The Audacity of Airport Clothing

 

    Ted isn’t a name that many people have anymore.  Theodore, it’s root, is only used by authors struggling to make their work more interesting.  Ted shrugged.  He couldn’t say his parents were hippies, or religious, or named him after his grandfather, or anything like that.  He stood under the fluorescent lights, waiting to be told to sit. 

    “What do you know about Egyptian truffles?” a voice boomed over a speaker in the ceiling.

Ted looked up towards the noise and his eyebrows stayed raised as he answered.  “I, uhh, what?  Egypt has truffles?”

The door to the room opened and two agents wearing nametags entered briskly.

    “Sit.”  Relieved, Ted sat.  One of the agents put a folder on the table, and opened it so that Ted was unable to see its contents.  The agent took a photo out of the folder and placed it in front of Ted.  The photo showed a man wearing a “Cape Cod” tshirt putting garbage in a dumpster.  Before the agents could prompt him, Ted reacted. 

    “God, I hate that tshirt.  I told him not to buy it and now he insists on wearing it every Sunday morning like he’s living the suburban dream.”

    “Nevermind the shirt.  Your partner is involved in a highly illegal-“
              “Nevermind the shirt?  Are you looking at it?  It’s hideous.  He didn’t even get it in Cape Cod!  He got it in the Boston airport.  What asshole buys clothing in the airport?”

    “If we could get to the matter at hand…”

    “Yes, Ted, let’s focus.  We know that you’re not involved in his operation, but it’s important that you know that Miles is facing some very serious criminal charges.”
              “Ok.  So?”

    “Well, we would like you to let us into the house so we can do a quick search while he is away.”

    “Can’t you just bust in with a warrant if he’s doing illegal shit?

The agents looked at each other, one nodding to the other, and a second photo was drawn from the folder.  This one showed the same man, in the same t-shirt, this time sitting at a long bar, chatting with a bartender.

    “He’s been wearing that trash out of the house?!”

    “Ted, we could really use your-“

    “Yeah, fine, great- come on over.  Just make sure you take that atrocity with you before you leave.”

For a Good Cry, Try Red Onion

 

    She stood in front of the avocados, testing each one, thinking about why he never told her he had lived in Rhode Island.  Not a single ripe one and she was supposed to making guacamole tonight.  Why would he keep that a secret?  Isn’t there some trick with a brown paper bag, or maybe a microwave to speed up the avocado ripening process?  Maybe he’s ashamed of something he was doing there?  Oh God, does he have another family?  Fuck it, she thought, and took the two least hard avocados.

    She could smell the jalapenos in front of her, they all looked so perfect, and a wave of anger flared under her nostrils.  Did she not deserve his full respect?  She snatched two jalapenos with the intention of making an unusually spicy dip.  Whatever else was being hidden was going to come out over dinner, she guaranteed herself.

    Still fuming, she found the cilantro and cursed every grocer that placed the cilantro next to the parsley.  Maybe he had good reason, he had never lied to her before.  That she knew of.  The display’s mist over the leafy greens cooled her fire.  Maybe she would make a salad too.  He needed some more vegetables in his diet.  She found a cilantro bunch, cold and wet, and placed them softly in the top of the cart.

    She realized, standing in front of the onions, that this was the reason why her brain had decided to make guacamole.  Red onions.  Better then any rom-com or cute animal video when a cry was needed.  He didn’t lie, he just hadn’t mentioned that he’d lived in Rhode Island, it’s wasn’t that big of a deal.  She held the onion in her hand and willed the dormant vapors to reach for her eyes.  It worked and everything went glassy.  She was just having a bad day.

Here to collect

 

Here’s the deal.  There’s a bug-eyed addict sitting at the bar, and the roaring engines of a platoon of motorcycles have congregated outside.  It’s comical to think of anyone talking things out at this point.  Five bearded gorillas walk into the bar, leaving a dozen or so outside.  The addict’s eyes dart from the gang members coming through the front door, to the bartender, to the back door through the kitchen, back to the gorillas, and finally on his remaining drink in which he gulps, causing his eyes to strain in their yellowing skins.  The bartender rolls the volume dial all the way up on the stereo and Ray Charles hollers to his lost love while five men pick one man clean off his barstool and carry him all the way out the front door without the man’s feet touching the floor once.  It’s the type of place where no one lifts a single finger in protest.