Chapter 2
Chapter 2: Mister Pepper
I kick off my boots that I got from the Russian grocer Svyatoslav and climb into bed with Jesse Jones. That's right, I get to sleep with Jesse Jones.
Not to sound gay or anything, though.
"Why do you think the new neighbor is part of the CIA?" Jesse asks me as I crawl under the covers with him.
Frankie would call this "the motherfucking gayest thing" he's ever seen. But, once I saw Jesse in his blue bear pajamas, I remembered that we didn't sleep at all last night, and suddenly my home seemed very far away.
"Cuz he asked me if I thought the Jesus came from outer space," I explain again.
"But," Jesse says, "that's not very conclusive proof of anything."
"You said it yourself. The beer can was gone. Why would the beer can be gone?" I ask.
"Maybe the wind blew it away."
"What wind?"
"Nate," he whines and I wrap my arms around him, just because…I dunno, it seems like the right thing to do. He squirms a little bit but doesn't say anything.
"Those satellite pieces were scattered everywhere, Jess. Every-freakin-where. I really don't think Hank and Hugh would be that stupid. And even if they were, wouldn't we be hearing about all these weird metal chunks that happened to come down with Jesus?"
"What are you saying?" Jesse asks.
"That Thomas-freakin-Crisler cleaned up the satellite and is now looking for the rest of it. It's probably some secret government testing thing."
"First aliens and now conspiracy theories," Jess mutters. "Jeez, Nate."
"Don't you call me a hick again," I warn.
"You are one," Jesse says. "You talk about packing up and moving to L.A., but you're so wrapped up with your small-town mentality, you'd never make it. You'd get there, you'd hate it, and you'd turn around to come back."
I let go of him and flip over. I don't even want to touch him anymore, the stupid little brat.
"Nate…"
"Shut up," I snap and force myself to my feet again. "I'm leaving." I reach for my boots, but Jesse grabs my wrist and yanks so hard I end up sprawled on top of him. Now I don't want to get up again.
"Thomas Crisler can't be a CIA agent," Jesse says, and I sigh and let my eyes drift closed. "CIA agents never use real names and…and 'Thomas Crisler' sounds too much like a real name. CIA agents are always named, like, 'Smith,' or 'Frank Smith,' or 'John Smith,' or 'Joe Smith,' you know. Agent Smith. CIA."
I pop one eye open and stare at him as skeptically as I can with one eye still closed.
"Agent Smith is the bad guy from The Matrix," I remind him. "And he wasn't a CIA agent."
"Why is it that you base your entire knowledge off movies?" Jesse asks and I think it might be rhetorical so I don't answer.
"Maybe he's from the NSA. I think the NSA is more elite than the CIA. Maybe the NSA uses real-sounding names," I suggest.
"Nate, can you move?" Jesse asks quietly. "My leg is falling asleep."
I sigh again and roll over, somehow managing not to fall off the bed while I get under the covers again.
"Good night," he says, and I kind of want to snap at him that it's not night out at all, but I just bite my lip and close my eyes.
This sucks. I get to sleep with Jesse Jones and I have a terrible hangover and I'm kind of mad at him for calling me a hick again.
I wake up and I'm still in little Jess's room. Jesse's room is funny because it's packed full of all this high-end top-o-the-line crap that you just know he's never touched in his life. He told me his parents don't buy it for him. He buys it himself with his parents' money.
The thing about Jesse Jones is that you can never understand Jesse Jones.
He's still asleep beside me and I kinda want to rip off his clothes and make sweet hot love to him this instant. It'd be the perfect end to a perfect tale. But my hangover's worse and I don't have the energy. And I don't think Jesse would take it too well if I did that.
Itty-bitty Jesse doesn't look like he's getting up anytime soon, so I carefully crawl out of his bed and reach over for my old army boots that I got from the Russian grocer Svyatoslav.
