings over.
     He was in the back, playing pool like I thought he would be. He looked up. "Hello, Princess." That was one of his names for me--I guess it was a reference to Princess Leia, but I wasn't sure. "I thought you might stop by tonight. It's been a while." There was a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, which was making it hard for him to talk.
     “What are you doing with that cigarette?” I asked.
     He pretended to take a drag even thought it wasn't lit. “Don't worry. I’m not really smoking, 'just trying out the look' you could say.” The cigarette fell out of his mouth. "Ooops." He picked it up and stuck it behind his ear.
     That was Mike. Until he opened his mouth, you thought he was just a regular guy. You might even be tempted to think he was kind of cute and wonder if he was single. But after a thirty second conversation, it was all too clear: Mike was not a normal guy. He read about 20 books a week, took notes while he watched movies, invented things with his other nerdy friends, and played pool using ridiculous equations. The one normal thing he did was smoke a ton of pot. He didn’t even have a job. I guess he had won a settlement from a car accident a long time ago and used that as his "seed money." I have no idea what he planted, but he hasn't worked a day since I've known him. And I don't mean the kind of no-work John does--the no-money kind. I mean the kind of no-work where you can actually pay your bills and then some.
     Mike was totally weird and super smart.
     "Listen, we need to talk," I said. "Let's go upstairs to your place."
     “Absolutely. I'll just finish this game.”
     I sighed. "Okay." I didn't really feel like waiting for him to finish the game, but beggars can't be choosers, I guess. I went up to the bar and ordered a Guinness from a bartender who looked like an eight ball on steroids. Usually, I wasn't much of a drinker, but why shouldn't I be? It made feeling sorry for myself more fun somehow.
     I sat there sipping foam because I was too impatient to wait for it to settle. The bartender and another guy were the only ones there. It was still pretty early. More people would probably show up later. The bartender was wearing a black t-shirt that said “Stone Cold” in these big granite-looking letters. I had no idea what it meant, but I figured from the looks of him it was something tough. Something to do with Karate or rock quarries.
     Stone Cold said, “That’s such a pussy idea.” The other guy said, “Come on, use your brain. Bowling isn’t seasonal like all those other friggin’ sports. We could get a nice league goin’.”
    “Bowling,” said Stone Cold, wiping the counter. "You have got to be kidding."
     Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel just a little paranoid. Bowling? Had they been watching me on a little screen underneath the bar before I showed up? I shook it off. Lots of people talked about bowling. Sure. I sipped and finally got some beer. It tasted good. Just what the doctor had ordered.
I glanced up at the television screen and saw Xena, the warrior princess, kicking some serious butt.   As much as I sort of hated the show, there was something about Xena that I really dug.
     “You like Xena, huh?” That was Stone Cold.
     “Yeah,” I said. “She's pretty cool.”
     He glanced up at the screen. “She’s sexy, but what’s up with all those Tarzan noises? Reminds me of women's tennis."
     I took a sip of beer and looked at the other guy. He had greased back hair, and his chest hairs were fighting their way out the collar of his yellow polo shirt. I leaned forward and said, “You know, I bowled a three hundred once.” “Get out,” he said.
     “I’m dead serious.”
     “A three hundred? I never heard of no chick bowlin’ a three hundred.”
     “I did. I got a trophy for it and everything.” Then I remembered it was gone, and it felt like pins and needles in my stomach. “Had a trophy anyway.”
     “Yeah?” said Stone Cold. “What happened to the trophy? Did you pawn it for beer money or somethin'?”
     “No. But I think my boyfriend pawned it for dope.”
     “Oh,” they both said.
     “That’s a rough one,” said the other guy. I regretted my little confession. Something about bars always made me spill my guts even though Stone Cold didn't seem like the sympathetic type. But I didn’t want them feeling sorry for me. “It’s not so bad,” I said. “It was just a dumb trophy. It doesn’t mean shit. But I did bowl a three hundred. And if you guys are serious about starting a league, I'd be down."
     "I'm tryin' to talk this bozo into it," said the other guy. "He thinks he's too much of a macho man."
Stone Cold looked down at the bar and didn’t say anything.
     "Bowling is super macho," I said. "You drink a lot of beer, try to knock things down, yell and scream..."
     The other guy looked at Stone Cold. “See? I told you, a bowlin’ league is good shit.”
     Stone Cold rubbed his head and looked at me. “You bowled a three hundred in a league, huh?”
     “Yeah,” I said. “I guess it’s kind of dorky or something, but—"
    “No,” said Stone Cold. “No, it’s cool.”
     The other guy laughed. "Oh, now it's cool? I see where your head is at."
     Mike came up behind me. “My angles were not what I would have liked them to be.”
     "Too bad," I said.
     "Better luck next time," said the other guy.
     Mike shrugged. "Are you ready to 'step into my office' as they say?"
     "Sure." I finished my beer and hopped off the stool.
     “You take care of her, professor,” said Stone Cold. “She’s gonna be our magic bullet.”
     “Will do, will do. Your secret is safe with me, 'fellas'.” That was Mike. As nerdy as he was, he could fit in with anyone.
     We left Sweet Waters and stood outside Mike's apartment building while he searched for his keys. I watched the cars drive by, and I was almost calm again.
     Eventually, Mike found the key inside one of his shoes. "Ah ha! We started up the stairs and with each step I took I felt more and more at peace, almost happy. I wasn't as alone as I felt sometimes. Whatever was going on, Mike would help me get to the bottom of it. Plus, I might actually have a bowling league to look forward to again.

