Spyder

Eddie got an unexpected vacation in the ICU with a bullet to the head he received while driving home last Tuesday. Just a stray we were told. Yeah, stray like a wandering chicken. Randi-the-Slut also found a room at the hospital. Her landlord allegedly raped her. She must’ve done something to piss him off. Normally, a rough little poke wouldn’t make her miss her shift here.
Cops came by the shop to talk to us all, asking questions about the landlord, and if we knew anything about Randi-the-Slut’s sex life. I don’t think there’s a guy in here that hadn’t done her at least once. I told the cop I thought she was saving herself for marriage. I don’t think I impressed him. They said she got banged, but good.
I’d been sitting at that damn machine for over ten-and-a-half-hours. Every time I stomped on the pedal, 1200 pounds of pressure per square inch molded a face on a piece of metal. Each time it felt like a concussion grenade going off in my head. I’m surprised I hadn’t gone deaf yet.
The midnight bell rang. Unfortunately, I still had more time before my shift ended. One-hour of mandatory overtime every night until we were caught up, or until we were a full shift again. I didn’t think Eddie or Randi-the-Slut were in any hurry to come back and bail us out.
Finally, the one o’clock bell sounded. I shut off the machine and dashed out the door. I bet I made it to the parking lot before 1:01.
The humidity had dropped. The clouds had finally cleared and the night became comfortable. I could even make out most of the Big Dipper through the haze.
Once I got out of the lot, past the guard—an old fart that would make Barney Fife look like Rambo—and on the street, I pulled a half-smoked joint out of the ashtray and popped the “Broken Tailbones” new CD into the player. It wasn’t great weed, but good enough for driving, and the music made up for it.
At the stoplight I saw Squeegee Sam mucking up some turd’s windshield. He saw me and limped back to the curb while mumbling what I assumed were obscenities. I’d given him that limp after he didn’t believe me when I asked him nicely to keep his fucking grubs off the car. It’s not like he had a career as an athlete looming ahead, or any career for that matter. I’m sure I did him a favor. We’ve had a very cordial relationship since that time. Now he stays away from my car and I don’t run over his sorry ass.
“You owe me,” I called over to him. He spat something I couldn’t make out. “How much more income you making because of our little incident? I bet you’re really milking the sympathy vote.”
If his squeegee had been a gun I’d be a dead man. Instead, the light changed to green, I gave him the thumbs up, well…middle finger up, and drove off.
The wind massaged my face, and the Chev certainly needed to be aired out. Properly buzzed, I saw the white beacon up ahead that I called my savior. I cursed while pulling into the White Castle parking lot. I’d made it just in time to be beat out by the bar-closing crowd. Just to rub my face in it, the road construction crew from across the street decided to take their dinner break just before I got there. That’s what I hate about OT; if I’d got off at my regular time, I wouldn’t have had to stand in line. Fortunately a group of drunks decided to chat before entering. I snuck past them, putting myself sixth person deep. The bad news; a retard behind the counter was slowing things down even worse. Excuse me—“brain-challenged.” I’m working on my p.c.
A small tussle broke out involving a few people ahead of me. Some babe in a sexy red dress tried to butt in line ahead of one of the road crew guys. I didn’t know why the construction guy made such a big deal. The bitch could’ve cut in front of me—not a problem. It would’ve given me something to look at.
Whoa! I understood.
Her scarf came off from around her neck and there bobbed an Adam’s apple that bulged like a mouse being swallowed by a snake. Damn, not only did he have the nicest legs in the place but he knew how to wear heels.
The pushing manifested into a full-fledged fight. I reached into my pocket and grabbed my blade just in case the rest of the construction boys wanted to have some fun and expand the violence. It turned out to be a false jazz. The work boys were more concerned with placing their order. One of the dudes actually helped push the two of them out the door. All right. Advance forward two places.
The retard—sorry, I gotta call ’em as I see ’em—started to panic.
“Somebody’s got to do something. Somebody do something!” he cried.
“Five double cheese and two large fries and a Coke!” First-in-Line, shouted back.
A bang rattled the plate glass window and everybody jumped. With his face plastered against the glass, the transvestite wasn’t pretty no more. The red dress had been torn from his shoulders, the wig lay somewhere in the parking lot, and blood flowed from a broken nose and other cuts on his face. Red smeared across the pane as his face slowly slid out of view.
“And hold the ketchup,” the guy finished.
Yup, steel-toed workboots will win over heels ninety-nine percent of the time.
I ate in the car while a cop went around asking questions. By the time he got to me, he seemed to have lost interest. That suited me just fine. I didn’t have anything to tell him anyway.
One more stop then time for home. I pulled into the 24-hour mart just as a bunch of store security raced out the entrance. A crowd had gathered in the corner of the parking lot, cheering and whooping it up as the uniforms tried to break through. Seemed like a fight broke out here every night now. From what very little I could make out, it looked like it might be a bicycle chain vs. a knife. But I couldn’t see too clearly what with all the bodies shuffling around.
A man’s high-pitched scream came from inside the circle and the crowd celebrated even louder.
Maybe my lucky night. With everybody outside, I’d hoped to get in and out without bumping and pushing a bunch of clods that always seemed to get in my way.
“I like your tattoo,” she said while handing me change. “Why a spider on your face?”
I started to blush. For sixteen she was hot. Hell, she might even have been eighteen, but I’d do her either way, if she were willing. And she certainly gave the impression of being willing to me, but I don’t do real good talking to strangers I want to poke. I mean the kind you don’t shell out bucks for.
“Rolled over in my sleep once and smooshed one. Saw it in the mirror the next morning, thought it looked cool.”
Actually, I go by the name of Spyder, that’s Spyder spelled with a y. In my younger days living on the street, I got a black widow, complete with red hour-glass, tattooed on my right cheek just below the eye; about the same place a gang-banger tattoos a tear drop after he offs somebody. Thus, my name. It shows the high creative intellect that’s out on the street.