That's a story—Svyatoslav Lebedev is. He's an immigrant from the Soviet Union from before it collapsed, and no one is quite sure how and why he came here to little Bethlehem, Kansas. I think he sells drugs in the back of his grocery store because I don't know how else Johnathan Frinklestein down the road gets his weekly stash of heroin. You look at Svyatoslav, with his thick Russian accent, his sunken Russian eyes, his black Russian hair, and you know he's got shady connections somehow.
I think Svyatoslav is my real father. It's these boots that first made me think that.
You see, my mother and Svyatoslav, for as long as I can remember, were always at each other's throats and I never knew why. Svyatoslav is one of those men who are rude and harsh to everyone they meet, but he was particularly brutal to my mother.
On the other hand, he treated me like I was some gift from Heaven whenever I stepped into his store. It never occurred to me to wonder why a man like Svyatoslav, who hated kids with a passion, who chased out every person under the age of fifteen with a broomstick, would let me inside and give me free candy and ruffle my hair like I was the cutest thing he had ever seen. I just accepted that as the way things were, figuring he, for no special reason, just liked me better than everyone else.
And then there was the fact that I would always look in the mirror and wonder why I looked so Russian when my dad was Italian and my mom Scottish; why I had such straight black hair when my mom was blond and my dad had a curly fro of light brown; why I was so tall and lanky when my mom was so plump and big-boned and my dad was so squat and burly.
All these little details just kinda remained unanswered and disjointed in my head until they all came together when Svyatoslav gave me the army boots his father died in.
Svyatoslav, when I came into his store and showed him all the holes in my old Converse shoes and complained that I couldn't get any cool new shoes without going to McKinley because they only thing they sold here in Bethlehem were the handmade cowboy boots that Joe Hunterson who lived down the road made, and that my mother wouldn't drive me to McKinley (this was before I got my truck) because she thought stylish shoes were "Devil shoes"—well, that was when Svyatoslav pulled out these old Soviet boots and put them on the counter.
"Dese good boots," Svyatoslav told me. "Made for Russian officers. My fadder, he died in dese boots vhen dey vere almost brand new. Dey last long time, dey not vear down. Dey special boots—dey not take dese boots from me vhen I die. I give dem to you, you vear dem good, you not catch bad luck dat killed my fadder, you get good luck."
At first I hated the boots. They're tall boots that go up mid-calf, but they're wide around the legs so you can tuck your Soviet breeches into them. There are no laces, just slip on, and at first I thought they were worse than Hunterson's cowboy boots. Besides, it kind of creeped me out that Svyatoslav would give me something so important to him, and when it clicked that he was my real father, that feeling got worse.
But then I got to wearing them under my jeans and they've become really endearing, like the ghost of my dead grandfather is protecting me, or something. And I guess I really don't mind that Svyatoslav's my father, because I'm pretty sure just me, him, and my mother know, so it's all good. My dad still treats me like his son, Svyatoslav, the angry oppressive Russian, treats me like his son, and having two fathers is just more convenient than having one.
Svyatoslav's got a pair of fur-lined Spetsnaz boots, and I intend to get those out of him before I depart from this little town. For now, though, my grandfather's soldier boots are fine with me.
I pull them on and head out without waking Jesse. When I climb down the stairs, though, the sheer quietness creeps me out, but then I realize that the TV that his mom always watches, that is the constant background noise in his house, is for once turned off. I glance at the clock—twelve forty-five. His parents are probably still at church. It's Sunday.
I shrug and am about to leave when his phone rings. I think, it'd be weird to answer his phone, wouldn't it? But Jesse was kind of drunk last night (sometimes it's hard to tell with him, but you know he's wasted when he gets this glaze in his eyes, and I was starting to see the beginnings of that last night), and I'm not sure the shrill ringing will be enough to wake him up.
Ah, well, whatever. I grab the red cordless one and click it on, just in time to hear Jesse's voice croak out an almost over-exaggerated, "Hello?"
Now would be the time to hang up. I figure it's probably somebody for his parents, but then the voice, a boy's voice with a slight surfer accent, says, "Jesse, what's up?"
And I press the phone closer to my ear. I bet this is the infamous Tony he's mentioned a few times.
"Tony," Jesse says.
