2005-03-31 - 1:54 p.m.
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The greatest heist ever
FUCK!
And with that, I ran like a bat out of hell through the office, the big empty tomb of financial records. People's homes over here, their refinances over there. The tower of crappy leftover computer and security alarm parts all over. None of this mattered now and in fact, it never mattered to begin with.
The beers screamed in me. "How could you do this to us?" They were looking forward to just sitting there peacefully, slowly intoxicating me and I went and jumped the gun, jumped the goddamn shark.
He would be here shortly.
The fwoosh of air freshener buzzed through the air, to cover up the dead bodies wasting away with limes in their guts. Those 7 oz. bastards. Those treacherous midgets. This is all your fault I tell them and then I remember that they didn't pop their tops, shove limes into themselves and hop down my throat without help. From me.
I begin wiping down the table. I had been almost celebrating being careless and getting all sports team in a locker room after a big win about opening the bottles. Now I was cursing it.
Fuck. My breath.
I haven't had to clean up a drinking session and cover it up since high school.
I still lean on the nozzle while I wipe, even use air freshener as a cleaner. Worse things have happened. Hell, I've done them.
10 minutes now. Any minute, the door would slam downstairs and the thumps knocking on my job's coffin would sound. I bolt out the door, in a flurry and frenzy. I dodge traffic like a pro, a skill I learned from 23 years of suburban training. I blasted through the Fly By doors, the rip off imitation of a 7-11. Cinnamon Roll. The strongest gum I can find. I slam 3 bucks on the counter and let the man figure his tip out for himself as I bolt back out. Traffic battles me more this time than last and I waste precious minutes - MINUTES! - on the other side of the brook.
I wade through and bolt upstairs, chomping on 3 pieces of gum and almost crying.
He'll be here any...wait, he should have been here now. In fact, I chew for another 15 minutes until the phone rings and someone calls up looking for phone numbers. I rush to make sure I get it all in before he gets here. When is he getting....the slam. THE SLAM! HE'S HERE! Chomping away, I throw everything into drawers - popped tops, lime wedges, the two leftovers for later - and set up my work. All is as it should seem. He comes in on the phone, not even acknowledging me.
He must know. He can smell through the funky berry concoction in the air and cut right to the cervesas. I know he can. La cervesa mas fina will leave me malo by the end of the dia, amigo.
He tells me I have to drive. Not now - we're going to get the van he needs to leave for the next week. But drive nonetheless. His car, too. I get really nervous and he goes back into his office to make some phone calls. I take out the deoderant in my desk, because Arizona is so hot you need 2 doses in a day to leave it smelling fine. I rub it where it should go, smear a touch on my shirt and rub my hands over it. It holds back the stink as much as needed. It wasn't strong stuff to begin with.
My eyes must be glassy. I can't see them. He shoots shit with me and we get to the van place. I stand with him in the office while he deals with the rental procedure. For half an hour. By this point, from sheer terror and panic, I'm sure the beers have left through my pores. I don't even feel them anymore.
I think about the two survivors in my desk and wonder if I'll even be able to get back to the office to collect them or will he figure it out and leave my ass 5 miles from the office and 4 times that from home.
He does his thing, hands me the keys and shakes hands, wishing me luck.
I thank him, smile like the lucky bastard I am and dip into his car, blasting the radio with windows down, elbow out, laid back.
I celebrate with Buffalo Wings and a burrito.
And two soldiers, MIA.
BMC
What did you just say? - What's he gonna say next?
