Hot Sauce and Cigarettes

Georgie

Rose and I drove over to the recycling center as soon as we could that day. The clouds had cleared eerily and the sun was setting, hanging suspended in the air like a fiery grapefruit and bouncing alongside us on the paved roads. The Clash was playing on the radio and my eyes only followed the passing scenes out the passenger window. I only caught bits of people and things but they were enough to send my head someplace else--like bits of commercials or the windows in a dollhouse.

The man who dressed in green was out being walked by his dog again, an elderly lady was helping a toddler across the street. Neat rowed buildings numbered like institutions, cracking sidewalks. Falling leaves and a random "scene kid" playing his clarinet as we passed the bus stop, his hair jutting up like a black and pink bird. I suddenly wondered if one could shave the hair off. If it would bleed red blood and caw-caw relentlessly and spurt out intest--

"Georgie. Georgie. Georgie..."

"Hm. What."

Rose's voice piped up too brightly for its own good, "You know, there's not many cars out and the recycling center is right next to this old abandoned parking lot. You could practice driving?"

"That's illegal." Everyone knew permits around here cost major buckaroos, buckaroos Rose or myself didn't have yet.

"That's not what's really holding you back."

I sighed. Rose was right, and this was not unusual. I'd been too timid to even consider grasping hold of a wheel. I didn't trust myself. Not then.

Rose's suggestion dropped like a decaying limb to the floor. She seemed a bit uneasy the rest of the ride there. I didn't understand that. The Crazy Guy couldn't have done anything too terrible.

Right?

Right?

One wheel. One wheel leaned against the caved in fence encompassing the Recycling Center. I knew it belonged to my bike because it was bent up exactly like I remembered.

I frowned. Sid always said the day I frowned at a customer was a day for the history books.

Well, that sunset before Thanksgiving I did.

And that day was certainly for the history books. Mine, and maybe a few others.

Demeter

"He'll see you in a few minutes, Ms. Demeter."

Years. Years Will and I had been dating, and his receptionist still treated me like I was another one of his wack job patients or cawing couples.

"Babe please."

"I don't wanna talk about it. We'll talk about it when we're in therapy."

Speaking of couples. I peeked up slightly at the pair sitting across from me in the chair. The woman--dark haired and olive skinned--raised her eyebrows at my nosiness in a challenge. I raised mine back, glanced at the male and rolled my eyes with a smile. She nodded, mirroring the upward twitch of my lips and clasping her hands over her crossed legs. I remembered for a moment why I used to hate women like her. Because they were something I didn't understand. I thought they were shallow, and didn't deserve the power and accolades that they got. Now I was one of them.

(not around Will you aren't)

I took a second glance at the male. The woman wasn't looking at him, but he was staring intently, hands reaching up as if he wanted to hold her. Instead they moved to scratch the back of his head. Abraham entered my thoughts for a moment.

I broke the stare instantly, sinking back into the August issue of "Outside" I'd found on nearby. It was faded and crinkled but had an older, friendly looking blonde guy on the front.

I knew Will's office and this waiting room well. But it felt so stuffy and small and hot now, like the inside of a fist balling up. The tasteful dark furniture, the professional yet uncomfortable jade chairs, even the old magazines, stacked neatly in rows on the tables, seemed deadly. I felt the need for a cigarette.

When my name was officially called, I got up slowly. Every act afterwards was like a well choreographed dance performance--nodding to the lady and her man as I turned my back, smiling at the receptionist, turning the corner out of the waiting room and down the hall to Will's Office. Feeling like I was about to jump into freezing water, a hole in the center of ice.

Georgie

The rest of the bike had to be around somewhere. I asked Rose and she pointed beyond the chainlink fence, where a group of men stood atop ladders--each over their own huge colored bins, sorting materials like small sprites organizing legos into big toyboxes.

I'd never been the type to get flustered over physical possessions. I didn't like wearing jewelry and I knew that clothes were just something that went in and out of fashion like nearly everything else. My room was nice but cheap, with just a few posters of artists and movie stars and knick knacks my Mom sent to me.

But two things I did hold near and dear aside from friends or family--were my laptop and my bike. And although deep down I'd known that The Crazy Guy was bound to do something silly with my only mode of transportation, my idealistic nature and naive trust in most humans refused to believe that. And here was my bike wheel, wilted like a lost drunk against a broken fence. It was enough to make any college kid cross their arms.

"Sir. Sir." I called up at the tall figure bent over a bright yellow bin labeled, "PLASTIK". He was the quietest of the rest--the guy next to him sorting metal was clanging and screeching, the others laughing back.

"SIR." I yelled again, at the top of my lungs. He was high up, but I could tell he'd seen us and was relieved to see him climbing down the ladder. Dressed in serious clothing and seemingly more attentive than the others whooping about, Rose and I turned and silently agreed that finding the rest of the bike might be hopeful from here.

He jumped the last few rungs with ease, "What can I do for you two ladies--"

"Abe?"

Gone was the turkey suit and the ridiculous clothing. Shed were the feathers, m.i.a. was the neon handbag. Even his hair was shorn close to his head. If didn't recognize faces so well, I'd have mistaken him for somebody else. I squinted my eyes. Or maybe it was the orange and pink sun in my eyes that was tricking me.

"I'm sorry?"

"Abe, where's my bike."

"Look, I'm working. I have no time to think about somebody's bike."

I didn't even show my surprise that this was his job or how he was suddenly taking things seriously or being responsible. I was too mad.

"My bike, Abe. My. Bike."

I tapped my leg on the black pavement. He looked down for a second, stroking his chin like he was considering something. Or perhaps remembering something.

