|
: : : TIM WAKES TO A SEQUENCE of chimes that he recognizes as the ringing of his phone. Fuck you, Tim thinks, what the fuck time is it? There's no clock in the office so he can't be sure, although the blinds are spiked with sunlight. The phone keeps playing its little tune. Tim knows that it'll shut off in another five seconds or so but by then it'll have had a chance to fully wake him up. This must not happen. He flings an arm out and gropes through yesterday's pair of pants until he locates the right pocket. The second he gets the phone in his hand the voicemail picks up. Bah. He looks at the screen, just to see who the fuck: it reads Perkins, Matt.
Hm. It's been a while since Tim's heard from either Matt or Nick. When he moved into the city, he thought he'd be hanging with them all the time, but it hasn't really turned out that way. Since he's the new guy at the record store Freya's made him work all the shitty times that nobody else wants—Friday night, Saturday night—and the days he has off, like today, Matt and Nick work.
He momentarily weighs the idea of going back to sleep, but by this point he figures he's basically awake, so he calls Matt back.
—Yo, says Matt.
—Yo, says Tim, his voice mossy and morning-thick.
—You just wake up? says Matt.
—Yeah, says Tim.
—You got a boner?
—Fuck you, man.
—You do, man, don't you.
—Look, motherfucker, I don't know why we gotta be talking about this—
—Yeah, alright, shitwad, relax, I'm just fucking with you.
—Too early for this shit.
—Early my ass! It's fuckin' 10:30!
—Any time too early for you to be asking about my business.
—Yeah whatever. Look, I'm calling because I have to do a delivery out to Aurora this morning. It's like an hour out and an hour back—I wanted to see if you wanted to come with. If you help me unload this shit I'll buy you a lunch.
—What time you leaving?
—Like—I can be by to pick you up in like twenty minutes.
—Yeah, sure, OK.
—I'll call you when I'm getting close and you can meet me outside so I don't have to park the van.
—Cool, says Tim.
And so half an hour later they're on the Eisenhower. Tim's downing a black Dunkin' Donuts coffee and eating Munchkins by the fistful, still trying to get fully conscious. ZZ Top's “Legs” is on the stereo.
—So how are you liking it? Matt asks. —Living in the city.
—Well—Tim says. —It's kind of weird living with my sister, you know?
—You guys get along OK?
—Yeah, Tim says, —we get along good, I guess, but, I mean, I gotta respect her, you know? She fuckin' bailed me out when things got fucked up with my folks. So it's like I owe her. So, I'm trying to be all good and shit?
—Like good how?
—You know, man, like not coming in too late, shit like that. I mean, I got my own key, and she's never like said that I have to be in at any certain time or whatever, but you know, her and her boyfriend go to sleep at like eleven; so if I come in at like two or whatever I feel sort of like a fucker. And I mean—I don't know—like I always thought that when I moved out from my folks' place I'd be like partying all the time, really hard. But, you know, living with my sister—it's not like having my own place—it's not like I can set up a fuckin' bong in the living room or whatever, you know?
—Your sister doesn't smoke?
—I don't know, says Tim. —I mean, she used to, I know that—I remember seeing her toke up when I was like eight or whatever—but I don't know now. I haven't seen either her or her boyfriend smoke in the time I've been there.
—Which has been what? Like a month now?
—Yeah, Tim says. —Somewhere around there.
—So what's your plan? You thinking about getting your own place or what?
—I don't know, says Tim. —I can't really afford my own place on what I'm making. But I can't see myself staying in with my sister for too much longer. I don't know, I'll figure something out. Start looking for roommates or something.
Tim is reminded, here, that once upon a time Matt and Nick had invited him to be their third roommate, and that somewhere in the intervening year this offer evaporated. He decides to bring it up: why the fuck not?
—So—he begins, —I remember that you guys were looking for another roommate at one point. You still thinking about that?
—Yeah, says Matt, —I don't know. I was into the idea but Nick—Nick is like all weird about it for some reason.
Tim frowns.
—I mean, Matt says, —I remember that we talked about having you come move in with us. Don't think that I forgot about that. I mean, I basically feel like we screwed you over, I feel like shit about it. It's just—Nick's got this thing—
—What? Tim says. —Does he have something to say to me?
—No, Matt says. —It's not you, it's not about you. It's just—he's got stuff going on, he's all weird and paranoid about it. He doesn't really want people coming in and out of the house right now—not you, not anybody.
—He's got stuff going on? Tim says.
—Yeah, Matt says.
—What kind of stuff?
—I can't really go into it, Matt says.
Tim opens his mouth. Then he closes it. He frowns, and drinks his coffee.
: : :
:: Year entries
Index | << | 75 | >>
:: Tim entries
Index | << | 16 | >>
|
