"Sharon Tate isn't answering her phone and Adolf can't paint for shit," Street Guy is yelling. "You got nothing figured out, hosscat."
I start to go around him, already late, but he does a fairly nimble sidestep and slides in front of me.
"Yeah," he says, and goes bowlegged. "Too legit."
I expect him to continue with his broken thought-speak, but he doesn't. His eyes focus all serious and he pulls his mouth tight. I try to go around him again. Slide. Another move. Slide.
"Listen," I say. "I'm late for a meeting and you're holding me up for no reason."
Slide.
"What's more important than your fellow man, Abba-face?" he asks. "Big money deals going down. Count the green and head home. That it? You can't breathe that shit. You all underwater like some Snork wanting to ram your face into a mermaid's crotch without coming up for air. Waterloo. That ain't no life."
The restaurant, Maker's Mark, is just down the street. My client has probably been waiting for just under ten minutes. The Louisville Metro bus rumbles by and catches Street Guy's attention. I make a run for it. He sticks out a track-suited leg and I stumble, try to catch my balance, and fall hard against a silver phallic sculpture planted in the sidewalk.
My shoulder aches, a pulling sensation mixed with a deep burn, and I lean against the cold brick of a cheap Italian deli. My cell starts ringing but I let it go, giving up and feeling fine about it.
"You got nothing figured out," Street Guy says, and slides in front of a tall man in a a charcoal suit who swings his briefcase and moves his legs with worried determination. When he tries to go around Street Guy, I stick out my leg and smile. |