His eyes sparked as soon as his head lifted, and he beamed brighter than the sun behind us, "Oh! You mean THE ART!"

Both Rose and I jumped back reflexively. Is that a real word? Who cares? Imagine it.

"Art?" I looked at Rose, and she stood with her arms crossed, raising her eyebrows, her pale mouth a half frown.

"Follow me, follow me." He ran ahead, waving his arms and slouching like a very eager Igor.

I huffed. I trudged behind him with Rose stepping carefully next to me.

In the far corner of The Recycling Center's lot there stood a building. Bone white, dirty and shamelessly old--like a grandfather nobody liked inviting over. It had a second story, but it looked haplessly droopy beneath the awning of the slanting roof. There were little windows like creepy eyes and an open doorway like a gap in teeth. Outside of that doorway there was just... stuff. Junk. Crap. Scattered around everywhere like an abandoned garage sale. One of those red/yellow kid cars, outdated exercise equipment, scrap pieces of wood--name it, it was there. All in all, it was an offensive setting.

Demeter

Will's office was incredibly tasteful and neat. Painted a sophisticated blue, the carpet was a neutral maroon. The plants were so perfect and well tended you swore they were fake. A tiny jade chair faced his huge dark wooden desk, which was centered smartly in front of a wall balanced perfectly--two skinny bookshelves on either end (and even the books were arranged meticulously) and between the two shelves hung awards, certificates, plaques and more plaques. I can't even guess what half of them signified. It could have been a good citizen award or a certificate for passing the second grade--he would have displayed it either way. Above all the awards, standing like an impish false god, there was a designer clock--its time was correct to the millisecond.

Any other day I would have felt comforted by all the order. But that day I nearly gagged as he faced me in his oversized leather chair, his handsome face equipped with a smug smile and every black hair tucked in place.

That day when he began with, “So. What’s wrong, Sara.”

That day, as the steady silver-faced clock taunted me with its perfect ticking, I broke all routine and order with two words:

“You are.”

Georgie

Inside the building was a variation of the same story. More crap. Just neater, if possible. The mess outside had graduated from “trash pile” to “stuff nobody wants from the thrift store”. I mean sure, the place had shelves but those shelves looked haphazardly crafted from metal and wood. Each shelf seemed to have a theme. One was filled with has-been electronics, another for decaying romance novels and guidebooks to Europe, one assigned to teacups and porcelain figurines. The kind my crazy grandmother liked to collect. There were clothes hanging on a rack--if you were trying to find something even the costume team for Xanadu wouldn’t want you wearing. And toys? Oh yeah they had those. If by toys you mean demonic creatures masking themselves as earthly playthings. Yeah. Toys.

Rose coughed behind me and I didn’t blame her. The place was so dust-ridden you’d think it either had a fairy infestation or that the air had actually solidified. But what really shocked me at first, was the fact that people were actually browsing and picking stuff up. Maybe it was because the only sources of light were from the windows drinking in evening sunshine, but other than that I had no clue.

Abe said hi go home to a young girl behind an old podium adorned with the sign “PLEASE TAKE GENEROUSLY”. He passed two men who were sorting through boxes of more junk and told them to hurry it up, we have to close up before dark. They said yeah boss.

Wait wait. Abe was a boss?

Nevermind that. There, on a wall across from a rickety staircase (labeled plainly “PRIVATE”), was my bike.

Only…

“TA DAH,” Crazy Abe showed off his best jazz hands, “The Art!”

Demeter

Will could drive my car home, since he was so obsessed with keeping up appearances. I was just happy I’d keyed it before I left.

Georgie

Everyone’s mind has this wonderful thing positioned between their brain and mouth. And that thing is a filter. That little voice that prevents you from telling a secret, or telling someone yes, they really do look fat in that dress. The mechanism that makes you think twice about murdering the idiot driver who cut you off. The lid that contains all the mean thoughts and keeps you from saying something you’ll most certainly regret.

Some filters are better than others. And I have to say, usually mine was pretty handy. Mostly the whimsical death and destruction and ugly viewpoints lingering in my mind stayed right where they belonged.

But boy oh boy not then.

In place of a meek smile and humble nod, came a torrent of words over my lost bike:

“Art? Art? My grandmother wouldn’t even call it that, and she‘ll pass off art as anything with a signature! It looks like a dumb bird tried to use it as a nest and the eggs didn’t even want to hatch out of shame so she ate them and flung the guts everywhere and picked out the eyes and seasoned the corneas with paprika! And then she puked it up and shi--”

“Georgie!”

“Well it’s true! Tell me it‘s not true!” I spun around to tell Rose. She grabbed my arm.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

The Crazy Guy half chased after us, “Paprika?”

“Keep walking.” Rose didn’t look back. We reached the car and she started it up immediately. I stood with the door open and just staring angrily at Abe, who yelled outside of the fence:

“Maybe you shouldn’t have asked for my help then, FRIEND!”

“I never asked! ….And you’re not my FRIEND, MAN.”

“Georgie. In the car.” Rose snapped and I obeyed, slamming the door. I looked back at the Crazy Guy for just a second, who was frowning and leaning into the fence, visibly mad.

Demeter

“Come on, come on.”

I cursed as another car passed me by. This was ridiculous. You’d think it’d be easier to hitch a ride in Europe than America.

Instinctively, I held my thumb out as soon as I heard the puttering motor. But when I saw the mini cooper, my hand went limp in an instant.

“Oh no.” I groaned, “God please. Not Abe. Anyone but Abe.”

He wouldn’t grant me the satisfaction.