3. Chun-Li and the Bowling Trophy

By the time I got home that night I was fuming. I walked up the stairs really slow, and I could feel the muscles in my legs flexing. When I got to the top, I was ready to kick the door down with one swift move, like Chun-Li from Street Fighter. I had the hypo in my hand too, clutching it like a sword. But then I heard this weird music coming from the apartment. Something about it reminded me of The Twilight Zone theme song. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t The Cure. I stuck my key in the lock and turned really slowly, but the music stopped as soon as I opened the door just like I knew it would. John was at his usual spot at the kitchen table, and from the looks of it he was in the middle of a really sweet nod. He certainly didn’t look like he had been messing around with his little 1980’s tape deck in the recent past. Why had that music suddenly stopped?
     I slammed the door hard. “Hey!” I was back into Chun-Li mode. “What was that weird music?” I was holding the hypo behind my back. He snapped out of it for a second. “What weird music? I don’t hear anything, baby.”
     “It was playing until I turned my key in the door. Then it went away.”
     His eyes were rolling back in his head, and he was mumbling something to himself.
     “Hey!” I still had the hypo behind my back, but it's not like it really mattered. I could have stuck it  up John's nose and he wouldn't have noticed.
     “Hey, baby,” he said. “I’m sorry I keep falling out.” He straightened up, and cleared his throat like he was going to have a real conversation with me. “How was work?”
      I considered doing a back flip and trying to land on the kitchen table in front of him, but I decided to play it safe and just walk over there really fast. “Guess what was in my apron, that I pulled out in the middle of a lunch rush to write some old ladies's orders with?”
     He looked at me and shook his head. “I’m sorry baby, could you say that over one more time because I lost it under the table and . . .” his eyes were closing, and he was getting Muppet mouth.   
     “Good God. Wake up asshole. I’m talking to you!”
      He tried to shake it off. “My bad, baby, what is it?”
     “Explain this to me,” I shoved the hypo in his face, and he didn’t even flinch. "Do you think you're funny putting this in my apron like the fucking injection alien?"
     He shook his head. “I didn’t touch your apron. It was just hanging up over there and then she told me not to go there so I . . . .”
     I stomped into the bedroom and chucked the hypo onto the floor. The interrogation wasn’t getting me anywhere. I’d have to wait until later when John was a little more coherent. I kicked off my shoes and fell into bed. I turned on the television set to do my usual sit-com therapy, but no Buffy for me. There was just a blue screen. I flipped through a couple of channels, but it didn’t seem to do any good. I put the remote down and stared at the screen for a while. I was obviously not in the mood to get on the phone with the cable company--especially considering we were about three weeks late with our payment. The blue screen was kind of nice anyway. It was more relaxing than any of those mindless shows I usually ended up watching. But after a while, I started to feel like I was being brainwashed. I shouldn’t enjoy staring at a blue screen so much. It was definitely a little weird.
     I looked up at the dresser for no reason at all and saw that my bowling trophy wasn't there. I snapped out of my blue trance and jumped up. My adrenaline went into overdrive. I searched the room for other places John could have put it while he was in his dope-induced haze. I checked the closet, I checked under the bed, I even opened the window and looked out at the sidewalk. Nothing. And I knew it was just a stupid bowling trophy, but I had bowled a perfect game. A three hundred. It was probably the coolest thing I had ever done in my life, and judging from the way things were going, it might end up being the coolest thing I would ever do. The trophy wasn’t anything special--just a girl with a ponytail, swinging a bowling ball--but it was my only evidence that the three hundred game had ever happened. Fuck.
     I flew back out into the kitchen. John hadn’t moved an inch since our last “conversation.”
     “Where the hell is my bowling trophy?" John’s eyes fluttered open, and I could see he was going to the dark side. “Why do you keep asking me all these fucking questions, Jackie? Can't you leave me alone for five minutes?"
     I had to take a walk before I lost my mind or killed him. Or both. John didn’t even notice me leaving, and I wasn’t halfway down the stairs when that weird music came on again. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I wanted to scream! It felt like John was playing all these head games with me, but he had been so out of it lately. What could he possibly do in his state? Plus, what had he done with my bowling trophy? I had looked everywhere--it was not in the apartment. Was it possible that he has actually pawned it? The idea was ludicrous, but it was all I could think of. The weird music was just the icing on the cake. I wanted to run back up the stairs and kick the door down, but I knew I'd see John just sitting there like "Baby, why'd you do that?" Honestly, he was probably just playing some stupid mix-tapes that one of his weirdo friends had made for him. Why he only wanted to listen to them when I wasn't there was beyond me. All I knew was that I was pissed and I had to get out of there before someone got really hurt.

