Fourteen

Scarsdale finished his late lunch. Put his plate in the sink. He’d hear about it if he didn’t.

“Don’t forget to wash the dishes!” his mother yelled from the den. He sighed heavily. Hopefully loud enough that she’d hear. Turned on the water and proceeded to quickly wash the chipped plates, old glasses, and mottled silverware. In a small act of defiance, he left a string of spaghetti on the plate he’d used. Have fun chiseling it the fuck off, Ma.

He decided to go to the bar, the house suddenly too small to hold him. Went downstairs to his room. Put on some different pants. Combed his thinning hair back. Dug out the free sample of men’s cologne he found in last month’s Penthouse. Reached under his shirt and rubbed it all over his chest and stomach. You never could tell: maybe he’d be able to score a bitch for free. Stranger things had happened. Left the house. Walked off down the street.

The Cove was located fifteen long blocks from the beach, but the decorations tried hard to make you think the surf was washing up on the doorstep. The place was thinly populated. Mostly the usual crowd of burnouts and old Chinese men. That depressed him, as that meant there’d be no way to pick up some tail. All the women who usually drank here knew him.

He went to the bar and ordered a beer. Sat there for about an hour, first drinking his beer, then moving up to shots of whiskey. It was toward the end of that hour that he figured out his problem. It didn’t make him happy, but what else was there to do? Yeah … the only way out was to start dealing again. Fuck his mother. It would be her fault if he got caught again. Determination filled him up. Fuck it. The best way to get the stake he would need would be to steal it from her. He took another shot as he wondered how to go about doing that. Goddamn it … it would serve her right, the bitch. Why did women have to be such bitches all the damn time? He wasn’t a bad guy. Only had a bad hand dealt to him. If his father had stayed around, maybe it would’ve been different. But hell, could anyone blame the guy? Look at what he married. Poor, stupid asshole. He was getting more and more angry the longer he sat there. Now he really wanted to find a hooker. Didn’t have the dough, though. So, like an ultimate defeat, he hoisted himself off the barstool and left.

It was late afternoon and cold. Fog was rolling in, sending wisps and tendrils down the street, ahead of the main curtain of gray he could see heading into the city. He had no idea what time it was and didn’t really care. The ocean air cleared his head somewhat. He decided to walk for a bit. Turned west, heading down toward the beach. Maybe he’d run into some people partying there, and they’d invite him to join in. That would be nice. He could tell them horror stories of prison. They’d think he was a tough motherfucker. The chicks there would dig that. He’d be “dangerous.” That usually excited the bitches.

He walked slowly, hands in pockets, enjoying the air. Being locked up could do that for a guy. Make him enjoy the sea air more. His shoulders sagged at the thought of being inside because he really didn’t want to start dealing again. Because that might land him right back in prison again. Fuck that shit. He’d had enough of prison to last him a lifetime. And he liked fucking girls, not guys. Fucking guys to unwind was not something he wanted to do again, ever. The beach was coming up ahead, and he smiled. It was freedom, the beach. That’s what it meant to him, anyway.

He didn’t notice the two-door sedan pull to the curb ahead of him. He was lost in thoughts of freedom and women. When the blow slammed into the back of his head, the only thing he could think was that he was about to be mugged.