Doug hears someone jump out of bed. Then he gets the shock of his life when something heavy bashes the wall between them. Spin shouts, “Doug! Drop what you’re doing and take a shower!” He lets go, bringing down the rest of his ghetto pyramid. He only stops tumbling when his eye connects with an armrest.
“Hold the elevator!” It is Thursday afternoon, and here is Doug with a black eye. He has just walked into the elevator, munching on something puffy and cheesy. On hearing the scream, his greasiest digit slams and holds the door-open button like a kung fu master.
Spin enters, huffing, one hand alighting her padded guitar. The other keeps an army surplus knapsack on her back. Before Doug can let go, a thinner-than-a-rail Sikh sporting a deep purple dastār steps in and between them.
Doug turns to Spin and greets her in a deepened voice. “Hey, now.”
“Hey, Doug. Is that breakfast, lunch, or dinner?” from Spin, eyeing his bag of junk food.
“Uh, I’m just holding it for a friend.”
“Did your friend ask you to hold some between your lips? You’ve got cheese dust everywhere, man.”
The banter is too much for the Sikh. He drops his head to chuckle.
Doug wipes himself down, matching a bear pulling off cobwebs. “Hey, I was wondering, could we meet up for food or something?”
Spin takes her time studying his half-raccoon look, then answers, “Sure. You free to meet at Back on the Beach, up from Palisades Park? Tomorrow, high noon. We’ll go Dutch.”
“Wow, really? I mean, yes! Yes, I can!”
“Great. See you then,” from Spin, exiting after the elevator’s sight-impaired ding.
The elevator travels on and reaches the Sikh’s floor. Doug bobbleheads a cheerful, “I have a date.”
The Sikh looks back over his knapsack to Doug and says with clarity, “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, bro.” Then he exits.
This leaves Doug alone. After a minute, noticing the elevator not moving, he says out loud to no one, “My floor was Spin’s!”
It is Friday, about fifteen minutes before high noon. Doug almost waltzes into the restaurant, thinking himself ahead of the game. Except Spin is already there, seated with her attention toward the bay. Her bits have jammed up the window side of her bench seat. Recognizable knapsack. Gigbagged guitar. Southwestern-style sweater coat, heavy on scarlet and black. She even wore her hair down. If Doug knew any better, he could say she styled it tousled. And she wore this faded, thick blue and white striped blouse number. It brightened the room in a way without bringing attention to herself.
“Hey, now,” from Doug. Besides his curls still not aligned and black eye turning blue, he has groomed well for a daytime version of himself, sporting an oversized blue-and-white checkered button-down casual shirt in old man blue jeans.