2. The Injection Alien

I got to work a little late the next day, and Mario was giving me an earful of his usual crap.

“All these waitresses runnin’ around the city, dyin’ for some steady work, and I got you, comin’ in when you feel like it, right? Tell me how that makes any goddamn sense?”

I just kept my mouth shut and hauled ass to the kitchen to punch in. It was best to keep a low profile with Mario. He got mad all the time, but he hardly ever stayed mad. Unless you talked back. Then he'd stay mad for good and long, and make your life a living hell while he was at it. Not worth the trouble. I learned that the hard way.

After I clocked in I went straight to table five, which was crammed with old ladies. I groaned knowing I was in for a thirty-five cent tip. Maybe I'd luck out and get sixty cents, a nice shiny dime from each of them. But I didn’t want to get my hopes up.  As soon as I got to the table, they started interrogating me about the menu.

One old woman with a very pronounced old-lady perm went first. "Now is the bacon crispy, dear? Or would you say it's more chewy?"

Before I could answer, another one piped up. She had penciled in eyebrows that were a totally different color than her hair, which was bright orange and fried. It was crispier than any bacon we made. "Is it butter you use? Or margarine? I can't digest dairy like I used to."

A bigger lady with a sensible haircut and normal eyebrows chuckled. "Please miss, if you have it, give her margarine. I don't want to have to listen to her tooting all day. We're going to bingo in a little while."

They all tittered and giggled.

"Jackie!" Mario bellowed. I turned around and he was standing behind the counter tugging on his earlobe, which was the signal for rushing the customers along, pressuring them to hurry up and order already. He did the ear tug a lot with old lady tables, but never when important looking business guys came in once in a while to have their power lunches. He let them take up as much of my time as they wanted, and he let me refill their coffee cups for free too, which was really weird. Mario didn’t even like serving water for free.