Bingo. Judging from how Jesse is, I figure he's only ever had one friend, and that was his So-Cal buddy, Surfer Tony. I don't actually know if Tony surfs, but I always imagine that he does just by the way Jesse described him once—a mellow and athletic stoner. Automatic surfer.
Jesse only ever went into depth about Tony once, and that was when we were stoned together and Jesse started reminiscing about his previous life in So-Cal with his best friend Tony. At first I was jealous because it seemed like Jesse liked Tony so much, but then I had to remember that Jesse had known Tony years and me only months.
But, still, I want to know more about my competition.
"Did I wake you up, dude?" Tony asks.
Jesse makes a noise that I'm not sure if it's just a moan, or if he's affirming what Tony asked. "Hung over."
"Oh, so you're managing to party it up with those small-town hicks?" Tony asks.
So that's where Jesse gets it from. I'm offended.
"If you consider getting drunk in the middle of nowhere with two psychos who you'd hardly consider friends a party, then yes, I am," Jesse says spitefully.
Ouch. This conversation is informative. I didn't know Jesse hardly considered me a friend. And a psycho. I'll keep that in mind from now on.
"Well, that sucks. How's the pot out there?" Tony asks.
"No pot out here."
"What?" Tony cries.
"Have to…go to the next town over to get it, but I've got a buddy that hooks me up," Jesse explains.
So now I'm his buddy who hooks him up with pot, huh? I'm not so sure about Jesse Jones anymore. With a frown, I lean against an end table and press the phone closer to my ear and stare at my reflection in the TV that's not on.
"Power to him, then, yeah?" Tony says.
"Yeah," Jesse agrees lamely, and there's a pause, and then Jesse says, "Tony, I've been meaning to ask you something…"
"Yeah?"
"You've been together with Jennifer for what, now?"
"Uh…four years in February."
Wow. I can't help but notice how freakin' long a time that is. Four years. I don't even remember four years ago, pretty much.
Jesse sighs and then says, "What did you think of her when you first saw her, before you knew you'd be with her for so long?"
"Huh?" Tony drawls. "You asking me love questions, Jesse?"
"No…just…"
Tony laughs a breathy barking sort of laugh. "Kidding, dude. When I saw Jens, I thought—that is the prettiest girl I've ever seen."
"So, it was kind of instant?" Jesse asks.
"Yeah."
"There wasn't a moment when you were kinda resentful at her or anything?"
"No. What would I have to be resentful at her for?" Tony asks confusedly.
"Nothing," Jesse says quickly. "I just wanted to know."
"You got someone, Jesse?" Tony asks. He doesn't wait for Jesse to answer. "You had all of L.A. to find someone and you couldn't, and then you move to Bumfuck, Nowhere, and there's someone there for you?"
"No," Jesse says smoothly, like he was actually telling the truth despite what he had just been asking. "I don't think so. Just…"
"Come on, what's her name?"
"It's no one," Jesse says. "Just a girl at my school. I've never really talked to her…"
I hang up the phone. More like I slam down the phone in rage, but then I realize that I probably don't want Jesse to know that I was listening to that, so I smoothly and quietly slip out of his house and then run the rest of the way back to mine.
Fuck Jesse Jones. I promised him I'd bring him back to So-Cal with me, and he actually looked happy about it, but now I wonder if he really wants to go back at all, when he just found love for the first time in one of the fugly tubs of fat we have for girls in this town. I think Jesse was wrong. I think that once you're in Bethlehem, Kansas, you can never leave Bethlehem, Kansas, no matter how much you want to.
For a moment there, I was wondering if Jesse was talking about me. I thought, I'm the only one he really knows in this town, other than Frankie. If he's gonna like anyone, it's gonna be me because I'm the only one who's nice to him. But then he pays me back by calling me "hardly a friend," and then he goes on about a girl who he's never talked to before at school.
I guess everyone's wrong. I guess he's not a queer, which is funny because I was finally starting to think he was. Suddenly I regret hanging up that phone, because I'd really like to know who he's so in love with so I can poison her drink or something.
