Read Online Talk by Michael A Smerconish - Free Book Online Page B

like a chick. If this is the way she wanted to play it, that was alright with me.
    And that paid off, because very quickly, the freezer runs became a nightly event, something I’d look forward to during a shift—and in every other waking minute of my life. I convinced myself that there was a chemistry between us and that the rest of the staff had it figured out, but probably no one did. At least nobody said anything. Then one night while we were in the freezer a few weeks later, the music set wasn’t the only thing that ended prematurely. I was using a stack of St. Pauli Girl cases as a beanbag when I suddenly saw Willy standing in the open doorway.
    â€œStanley, you are needed in the booth,” was all he said, even though he clearly saw that I’d been defiling his stock.
    I wasn’t sure where I stood with him until the following afternoon when we were unloading a delivery of cases and kegs into the freezer, and he asked wryly, “Is there any particular way you’d like your apartment arranged?”
    The answer to that question, actually, was yes. I’d figured out that five cases of beer was my perfect couch. Four cases meant my knees would have to bend. Six cases meant I’d have to stand tippy-toed. And the best part was that the 40-degree temp gave me a ready-made excuse for making short work of the beer stage I’d created.
    He gave me a look that told me I didn’t need to answer, and we never spoke about it again. The truth was that we were both too valuable to Willy that summer for him to get in our way. Me for the sound system, her for the local following of guys who showed up every night hoping to drink her bathwater but would accept Willy’s booze as a lesser alternative.
    Once when we were putting ourselves back together before returning to the bar, she smiled suggestively and said, “I’d like to see you function in warmth.” But whenever I’d try to make that happen, she was elusive. I asked her out multiple times to no avail.
    â€œI don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she’d say anytime I suggested we go somewhere besides the ice box. She offered no further explanation, so of course, the more she begged off, the more I wanted the chance to try to expand her perception of me, which I figured was pretty limited. I had no idea what she thought of me. Summer fuck buddy? Local stoner? Easy, albeit fast, lay? Clearly she didn’t want me to be her boyfriend, and I started to obsess over why. The most obvious reason was that she was smart and beautiful and clearly going places, while I was bartender in a strip mall. Then finally one night, we had a real conversation.
    Last call at Shooter’s was 2 a.m. and I’d gotten into the habit of trying to time my walk to my car with hers. We’d make small talk and always end up going our separate ways but I’d usually linger in my car, smoke a bone, and wait until I saw her rear tail lights leaving the lot. Sometimes I was tempted to follow, wondering where she lived and if there was a boyfriend waiting, but I never did. One night, I watched as she walked to her car, but after ten minutes, her headlights still hadn’t come on. I turned off my car radio and then heard the faint sound of her engine turning over but not starting.
    I got out and went over to her car. “Do you need me to jump you?”
    â€œAgain?”
    We both laughed. I pulled the cables from my trunk and had her running in no time. This time, when I asked her if she wanted to hang out, she told me to hop in. Within minutes we were parking near the beach.
    I had a doobie in my shirt pocket and asked her if she wanted to get high.
    â€œNo, but you go ahead.”
    We sat there with the windows down on a steamy summer night with her engine off and an accessory cassette deck playing the Rolling Stones’ Goat’s Head Soup . Soon after I fired up, I felt her hand reaching for a hit. Thus began