Page 36 - Vol. VII #1

Breakfast (continued from preceding page)
up or snorting drugs, they knew better to clog up the
bathroom with it.
The two groups waded around each other in an awk- ward standoff, daring each other to ignore the life- boats.
~
“Next stop, Denver, mother fucker,” Carl’s friend Jack shouted. “Denver fucking Broncos, dude.” Jack had been Carl’s supplier during his dealing days, and they’d remained friends after Carl’s “retirement.” Jack never took his coat off, never stayed long. He took a lot of phone calls, sent a lot of messages. He carried a gun. He reminded Veronica of a Carl that once existed, who also carried a gun. Carl referred to it as part of the costume, promised her that he’d gotten rid of it. “Why would a shoe salesman need a gun?” he laughed.
“The man’s a born salesman,” Jack shouted to Veroni- ca. “He could sell shit to the House of Manure, man.” Jack giggled, an odd high-pitched laugh coming from such an enormous man, as if there was a separate person inside his body with that laugh. He looked like a former football player, though he’d never played. He was a local success story, having worked his way up from selling pot in high school to become the larg-
est coke dealer in the tri-state area. He never had to touch the stuff now. He had legitimate investments. He had a lawyer.
“Hell, he talked me out of killing him,” Jack said. Ve- ronica had to lean in to hear him. She didn’t want to ask him to repeat himself. Carl had never been able to keep from sampling the product. Shoes, he could handle. He only needed a couple of pairs of shoes.
Jack was looking around and past them, checking out Veronica’s friends, scanning the room with the calm, focused look of an appraiser.
“If I go to Denver, we’ll still be part of Steelers Nation, don’t worry about that.” Carl said.
“Oh, I ain’t worried,” Jack said, turning to smile at Veronica.
“If I go to Denver, she’s coming with me,” Carl said.
They’d never talked about it. Veronica turned as if someone had called out her name. She was tall, and when she walked, her step had a runner’s spring, which made her appear even taller. She knew they were both looking at her. She flung her hair back as if to shake them free.
Carl’s life was coming together after all, and he wanted everything fluid in his life to solidify, to stay in place while he made his move. He wanted to take the stink out of selling shoes. She’d be graduating in two months, and—she was not going to marry him, she suddenly understood, as if the paperwork had just been notarized. Not moving to Denver. Not for a shoe salesman. She knew it sounded cruel, but it was as true as Carl’s head-banging music drilling into her ears—she couldn’t dance to it.
The keg sat right outside the kitchen on the landing outside Carl’s second-floor apartment. Graduate stu- dents had gathered near the door. They looked like smug, scared sheep, ready to complain to her about her loser boyfriend’s crude cohort. She pushed her way through them without stopping for commentary and poured herself a refill. Back inside, she angled to- ward the stereo. She’d wait for the song to end, then change the music.
~
Veronica picked up the phone: Larry the chiropractor. Caffeinated or cocained. Too early in Arizona—had he been up all night? Carl was at work, and she’d slept in after the party, half-asleep, half-hungover, and a third angry at herself for not speaking up last night, drawing the picture for Carl, trailing her own line away from his neatly drawn future.
“How did you two meet?” Larry asked. “Larry, I—
“I know, none of my business, right? I’m always curi- ous about people connected to Debbie. You draw a diagram, it’s like we’re almost related—me, you, Carl, Debbie.”
“In what universe are we almost related?”
“We’re like rosary beads. I’m Jewish, so what am I talking about, right? Hey, I’m seen enough movies.... Debbie’s Catholic—did you know...”
Debbie had shown up at the party, the exclamation point to Veronica’s anger. No, she did not want to be part of Larry’s diagram. She hung up, then turned on Larry’s TV to drown out the sound of his voice on the answering machine when he called back. “Talk about irony,” she said aloud. Saturday morning bowling—the crashing pins breaking up the low voices of the com- mentators matched her uncertain mood. Larry was mad at her for not playing the game. For taking her ball and not sharing. She should have known better
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