When I get home, I find my house empty, too. My parents also go to church. I go into my room—I'm still hung over and six hours of sleep is not enough—but before I crawl into bed, I walk over to the old vent of the air conditioning that doesn't even work anymore and pull the covering off, reaching in and extracting my wad of cash. My life savings.
One thousand, seven hundred, and thirty-two dollars. I figure once I get up to twenty-five hundred, maybe three thousand, I'll have enough to at least start a life in a city somewhere—a real big city, where people will hire me because they don't care whether I stay or go.
I figure, maybe since I'm not gonna take Jesse with me after all, I won't go to L.A. Maybe I'll go to Chicago, since it's infinitely closer anyway. I'll get a job and some inner city apartment with shitty carpet and gross stains that I don't even want to know where they came from, and the toilet will always back up and the stove won't work, but that's okay because it won't be Bethlehem, Kansas, and I'll be able to get on with my life.
Without Jesse Jones.
I put my wad o' cash back into the vent and replace the covering, making sure it's secure, before kicking off my Soviet boots and climbing into bed.
God, I wonder who Jesse likes so much. I was beginning to think the kid couldn't even feel love.
Jesse and Frankie come over to my house with me after school on Monday and I pull out my stash of weed from behind the vent covering, next to my cash. That's where I keep everything important, in that vent.
Frankie and Jesse both chip in their parts for the weed, and when Jesse hands me his I make sure to let my hands slide suggestively across his. It's funny. I'm not mad at him anymore and I can't quite remember why exactly I was in the first place. Jesse is just Jesse and you can't hate him, unless you're one of those people who kick puppies and shake babies—which is actually everyone in this town but me because I'm the only one who likes Jesse.
Anyway, I figure if the only reason little Jess likes me is because I get his weed for him, then by all means, I'm gonna keep getting his god-fucking-danged weed for him. Maybe one day I'll reward him with so much weed, he'll just fall in love with me instead.
In fact, I reckon I might as well be a good friend to him and try to figure out who he's so in love with. I won't poison her—I'll do my best to set them up (since I've got good sway with pretty much everyone at our school anyway). It's the least I can do for someone like Jesse.
When I brush my hand against his, he doesn't react. No blush, no squirm, no nothing. But that's Jesse for you.
The thing about Jesse Jones is that you never quite know what Jesse Jones is thinking.
I got this weed on Friday from a kid in front of McKinley High School. That kid, I don't know his name, but I think he grows it himself, and it's pretty sad stuff, but at least it's cheap, except for the fact that you have to smoke a ton to get the same high as normal stuff. I bet that stupid kid probably laces it with crushed up pine needles, but whatever.
We walk out into the Tompson's cornfield and light up. I smoke a joint and a half—Jesse shares half of his with me and keeps a whole one for himself, and he tries to smoke another one (one thing I've learned about Jesse Jones is he's a total kron kid), but he gives up halfway through and puts it out. Frankie smokes one, I think, but Frankie hasn't got much tolerance.
Anyway, though, it takes that much before we start to get a decent high. Like I said, the stuff totally sucks nose-balls.
Jesse and I lay down, side-by-side, between two rows of stalks, and Frankie curls into a little ball at our feet, kicking us occasionally and muttering about faggots. Jesse closes his eyes.
"Don't go to sleep yet," I warn him, lazily lifting my arm and poking him. He groans and his lips curl up slightly—but it's not what I consider a smile. He grins and giggles when he's high, but it's not real, you can tell.
"God, this dirt is so soft," Jesse comments, running his fingers through the dirt. His fingernails are always dirty because he does stuff like this, even when he's not high. The only difference is, when he's not high, he doesn't comment about what he's doing.
I shrug as much as I can motivate my muscles to, and then fall back, resting the back of my right hand on my forehead as I stare up at the blue sky and the cornhusks. Everything's all blurred in that marijuana way, but it's still pretty.
"I saw stupid Caitlin Jenkins today," I say. I've been meaning to tell Frankie that for a while.
Not that I don't see stupid Caitlin Jenkins every day, but today was particularly special.