"All right ladies. Have we decided yet?" I felt like a car salesman.

I dug a pen out of my apron.

"Oh my God!" said one of the old ladies. "What in heaven's name are you doing with that?"

I was really confused for a few seconds until I actually looked at the pen and realized it wasn't a pen at all, but one of John's hypodermic needles. "I—uh—I—."

The old ladies were staring and gasping and shaking their heads. I had to think quick if I didn't want to get canned on the spot. Mario had serious issues about everything, but one thing he absolutely did not tolerate was drugs. He had fired a waitress a couple of weeks ago because someone said he saw her smoking a joint at a party.

I shoved the hypo back into my apron and tried to stay calm and composed even though I felt like I was going to wet my pants. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's my grandma's. She's diabetic. I help her with her insulin sometimes."

"Oh. Oh dear." They all changed their attitudes right away, and I was back on their team in a matter of seconds. "We understand," the one closest to me said. "You run and get yourself a pen. We'll wait here." She nodded and smiled and gave me a little nudge on my side.

"I'm really sorry about that," I said, walking away. "I know it's not the best thing to see right before lunch. They waved their hands at me. "Pish posh," said the one with bright orange hair. "We talk about our medical conditions over lunch all the time."

I grabbed a pen off the counter and tried not to think about how much I wanted to punch John in his face. Did he think he was funny? Did he think jobs grew on trees? I couldn't figure out what would posses him to do something so idiotic. Maybe it was the next verse in "The Pancake Phantom" song—The Injection Alien.

After the whole incident was forgotten, and the old ladies were done eating and off to bingo, I started clearing their table because the bus boy was completely backlogged. I looked around for my big shiny quarter, but I didn't see one. I wasn't really mad because of the whole hypo-scare I had given them. It was too much to ask from the waitressing gods to keep my job and get tipped too, I guess. But then I saw the tip and I realized why it had taken me so long to find it. I had been looking for silver or bronze, but this tip was green. A ten-dollar bill was folded in half under the ketchup bottle. I looked out the window, hoping the old ladies were still out there so I could wave to them. But they were gone.

"Hey Jackie," called Mario from the kitchen. He must have been watching me from the service window. "What's up? You on another day dreamin' break?"

No comment. I shoved the money in my apron and went back to clearing, which was much more fun when I imagined John's face at the bottom of the brown dishpan.

1. Weird Stuff

All this weird stuff started happening in the apartment right around the time my boyfriend’s junk habit got really bad. And I don’t mean the usual annoying crap like bloody towels on the bathroom floor or cartons of OJ in the kitchen cabinet. I mean stuff that was just weird, stuff I couldn't explain.  The whole thing started with a Greek salad.

I had been fantasizing about this salad all day at work. Hard to imagine, but if you knew how--Mmmm hmmm--flaccid my boyfriend was at the time, you'd understand. Every time a customer ordered a Greek salad, I was drooling over it. I couldn't wait to taste those olives. That feta. The slice of Spanikopita that came on the side. Mmmmmm. So as soon as my shift was over, I threw my salad together and headed out the door. Hungry as I was, the salad would have to wait. I wouldn't be caught dead at my job, not clocked in. If I'm not getting paid to be there, I'm out the door.

The walk from the G-Stop, which was the little hole-in-the-wall diner on Bedford where I worked, to my apartment on Humboldt, gave me just enough time to ruminate about my shitty ass day. And believe me, every shift at the G-Stop was a shitty ass day. The customers were one major problem. My favorites were the ones who called me “tootsie” and “baby cakes,” like we were still in the nineteen fifties, and I was some giddy girl on roller skates. I also loved the old ladies, the ones who would leave me a thirty-five cent tip as if they were doing me some kind of big favor.

"Here you go dear. This is for you."

"Gee. Thanks."

Every time I worked, there was at least one idiot, usually a high school kid, who would order "The G-Spot” cheeseburger deluxe while all his pimple-faced friends laughed into their Cokes and hid their braces behind their hands.

