Read Online Kockroach by Tyler Knox - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tyler Knox
Tags: Contemporary
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So can my pal park hisself here while I grabs us some grub?”
“Sure, I suppose,” she said. “Any friend of yours…”
Mite pulled a chair from the table. “Sit down, palsy. I’ll take care your dinner. Keep an eye on him, Celia, won’t you, whilst I load up? Anything you want?”
“No thank you, Mite. I’m fine.”
Mite winked and then was off to the wall of food.
She watched him go before turning to the man in the brown suit, who was still standing.
“Sit, please, Mr….”
He kept standing until she gestured at the seat Mite had pulled out for him and finally he sat.
The strange pull of revulsion she felt when she spied him outside the window, and then by the wall of food, strengthened in proximity. He had a peculiar smell, strong and furry, less the deep neglected tones of normal body odor, more the higher-pitched animal musk that arose with its own not-so-hidden message from the carnivora house at the zoo. His beard was dark, his hair, beneath his hat, long and greasy. There was something disconcertingly real about him, as if the rough edges of existence, normally smoothed by societal conventions or blurred by the plate of glass through which she viewed the world, were still jagged and sharp on him. He sat there in his dark glasses, unmoving, as if he were blind, but at the same time it seemed as if he were staring at her with a brutal intensity. She tried to stare back, to see beyond her own reflection in the dark lenses, but failed to connect with his eyes.
Suddenly he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small and golden. He flicked open the top, spunthe wheel. A small flame erupted. His smile increased its vast wattage.
Celia tilted her head, unsure of what the stranger was doing. In the way he smiled and held himself, he seemed to be trying to impress her, as if he were some prehistoric man showing off to the females of his clan his ability to make fire. She felt strangely flattered, there was something almost gallant in the gesture. To be polite, she reached into her purse, took out a cigarette, leaned forward and lit it on the flame, all the while staring into the dark lenses.
“Thank you,” she said. “Your name is Jerry?”
“Blatta is it? Jerry Blatta?”
“That’s an interesting name.”
He continued to stare.
Self-consciously she leaned back, crossed her arms over her breasts. “And you’re a friend of Mite’s?”
“Sure, I suppose. Any friend of yours…”
The register of his strange disjointed voice suddenly slipped higher, as if in imitation of her own, using even her own words. She began to laugh, she couldn’t help herself, the charming gesture, the flattering imitation, the disconcerting stare.
He drew back as if under attack, and then through his fixed smile he laughed too, a laugh as high and girlish as her own.
Mite returned with a tray laden with plates and cups and glasses. Before his friend Jerry, Mite placed a ham and cheese sandwich, cut diagonally into two triangles, an apple, a tapered glass filled with tapioca pudding and topped withwhipped cream, a cup of coffee. Ever frugal, for himself Mite brought only a hard roll, two pats of butter, a glass of water, and a cup of tea. Mite sat himself next to Jerry, solicitously close, and edged the plate with the apple, red and shiny, toward his friend.
“Go ahead, Jerry,” he said. “You know what they say, an apple a day keeps the coppers at bay.”
Celia watched the strange maternalistic display with a curiosity that turned to amazement as this Jerry Blatta devoured the apple in four bites, swallowing skin, core, all, leaving only the tiny stem sticking out from his teeth.
“He’s a hungry boy, your friend,” says Celia.
“Ain’t we all. Look at him close, Celia. He’s my ticket.”
“Your ticket?”
“Oh yeah.”
“To where, Mite?”
“To the pineapple pie, sweetheart, where we all wants to go. Just like Pinnacio. You ever hear of Pinnacio,
“Sure, I suppose,” she said. “Any friend of yours…”
Mite pulled a chair from the table. “Sit down, palsy. I’ll take care your dinner. Keep an eye on him, Celia, won’t you, whilst I load up? Anything you want?”
“No thank you, Mite. I’m fine.”
Mite winked and then was off to the wall of food.
She watched him go before turning to the man in the brown suit, who was still standing.
“Sit, please, Mr….”
He kept standing until she gestured at the seat Mite had pulled out for him and finally he sat.
The strange pull of revulsion she felt when she spied him outside the window, and then by the wall of food, strengthened in proximity. He had a peculiar smell, strong and furry, less the deep neglected tones of normal body odor, more the higher-pitched animal musk that arose with its own not-so-hidden message from the carnivora house at the zoo. His beard was dark, his hair, beneath his hat, long and greasy. There was something disconcertingly real about him, as if the rough edges of existence, normally smoothed by societal conventions or blurred by the plate of glass through which she viewed the world, were still jagged and sharp on him. He sat there in his dark glasses, unmoving, as if he were blind, but at the same time it seemed as if he were staring at her with a brutal intensity. She tried to stare back, to see beyond her own reflection in the dark lenses, but failed to connect with his eyes.
Suddenly he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small and golden. He flicked open the top, spunthe wheel. A small flame erupted. His smile increased its vast wattage.
Celia tilted her head, unsure of what the stranger was doing. In the way he smiled and held himself, he seemed to be trying to impress her, as if he were some prehistoric man showing off to the females of his clan his ability to make fire. She felt strangely flattered, there was something almost gallant in the gesture. To be polite, she reached into her purse, took out a cigarette, leaned forward and lit it on the flame, all the while staring into the dark lenses.
“Thank you,” she said. “Your name is Jerry?”
“Blatta is it? Jerry Blatta?”
“That’s an interesting name.”
He continued to stare.
Self-consciously she leaned back, crossed her arms over her breasts. “And you’re a friend of Mite’s?”
“Sure, I suppose. Any friend of yours…”
The register of his strange disjointed voice suddenly slipped higher, as if in imitation of her own, using even her own words. She began to laugh, she couldn’t help herself, the charming gesture, the flattering imitation, the disconcerting stare.
He drew back as if under attack, and then through his fixed smile he laughed too, a laugh as high and girlish as her own.
Mite returned with a tray laden with plates and cups and glasses. Before his friend Jerry, Mite placed a ham and cheese sandwich, cut diagonally into two triangles, an apple, a tapered glass filled with tapioca pudding and topped withwhipped cream, a cup of coffee. Ever frugal, for himself Mite brought only a hard roll, two pats of butter, a glass of water, and a cup of tea. Mite sat himself next to Jerry, solicitously close, and edged the plate with the apple, red and shiny, toward his friend.
“Go ahead, Jerry,” he said. “You know what they say, an apple a day keeps the coppers at bay.”
Celia watched the strange maternalistic display with a curiosity that turned to amazement as this Jerry Blatta devoured the apple in four bites, swallowing skin, core, all, leaving only the tiny stem sticking out from his teeth.
“He’s a hungry boy, your friend,” says Celia.
“Ain’t we all. Look at him close, Celia. He’s my ticket.”
“Your ticket?”
“Oh yeah.”
“To where, Mite?”
“To the pineapple pie, sweetheart, where we all wants to go. Just like Pinnacio. You ever hear of Pinnacio,
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