"Ha, Caitlin Jenkins," Frankie mutters. I look down over my toes at as much as I can see of his rounded back.
"I think she wants to go out with me," I say. I should say, "again," because I actually went out with her before. But that was, like, for a week in our freshman year and not a day goes by that I don't regret it.
"Why?" Jesse asks, and for a second I think that it's a personal attack on me. But then I remember it's Jesse talking and I try not to be too offended about it.
"She told me that I'm out of luck because she's going out with Michael Brakeman now. Like I'm, like, in love with her or something and would be jealous," I say. I'm starting to slur my words because my tongue doesn't want to move anymore.
"Which one's Caitlin Jenkins?" Jesse asks.
Me and Frankie, we both turn to look at him. It's funny, hearing somebody ask who somebody is. It's hard to remember that Jesse's only been here awhile and still doesn't know everybody yet, because everybody else knows everybody.
"You know, Caitlin Jenkins," Frankie says helpfully.
"Syphilis Girl," I add, and then laugh because I'm still in awe of my own genius for thinking up that name for her. Because, seriously, it's an apt description.
See, Caitlin Jenkins is like one of those people who are just so perfect on the outside but evil whores on the inside. Caitlin Jenkins is sweet and charming and the minister, Carl Stevenson, is in love with her even though I think she's way too prudish to ever suck him off. But then deep down she's a controlling bitch that wants everything her way and will scorn you like you raped her with your foot if you try to disagree with her.
"Oh, I know who you're talking about," Jesse says, but it sounds so contrived I know he doesn't know who we're talking about.
"She thinks you're still in love with her," Frankie says, ignoring Jesse.
I kick him and my foot practically sinks into his rolls of fat, and suddenly I think of actually foot-raping Caitlin Jenkins and I almost go into shock. But I manage to contain it and say instead, "You say that like I ever was in love with her."
Oh, god, I could just imagine the fungi infestations I would have after foot-raping Syphilis Girl. I bet my foot would turn lumpy yellow and spout pus like the volcanoes on Io spout lava.
"Shut up, you were," Frankie says, and I kick him again, managing to make it through the fat so that he huffs deeply like I knocked the breath out of him.
I was never in love with Caitlin Jenkins. We hooked up once when I was young and innocent, for about a week in our freshman year. That week was my last week of being innocent, I'll tell you that. I'm surprised I haven't got syphilis now from her, even though I never even kissed her.
"Was not," I say. Frankie thinks I was in love with her because she was the only girl I ever asked out, rather than the other way around. Well, she was the only one besides Lynnie Pinkleton, but that's a whole 'nother story.
"Man, I don't get you," Frankie says. "Girls are throwing themselves at you and you never get serious with any of them."
"It's more complicated than that," I say. It is more complicated than that.
"'Cause girls are attracted to looks," little Jess interjects, rolling over slightly and digging his fingers into the dirt. "That's why everyone likes Nate and nobody likes Frankie."
"What the fuck's that supposed to mean, you faggot?" Frankie growls, pushing himself halfway up but losing his balance and toppling over. You can see the shock rippling through his fat. I'm reminded briefly of a whale being dropped from a crane.
Okay, so I'm being harsh. Frankie isn't that fat. It's just…he looks fatter than he is. You know how some people are just like that. Frankie looks fatter than he is. Jesse looks smaller than he is. I look taller than I am.
Syphilis Girl looks more infected than she is. I think it's her teeth that do it—she has giant front teeth and huge gums, and when she laughs, she laughs deep from her throat like she's specifically trying to get you with the worst-smelling breath she can. Her nose is long, and her blond hair is all frizzy, and she's freakishly skinny—so skinny that if you just saw her upper body, you'd think she's some anorexic boy or something. And when she breathes, she breathes from her mouth and practically groans as she does, and you look at her doing all this and you just wonder how many STDs she's got.
But, she's such a prude I bet she's a virgin.
Frankie says I hate her because I'm bitter because she broke up with me, but Frankie doesn't know anything. For one thing, I was the one who broke up with her. And…I'm not bitter, I just hate her and I can't remember what I ever thought was neat about her.
