Read Online Good Neighbors by Ryan David Jahn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ryan David Jahn
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salute.
‘You too,’ he says smiling. And then, after Alan has taken a few more steps, ‘Asshole.’
‘I heard that.’
‘Good,’ the guy says. ‘Now you know what I think of you.’
Alan fights a violent urge, and turns away from the ambulance, gritting his teeth.
Last time Alan went to get his teeth cleaned his dentist commented on his grinding problem. ‘You’re gonna end up with nothing but nubs by the time you’re sixty.’ As far as Alan is concerned, nubs are enough – as long as they’re sharp and can tear out a throat.
He pushes his way into the coffee shop.
Duke stands behind the counter, handing a couple coffees to a uniformed paramedic in his mid- or late-thirties. The guy looks like he hasn’t slept in a decade. Bags under his eyes like pig-bladder canteens.
‘Nice friend you got out there,’ Alan says.
The paramedic looks at him, says nothing.
‘Will that be all?’ Duke asks.
Although the place is called Al’s Coffee Shop, no one named Al has been involved in running it for at least fifteen years. Duke is the owner-operator. Alan once asked Duke how he came up with the name and Duke told him that’s what it said on the front when he moved in back in’49 and he saw no need to change it – so Al’s it was and Al’s it is.
The paramedic continues to scan the case of donuts.
‘Um,’ he says. ‘Let’s see.’
‘Take your time,’ Alan says. ‘It’s not like anyone’s waiting.’
And then there’s a yelp of siren and a brief flash of light from the ambulance on the other side of the window.
The guy looks over his shoulder, then looks back to Duke. ‘Guess that’s it,’ he says. ‘How much?’
‘On the house,’ Duke says. ‘Go save some lives.’
‘Thanks. ’Preciate it.’
Then the guy heads out the front door.
Alan watches him jump into the ambulance through the passenger’s side, and then the thing wheels off, all lights and noise.
Once the ambulance is gone Alan turns to Duke. ‘How’bout a large coffee, huh?’
‘No thanks,’ Duke says. ‘I’m wired as it is.’
‘Smart ass. Pour me my cup.’
Duke turns around, grabs a paper cup off a large stack of them, and pours.
‘Donut?’
Alan shakes his head. ‘Any messages for me?’
‘Your phone rang,’ Duke says, ‘but I couldn’t get to it.’
‘Couldn’t?’
Duke nods.
‘You couldn’t get to it.’
‘That’s right,’ Duke says.
‘What’s so important you couldn’t get to the fucking phone?’
‘Had a turtle-head poking out.’
‘What?’
‘I was taking a shit, Alan.’
‘Well, I hope you washed your fucking hands.’
Alan grabs a dime from the tip jar and, with his coffee in hand, heads back out into the night. He heads toward the phone booth he uses to conduct business, but some guy is hugging the corner of the thing, his back to the open accordion door, whispering loudly into the mouthpiece about you bitch, I can’t believe you fucked my brother after all I did for you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you for this.
Alan walks over, stands on tiptoe in order to put his coffee on top of the booth, and then taps the man’s shoulder.
The guy turns around and looks at Alan with blazing eyes which are pressed into the doughy, pockmarked face of a man plagued by boils. There’s one above his left eyelid that looks ready to burst, in fact – hanging down over the eye like a gourd – and Alan decides that’s where he’ll punch first if it comes to blows. That would be some serious pain.
‘Can’t you see I’m on the fucking phone?’ Boil says, and then he sees Alan’s uniform, and his face blanches. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Sorry, officer. I didn’t realize it was you.’
‘Do we know each other?’
‘Uh, no. I just mean I didn’t know you were a cop. A policeman, I mean.’
‘Cop is fine. Didn’t I put you in jail before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You sure?’
A nod.
‘Well, you’re on my phone.’
Boil looks confused. ‘I’m
‘You too,’ he says smiling. And then, after Alan has taken a few more steps, ‘Asshole.’
‘I heard that.’
‘Good,’ the guy says. ‘Now you know what I think of you.’
Alan fights a violent urge, and turns away from the ambulance, gritting his teeth.
Last time Alan went to get his teeth cleaned his dentist commented on his grinding problem. ‘You’re gonna end up with nothing but nubs by the time you’re sixty.’ As far as Alan is concerned, nubs are enough – as long as they’re sharp and can tear out a throat.
He pushes his way into the coffee shop.
Duke stands behind the counter, handing a couple coffees to a uniformed paramedic in his mid- or late-thirties. The guy looks like he hasn’t slept in a decade. Bags under his eyes like pig-bladder canteens.
‘Nice friend you got out there,’ Alan says.
The paramedic looks at him, says nothing.
‘Will that be all?’ Duke asks.
Although the place is called Al’s Coffee Shop, no one named Al has been involved in running it for at least fifteen years. Duke is the owner-operator. Alan once asked Duke how he came up with the name and Duke told him that’s what it said on the front when he moved in back in’49 and he saw no need to change it – so Al’s it was and Al’s it is.
The paramedic continues to scan the case of donuts.
‘Um,’ he says. ‘Let’s see.’
‘Take your time,’ Alan says. ‘It’s not like anyone’s waiting.’
And then there’s a yelp of siren and a brief flash of light from the ambulance on the other side of the window.
The guy looks over his shoulder, then looks back to Duke. ‘Guess that’s it,’ he says. ‘How much?’
‘On the house,’ Duke says. ‘Go save some lives.’
‘Thanks. ’Preciate it.’
Then the guy heads out the front door.
Alan watches him jump into the ambulance through the passenger’s side, and then the thing wheels off, all lights and noise.
Once the ambulance is gone Alan turns to Duke. ‘How’bout a large coffee, huh?’
‘No thanks,’ Duke says. ‘I’m wired as it is.’
‘Smart ass. Pour me my cup.’
Duke turns around, grabs a paper cup off a large stack of them, and pours.
‘Donut?’
Alan shakes his head. ‘Any messages for me?’
‘Your phone rang,’ Duke says, ‘but I couldn’t get to it.’
‘Couldn’t?’
Duke nods.
‘You couldn’t get to it.’
‘That’s right,’ Duke says.
‘What’s so important you couldn’t get to the fucking phone?’
‘Had a turtle-head poking out.’
‘What?’
‘I was taking a shit, Alan.’
‘Well, I hope you washed your fucking hands.’
Alan grabs a dime from the tip jar and, with his coffee in hand, heads back out into the night. He heads toward the phone booth he uses to conduct business, but some guy is hugging the corner of the thing, his back to the open accordion door, whispering loudly into the mouthpiece about you bitch, I can’t believe you fucked my brother after all I did for you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you for this.
Alan walks over, stands on tiptoe in order to put his coffee on top of the booth, and then taps the man’s shoulder.
The guy turns around and looks at Alan with blazing eyes which are pressed into the doughy, pockmarked face of a man plagued by boils. There’s one above his left eyelid that looks ready to burst, in fact – hanging down over the eye like a gourd – and Alan decides that’s where he’ll punch first if it comes to blows. That would be some serious pain.
‘Can’t you see I’m on the fucking phone?’ Boil says, and then he sees Alan’s uniform, and his face blanches. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Sorry, officer. I didn’t realize it was you.’
‘Do we know each other?’
‘Uh, no. I just mean I didn’t know you were a cop. A policeman, I mean.’
‘Cop is fine. Didn’t I put you in jail before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You sure?’
A nod.
‘Well, you’re on my phone.’
Boil looks confused. ‘I’m
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