And of course there was my boss Mario, who was as tight-assed as they come. He was the other major problem with that place. Mario counted pennies the same way he counted fifties, slow and twice over, to make sure none of the coins had gotten stuck together.

It felt good to just stroll down the street with the sun shining on me, a Greek salad in my hand, and at least 12 hours until my next shift. Of course, I still had to deal with my my boyfriend who was hopped to the eyeballs back at the apartment, but at least he didn't try to pinch my ass when I walked past him. The problem was, I wished he would.

When I got upstairs, John was in la la land, listening to The Cure, (Yeah--he was kind of old) and the sink was full of dishes. Don’t ask me why because junkies don’t eat. But somehow he had managed to dirty every fork and plate we owned. Maybe he had had another one of his imaginary BBQs. I groaned, chucked my salad into the refrigerator, and started in on the dishes. I was tempted to just wash one fork and one plate so I could eat, but I knew the rest of the dishes would never get done without me. John was too busy nodding off and going to band practice inside his head.

Besides, I assumed my salad would still be there when I was done with the dishes. Big mistake.

When the last fork was finally clean, I dried off my hands and went straight to the refrigerator. “Finally.” I could taste those oily stuffed grape leaves and the salty Kalamata olives. "Salt and fat at last."

“Huh? What was that baby?” John could barely open his eyes. He nodded his head up and down, out of beat with the music.

“Nothing.” It wasn’t worth the effort it would take to explain. I took the container out and started unfolding the aluminum foil thing that goes all around the edges. But when I got it open, there was a stack of pancakes in there. No salad. And to add to the weirdness, they were half-eaten. I stared at congealed syrup and butter and my mind went into overload--cannot process--cannot process.

"What the--?"

“What, baby?” He opened his eyes and squinted up at me.

“Where did these pancakes come from?” I put the container down and opened the refrigerator again. The only thing in there was a bottle of ketchup. "Where is my effing salad!"

He shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. “They’re not mine.” His eyes started to close again. "I don't know, baby. Want me to make you some Ramen?"

I threw out the pancakes and stormed into the bedroom. I knew I was acting like a five-year-old, but I didn’t know what to think. Obviously it wasn't John's fault that my salad had disappeared and been replaced with greasy, half-eaten pancakes, but I felt like it was. Even though he was barely able to hold a conversation, I felt like he was playing mind games with me. He was the only other person in the apartment--who else did I have to blame?

I turned on the television and kicked off my shoes. I wasn’t even hungry anymore. I just wanted to zone out like John. After a couple of mindless sitcoms and a cup of peppermint tea, I chalked it up to a mistake at the diner. Maybe I had accidentally grabbed someone’s leftovers. It didn’t seem very likely. I made that salad myself. And Mario watched everything we did from his beer belly perch behind the counter. He would have never let me snatch a paying customer's leftovers instead of my $8.25-or-less shift meal, but it was more likely than Scotty beaming the pancakes up, or some Greek salad thief sneaking into the apartment while I wasn’t paying attention and John was nodding.

I went into the kitchen after a while, and John was starting to come out of his daze. He was scribbling something on a piece of paper. "Hey baby," he said. "I'm writing a song called 'The Pancake Phantom.'"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. You're gonna love it. The pancake phantom floats around all day, zapping up whatever food he finds, leaving a stack of half eaten pancakes where the food was."

I had to laugh. Only John could come up with something that dumb and think it made a cool song. What a goofball. But he was a sweet goof ball nonetheless. “Sorry I was so bitchy before, but I really wanted that goddamn salad.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I wish I knew what happened to it.” His eyes were half closed. “You want me get you another one somewhere?”

“That's okay. You keep working on your big hit. I’ll just make some Ramen.” Whenever John did anything other than drugs, I tried to encourage him. I was sure "The Pancake Phantom" would never make it to the top ten, but maybe it would keep him distracted from doing any more dope that night.

After a quick make-out session with John and my Ramen Noodle dinner, I

forgot all about the salad and the weird way it had disappeared. I knew I shouldn't have let my guard down. Something that weird is obviously just a preview of more weird things to come.