But none of that. Syphilis Girl is just a constant in my life that I have to learn to deal with. Until I get out of Bethlehem, that is.
I turn to Jesse and grin. "You think I'm good-looking?"
"Faggot," Frankie grumbles again, but Jesse doesn't even react.
"Better than anyone else I've met here so far," he mutters.
"But not as good as the California surfer boys you've got in L.A.," I say.
"What about Willy?" Frankie mutters.
"Yeah," I say. "What about Willy?"
"The jock kid?" Jesse asks. "He's dumb-looking."
"C'mon," I say, poking his shoulder and giggling. "You'd knock Willy. I'd knock Willy."
"I'm not like that," Jesse says and I pause because it's the first time I've ever heard him say it.
He's been called a faggot since the first day he came here, but before he would always just shrug and ignore everyone. That's why I guessed maybe it was true. But now he's said it isn't.
Well, I knew that from his phone conversation with Tony anyways.
"Sorry," I say and look at the sky. It's too blue for a winter sky, and sometimes I wish that you could see the stars in the daytime, because at night it just gets too dark and cold.
Svyatoslav, the Russian grocer, slides me a warm Dr. Pepper and then tosses a straw my way—I grab it and frown.
"You have any ice?" I ask.
"Ice is for pussies," Svyatoslav says in his thick Russian accent. "Real men take da heat."
I shrug and stick the straw into the Dr. Pepper, noting how much better this stuff tastes when it's cold. "That sounded vaguely sexual, Svyatoslav."
"Vhen you are your age, everything sounds sexual," Svyatoslav tells me, pounds his chest in a forceful gesture that somehow reminds me of an ape trying to intimidate its monkeyish brethren, and then grabs a handkerchief and begins wiping off the counter where he spilled some soda.
"Hmm, you're probably right," I agree absently, sipping.
Svyatoslav's grocery store is pretty reminiscent of those old fifties-style diners (probably due to the fact that this was built around that time), with a bar that doubles as a register, and everything is painted red. Between the bar and the front door, though, is where the aisles of groceries are—five aisles in all. That's right, there's one grocery store in town and it only has five aisles.
Well, Svyatoslav is pretty sneaky and manages to get a lot of stuff crammed into those five aisles. And for the more taboo items, you just go and ask him and he'll either pull it out from under the counter or from the back room, unless he doesn't like you, and then he'll tell you he doesn't carry it. I've only noticed one thing he actually doesn't carry, and that's dildos.
"Dildos are vomen's toys," Svyatoslav said. "I serve men here, I sell manly items here."
"Of course I'm right," Svyatoslav says, pounding his chest. "Svyatoslav knows everything."
I shrug and sigh, and then lean forward and rest my elbows on the bar.
"Vhat did you come here for, Nate?" Svyatoslav asks. I shrug again.
"I was just curious," I say.
"Curious?" Svyatoslav repeats.
"Svyatoslav," I say slowly, serious but refusing to make eye contact—out of embarrassment probably. "Have you ever been in love?"
"Never!" Svyatoslav barks and grins, showing his long, coffee-stained teeth. "Love is for pussies. Real men are not such fools to fall in love!"
"Huh," I grunt.
"You have girl you like, Nate?" Svyatoslav asks. "You have girl you vant to fack?"
"Well," I start, but the soft jingle of a bell interrupts me, and we both turn toward the entrance just in time to see Thomas Crisler scurry inside and scamper behind one of the aisle shelves like a rat.
"Ah, da vermin comes," Svyatoslav mutters and throws his rag angrily down on the counter. "Vhat do you vant, you sneaky little fellow?" he bellows into the store, and Thomas Crisler's head pops out above the furthermost aisle.
"Just looking," Crisler squeaks and ducks back down again.
"You new to dis town, you come greet me before you shop at my place!" Svyatoslav growls, his deep voice pitching even lower. You can hear Crisler squeak again before he zooms out of the aisle and approaches the bar. He lifts an eyebrow at me before turning to Svyatoslav and cowering noticeably.
