***
My bike screeches to a halt.
The tall, imposing Williams house looms overhead, the family Porsche lies right in front of me on the driveway.
“Honestly, Todd, what the frick do you think you’re doing?”
A boy reclines on the hood of the jet-black sports car, leaned up on the windshield with his arms propped comfortably behind his head. Dark sunglasses with a thick white frame rest on his nose…but other than that, he’s got nothing on but smily-face boxer shorts.
The boy sits up, and with a long, french-manicured index finger, lowers his shades.
His bright hazel eyes are rimmed with black.
Oh God. Not the eyeliner again.
“Jesus Christ, can’t a guy get his tan on in peace?”
I unceremoniously dump my bike in the grass and sit on the car next to him.
“Got any more shades?”
He heaves a sigh, then leans over the side and brings up a pair of “vintage” cut-off shorts, dives into the pocket, and brings out a sleek gray pair. “Thanks, dude,”
I grin. He hates it when I say that.
The boy flips the sunglasses my way; I catch them, slip ‘em on. He re-adjusts his shades, then leans back again.
“So, Todd-O, are we still on for tonight?”
He nods.
“Me. You. The mall. 8 o’clock. I’m so there.”
Grinning, I pull off my shorts and then recline on the car; letting the sun bake my legs a weird mottled red/brown combo.
A while later, a kid on his skateboard across the street looks at us, his jaw dropping and right eyebrow rising dramatically. Mrs. Peccadeddy’s cat Skipper had the misfortune of being dumb enough to sit in the middle of the sidewalk to watch birds…and eventually barreled over and landed upon.
Thus begins the epic battle between man and dust-bunny-eater.
***Todd
I slip an American Idiot t-shirt over my head and then look at myself in the mirror.
Nice.
I think I went too far with the French manicure though. Makes me look…I don’t know…girly?
That guy at Starbucks thought it was hot. And Natalie, too. I might keep it.
I grab a bottle of black nail polish and head up to the front, where a kid with about twenty rings sticking out of his eyebrow sits, dozing.
“Welcome to Hot Topic. Do you prefer throat-slitting or strangulation?” The guy mumbles.
Customer service at its finest, this is.
He’s snoring now.
I rap my fingers on the counter. No response.
There’s a line behind me, slowly forming and quickly launching through the many stages of pissed-off-ness.
Finally, I pull a penny out of my pocket and with a flick of the wrist, lauch it at his forehead. The coin hits its target, and with a cry, the victim sits up.
I grin. Hehe. Go Todd.
The kid sneers, then grabs my American Express and stuffs my shirt and nail polish into a bag and throws it over the counter.
(This is set in Lincoln...and the first bit was based on a true story. Hehee...one day my brother and I were out riding and we saw our 4-year-old neighbor in his underwear lying on top of the family minivan saying he was getting his tan on....
)
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