“Do
you know anything?” Pink asked, her mouth full of half-chewed hot dog with the
works. They were sitting on a bench, by
the Hudson,
eating, and drinking coffee. She called
that morning. She never called.
“What
are you doing this afternoon?” she’d asked.
“Probably nothing, right?”
The
Park, she said. Over by the river. Laird didn’t say no. She was even paying for lunch, and she wasn’t
asking for anything. Not yet. For Pink, everything was a transaction. They talked about Tim Tim, and how he spends
money on shaving cream and razor blades even though he’s never shaved. She talked about how Madonna looked like
“waxwork” on TV the other day, and Laird nodded and agreed, even if he had no
idea what she meant because Laird gave not fuck one about Madonna.
They
talked about the Yankees, the Mets and, the smoking ban in bars all over the city,
and what seemed soon to be world, and they smoked while they talked about it. They chatted about the never ending turmoil
in the Middle East to which Laird knew Pink gave not one fuck about. They talked about how print is dying and reality TV is
alive and well. Print was not dead to Laird, and he didn't realize Pink even read anything. But he figured she was spot on about Reality TV.
Small talk, all of it bullshit small, teeny, tiny talk.
And then, there it
was. Finally, she said, “So, what do you know about Kevin?”
“He’s
about five-foot eleven, and he doesn’t live in Queens,
anymore.”
“Laird…”
“What?”
he asked. “What makes you think that I
know anymore than you?”
“Well,
you and he were close…”
“Yeah,
but you were closer,” he said.
“You
sound jealous,” she said.
“Well,”
he said. “Things aren’t always how they seem.”
Laird
wolfed down his hot dog, silent, while Pink nibbled at hers. Boats went by on the river…freighters, cargo
boats, and people jogged by in track pants and running shorts, and $50 tank
tops and neon-colored jog-bras telegraphing the bouncing tits of yuppie jogging muffin topped house-mommies from 50 yards away. JUST like Pink's anvil dropped to the dick way of getting to the point of why they were really there.
Laird
was wearing an old Rolling Stones T-shirt, and a pair of jeans with rips and
tears at the knees and at the ankles and a whole lot of disdain. He
didn’t…think he remembered showering that morning. But right now he felt even dirtier now that the punchline was revealed. Pink, on the other hand, smelled like some
fruit-smelling shampoo, and perfume…something…expensive and tempting.
“Do
you know anything about him or not?” she asked.
In
case of emergency.
Laird
smiled. “I don’t know. I don’t know any more than you do. I know someone he used to hang out with who
lives in a rent-controlled apartment in Brooklyn, and is elbow-deep in credit card
debt who has a semi-new BLU-Ray player, and a collection of crackerjack prizes that will blow your tits off..”
A
crease ran across her brow, but she quickly deadpanned, “You know, I like you
sometimes, Laird. This ain’t one of
them. You’re being a real shit-face”
Pink
threw her hot dog into Laird’s lap, splashing mustard, relish, and god knows what
else all over his clothes, and headed back up the side of the river toward the
subway. Laird watched her walk away,
shrugged her the “fuck you” shrug and sat for a while, watching clouds form in
the sky. He finished his hot dog, and
then he ate hers. He even drank her
coffee.
Everything
with Pink was a “transaction”.
Laird
stood, stretched and began to walk, his tongue jamming back into his molars,
fishing out the pieces of hotdog, and still, he looked at the clouds, and
thought about how he had just been "almost" used for information. And how he wasn’t willing
to give one iota. He had enough bullshit rattling around in his mind. He didn’t
need Pink’s head-games, because with Pink, it’s always never about what it’s really
about with her. You could be talking to her about blue, but in the end, it’s
about red. Or, more accurately, it’s about Pink. She didn’t bring him out there
for small-talk time with her good buddy Laird. She brought him out there for
information. Because in the end. It’s always about what Pink knows. It’s always about the transaction and fuck everyone else. Literally and figuratively. She could have asked how he was. Or, why he looked like two day old hammered dog-shit. He'd have fed her a bullshit line. Because telling anyone about a distinct set of crazy-assed blueprints haunting your mind, and the Aurora Project, isn't simple conversation over brunch. And neither was Kevin. .
Laird
finally got the piece of hot dog dislodged from between his teeth. He spit it to
the ground still thinking about Pink and looking at the sinewy chunk of hot dog
casing on the ground. That was the end of that annoyance: two in a row. Both
unstuck from his craw, for the time being, until he takes another bite.
Transaction closed.