"Right, nice to meet you, sir," Crisler rambles, holding a shaky hand out to Svyatoslav. Svyatoslav eyes it warily and disgustedly, like Crisler were offering his ding-a-ling instead of a handshake.
"I don't dink so," Svyatoslav says, sticking his long Russian nose in the air.
"Ehm—yeah," Crisler stutters, his voice jumping pitches rapidly, from high to low, so he sounds like a boy hitting puberty. He puts his hand down awkwardly at his side. "Um, Thomas Crisler's the name. I—ah—I just moved into the old Wilkinson's place and—ah—heard about that miracle."
Jesse may have been right. Crisler certainly doesn't act like a CIA agent. But he is really interested in this "miracle."
"Vhat do you vant from me?" Svyatoslav asks, his imposing Russian growl still in his voice. "I am no miracle vorker. Do you dink dat if I could do miracles, I vould be here in dis facking little store? No, no I vould not be here so I do not know vhat you vant."
"Ah, er—ah—well," his eyes flicker to me before returning to Svyatoslav, "do you think we could—ah—talk in private?"
Svyatoslav's eyes flicker to me too. "Dere is only vun room," he says with an open-armed shrug.
He's lying. There's a back room to this store and everybody knows it, probably even Crisler. But he wouldn't take anybody back there—not even me, and especially not Crisler.
"Well, I—ah—I need to talk to you in private," Crisler says.
"And vhat is da boy supposed to do, huh?" Svyatoslav asks hostilely. "I give him cola, he get to drink cola here if he vant. I am no bad seller, I always make sure customer are happy."
Funny, because I'm not actually buying this Dr. Pepper. Svyatoslav just randomly offered it to me. "Nate," he had said, "You vant da Mister Pepper?"
"Right, ah," Crisler says, and his eyes turned pleadingly to me, but I have no intention of doing what he wants so I just smile stupidly back at him, "then maybe we could talk in the—ah—maybe in the bathroom or something."
"Man, ve Russians have a vord for dis kind of ding," Svyatoslav says contemplatively, scratching his chin and shaking his head back and forth. "I not so sure how you Americans pronounce it, but it is—very gay."
I snort and try to bury my face into my hands so it's not totally obvious I'm laughing, but I also want to see Crisler's reaction so I just bite back the laughs and look. Crisler's completely red, and he stuffs his hands into his coat pockets nervously as he stares at the ground.
Svyatoslav winks at me before turning back to Crisler.
"Then—ah—then, can you, can you?" he stutters, turning to me.
I shrug and say, "I'm not doing nothing for no CI—ientist."
Fuck.
"I'm not a scientist," Crisler speaks, but his eyes have narrowed. "I'm—ah—a—ah—I'm a priest."
"You talk like a donkey, priest!" Svyatoslav roars.
"I just—just need to talk to you, sir," Crisler squeaks.
"No, I have no vord vit a man who cannot talk like a man," Svyatoslav says, looking away and holding his hand up between them, reminding me of the whole "talk to the hand" deal all the girls would pull in elementary school. "You leave my store, you silly man. I not do business vit da likes of you!"
"Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" Crisler squawks, bowing his head and scrambling backwards, through the aisle, toward the door. Svyatoslav lets out a huff and turns around with his rag to clean the soda machine, but I watch Crisler go.
Just before he leaves the store, as he pauses in the doorway, he swings around and suddenly his demeanor is totally different. He stands up straight, and the paleness and the shakiness gives way to a confident, tough demeanor.
He looks me straight in the eye and gives me the wickedest grin I've ever seen before, and then he turns and goes, scurrying along the dirt path like the nervous little man he pretends to be.
Christ. I'm totally screwed. He is from the CIA and I'm going to end up dead with a bullet through my brain in the back of a warehouse because I took that satellite.
First off, I gotta think of a good place to hide that thing because I'm pretty sure that after my little slip, my house is probably next on Crisler's list of places to search. And, after that, maybe I'll put my plan forward, head out with fifteen hundred dollars instead of twenty-five, and shack up somewhere in Chicago.
I just hope Jesse Jones is up for it.
TBC.