Read Online Ecstatic Cahoots: Fifty Short Stories by Stuart Dybek - Free Book Online Page A

stick figure with a circle head, on which he sketched hair meant to mimic Britt’s moussed spiky hairstyle. He added Orphan Annie eyes, a big happy smile, and two tiny circles punctuated with periods for breasts. The figure, wearing high heels à la Minnie Mouse, stood with legs akimbo. At the V of her stick legs he scribbled in pubic hair.
    “George, the sixties bush is out.”
    He ignored her comment and drew an unadorned stick man kneeling before the female figure, with his oval head seemingly pressed to her scraggly crotch. “It was the word ‘intersection.’ I’m very impressionable,” he explained apologetically.
    Britt blushed, then tried to grab the napkin. “It’s for my Great Moments scrapbook,” she said.
    George managed to crush it up first. He stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “No paper trail,” he told her.
    The waitress came by. “Everything okay? Dessert?” she asked.
    “Just the bill, please,” George said, glancing at his watch.
    The waitress set the bill on the table and George placed his credit card on top of it without bothering to check the amount.
    “You pay at the cashier,” the waitress said, “but I’ll take it up for you if you want.”
    “No, that’s okay,” George said.
    “It’s no problem,” the waitress said.
    “I’ll follow protocol,” George said. “I’ll put the tip on the credit card.”
    “More coffee?” the waitress asked.
    “We’re good, thank you,” George said.
    After the waitress walked off, George put his key ring, cell phone, and ballpoint pen back in his pockets and slid the coffee cups and water glasses to the side with the salt and pepper shakers so that the stretch of table between him and Britt was clear.
    “I’m sure she’d rather have the tip in cash, then you don’t have to report it,” he said. He wiped the trail that the water glasses left on the Formica with a napkin, then folded the wet napkin and placed it on top of the napkin dispenser. She silently watched him tidying up.
    “You don’t have to tell me—I know I’m anal,” George said.
    “Not for thirty-two thirteen you’re not.”
    He stacked the money, the coins on top of the bills—it looked like a sizable tip—then slid it across the table. Britt didn’t reach for it. She remained seated, looking at the money piled before her.
    “The ball’s in your court now,” George said.
    “You want to see me take it, don’t you? That’s a turn-on. What if I don’t touch it? Just leave it between us? Would you pick it back up?”
    George said nothing.
    “Don’t worry, I won’t put you in that position.”
    She lifted her purse from the seat, a pink-striped blue straw bag stuffed with her gym shoes, opened it at the edge of the table, and, as one might brush off crumbs, scooped the bills and change from the Formica into her purse.
    “Did you like that?”
    “It should be more,” George said.
    “No problem. I’m making eighteen an hour to sit behind a desk all day. This is a significant raise.” She dug out a disposable lighter and a pack of Virginia Slims and stood. “I’ll be outside giving myself cancer,” she said. “Don’t forget John le Carré.”
    George picked up his book, paid the cashier with his credit card, and went outside.
    Britt was leaning against the brick wall, smoking.
    “That money’s yours, no strings attached,” George said. “I know being a single mother’s no picnic. My mom raised me and my sister after our old man ran out on us.”
    “Do you think that was about charity for either of us, George? I’d offer a receipt, but no paper trail,” she said.
    “I don’t need one,” George said. “I’ll remember everything about it.”
    “I’m glad you’ll get your money’s worth.”

 
     
    Flu
     
    Faye’s illness transformed her in a way no diet or face-lift could have. After days of nausea, vertigo, diarrhea; a fast of toast and tea; fever; dreams that came and went more like mirages; an aching lethargy that demanded