she showed Klinger the coffee pot. Klinger lifted both hands off the laminate and made them flutter. The waitress smiled and went away with the coffee and twelve bucks.
After fiddling with his cup for a few minutes Klinger got bored watching his host convincingly imitate a man catching forty winks in Business First. Plus, Klinger’s ass was getting sore from abusing the Naugahyde. Not to get uppity, for he was as simultaneously sated and warm as he’dbeen in weeks, if not months. Finally, he asked Frankie how long he’d been out.
Frankie frowned slightly. “About two weeks,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes.
Klinger kept his voice down. “How the hell did you get a habit going in two weeks?”
Frankie smiled vaguely. “Who said I ever lost it?”
Oh, Klinger reminded himself, of course.
“Besides,” Frankie added, allowing the hint of a frown to flit across his brow, “do I look like I gotta habit?”
For the first time in weeks, Klinger laughed without rancor.
Frankie opened his eyes a little wider. “Lemme tell you something about a habit.”
Klinger made no response. He was going to hear about it whether he wanted to or not.
“As a musician once told me,” Frankie said, “any time you see a sixteenth note? Or a whole row of them? And you gotta habit?” Frankie sailed the flat of his hand over the table. “Every one of them sixteenth notes looks like a half note.”
“A half note,” Klinger repeated.
“And you,” Frankie said, “got allllll day,” he floated the hand back over the table, “to play every one of them just right.”
“That’s …” Klinger pursed his lips, “persuasive.”
Even with the shades between them, Klinger could see Frankie’s eyelids flutter. It reminded him of the reflection of the revolving blades of a ceiling fan on the surface of his drink just … Was that yesterday?
“But,” Klinger said, “you’re not a musician.”
“But,” Frankie said, raising an admonitory if languid forefinger, “I am an artist.”
“Ah ha,” Klinger said. “I’d forgotten.”
“Pay attention,” Frankie suggested. Once again his hand sailed over the Formica, toward the window and beyond where a dog, as Klinger now noticed, crouched to defecate on the sidewalk, as its mistress patiently watched.
“I regard the teeming boulevard …” Frankie stopped. After a moment he said, “Where was I?”
“The teeming boulevard,” Klinger prompted him. “You are an artist.”
Again Frankie sailed the hand over the Formica. “… To and fro march the marks …” Frankie smiled. “Each and every one a half note.”
“And you got allllll day,” Klinger smiled, “to play them just right.”
“Not all of them. By no means all of them.” Frankie redeployed the forefinger. “Just the one. The exact right one.”
“You’re an artist,” Klinger had to agree.
Frankie did not dissemble.
Klinger sat back against his side of the booth and fingered his cup of coffee. If Frankie noticed a pause, awkward or otherwise, he manifested no sign. I’m sick of drinking coffee, Klinger thought to himself, that’s for sure. He glanced up. The clock on the wall above the entry door told him it was one-fifteen. This clock, too, had Chinese numerals. What the hell’s with the Chinese numerals? A notice posted beside the clock announced opening time at six a.m. and closing time at two p.m. A notice posted on the other side of the clock announced the San Francisco Minimum Wage as $9.79 per hour.
Klinger’s eyes fell until they found the waitress, who was behind the sit-down counter making a fresh pot of coffee.
“I’ll bet you’re thirsty,” Frankie announced, as if reading Klinger’s mind.
“Yes,” Klinger admitted. “I’m about as caffeinated as I can stand.” He lay the flat of his palm on the lower-left corner of his stomach. Though masked by satiety, the twinge lurked. “It’s time to take the edge off.”
“Let’s go,” Frankie said, without
After fiddling with his cup for a few minutes Klinger got bored watching his host convincingly imitate a man catching forty winks in Business First. Plus, Klinger’s ass was getting sore from abusing the Naugahyde. Not to get uppity, for he was as simultaneously sated and warm as he’dbeen in weeks, if not months. Finally, he asked Frankie how long he’d been out.
Frankie frowned slightly. “About two weeks,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes.
Klinger kept his voice down. “How the hell did you get a habit going in two weeks?”
Frankie smiled vaguely. “Who said I ever lost it?”
Oh, Klinger reminded himself, of course.
“Besides,” Frankie added, allowing the hint of a frown to flit across his brow, “do I look like I gotta habit?”
For the first time in weeks, Klinger laughed without rancor.
Frankie opened his eyes a little wider. “Lemme tell you something about a habit.”
Klinger made no response. He was going to hear about it whether he wanted to or not.
“As a musician once told me,” Frankie said, “any time you see a sixteenth note? Or a whole row of them? And you gotta habit?” Frankie sailed the flat of his hand over the table. “Every one of them sixteenth notes looks like a half note.”
“A half note,” Klinger repeated.
“And you,” Frankie said, “got allllll day,” he floated the hand back over the table, “to play every one of them just right.”
“That’s …” Klinger pursed his lips, “persuasive.”
Even with the shades between them, Klinger could see Frankie’s eyelids flutter. It reminded him of the reflection of the revolving blades of a ceiling fan on the surface of his drink just … Was that yesterday?
“But,” Klinger said, “you’re not a musician.”
“But,” Frankie said, raising an admonitory if languid forefinger, “I am an artist.”
“Ah ha,” Klinger said. “I’d forgotten.”
“Pay attention,” Frankie suggested. Once again his hand sailed over the Formica, toward the window and beyond where a dog, as Klinger now noticed, crouched to defecate on the sidewalk, as its mistress patiently watched.
“I regard the teeming boulevard …” Frankie stopped. After a moment he said, “Where was I?”
“The teeming boulevard,” Klinger prompted him. “You are an artist.”
Again Frankie sailed the hand over the Formica. “… To and fro march the marks …” Frankie smiled. “Each and every one a half note.”
“And you got allllll day,” Klinger smiled, “to play them just right.”
“Not all of them. By no means all of them.” Frankie redeployed the forefinger. “Just the one. The exact right one.”
“You’re an artist,” Klinger had to agree.
Frankie did not dissemble.
Klinger sat back against his side of the booth and fingered his cup of coffee. If Frankie noticed a pause, awkward or otherwise, he manifested no sign. I’m sick of drinking coffee, Klinger thought to himself, that’s for sure. He glanced up. The clock on the wall above the entry door told him it was one-fifteen. This clock, too, had Chinese numerals. What the hell’s with the Chinese numerals? A notice posted beside the clock announced opening time at six a.m. and closing time at two p.m. A notice posted on the other side of the clock announced the San Francisco Minimum Wage as $9.79 per hour.
Klinger’s eyes fell until they found the waitress, who was behind the sit-down counter making a fresh pot of coffee.
“I’ll bet you’re thirsty,” Frankie announced, as if reading Klinger’s mind.
“Yes,” Klinger admitted. “I’m about as caffeinated as I can stand.” He lay the flat of his palm on the lower-left corner of his stomach. Though masked by satiety, the twinge lurked. “It’s time to take the edge off.”
“Let’s go,” Frankie said, without
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