Читать книгу Escape from Coolville - Sherman Sutherland - Страница 6

I had today all perfectly planned out.

I got up two hours early so I could drive the forty-five minutes to Parkersburg (which was more like an hour because of the construction) and find the only Tim Hortons in the whole entire town, I think (which was on the complete other side of town, too, by the way) and then drive the thirty minutes back to Coolville (which was more like forty-five, because of that same construction) and to wonderful Appalachia TeleServices, just so I could hang out in the break room with my Tim Hortons Iced Cappuccino (Chocolate Brownie Supreme, I think the flavor was called) and wait for the hot girl who sits next to me to come in and see my Tim Horton’s cup there and say, “Tim Hortons! I love Tim Hortons!”

And then I’d pretend like I didn’t hear her say that to another chick in our training class yesterday, and I’d play it all cool and say, “Really? Yeah, me too.”

And then she’d be like, “Wow, we have so much in common.”

So I figured the Tim Hortons would finally give me the opening to say, “Would you like to sit down?”

And then, as she was sitting, I’d hold out my hand and say, all debonair like, “My name’s L.J. by the way.”

She’d shake my hand real gentle and her hand would be all soft and she’d say, “I’m ______” whatever her name is.

And I’d be like, “Ah, I’ve always loved that name,” or maybe, “Oh, that’s such a nice name,” or, if I was feeling really confident from the caffeine, something like, “Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful young woman.”

And then maybe she’d giggle and blush or something.

I also had a backup plan in case she was already there when I got there: I’d go into the break room and she’d be sitting there reading whatever book she’d be reading and I’d drop my drink on the table, loud enough that she’d look up—but not so loud that it’d be annoying—and she’d say, “You went to Tim Hortons? I love Tim Hortons!” etc.

But because the road construction sucked so bad, and because Tim Hortons took me forever to find because Google Maps hates me, and because it took me about twenty minutes to order once I got there because there were about eighteen million cars ahead of me and I didn’t know what the hell I was ordering besides, by the time I got to work, it was already nine o’clock (8:58:36 on the time clock when I swiped my badge) and I had to throw away what was left of my stupid iced cappuccino since we can’t take drinks into the training room unless they have an ATS-approved spill-proof lid, which the Tim Hortons Iced Cappuccino definitely does not have, with its ginormous hole in the top.

So that didn’t work.

It was probably just as well, though, because it occurs to me now that I wouldn’t have known what to say when she asked me why I was in Parkersburg because, as far as I know, the only reason to go to Parkersburg is to go to the strip clubs and they’re probably not open at eight in the morning and, even if they were, I don’t think I’d want to tell her that’s why I drove all the way to Parkersburg before work, so, yeah. . . .

* * *

After work, I got stuck giving a ride to the barefoot guy from our training class. I thought he just wanted a ride home, but he had me stop by Bobcat Pawn Shop on the way.

As soon as I parked, he said, “I need you to go in before me and ask to look at the guns.”

“What?”

“Just check out the handguns. I’ll be in right behind you.”

It all seemed kind of sketchy, but he promised he wouldn’t rob them or anything, so I didn’t really have a reason not to.

I don’t know crap about guns. The guy behind the counter was like, “You looking for a twenty-two? A forty-five? Nine-millimeter?”

“Nine-millimeter, I guess.”

“Nines are down here. Are there any you want to take a closer look at?”

“How about that one?”

“This is a Springfield XD. It’s factory ported. I don’t know why. There’s not much recoil in a nine-millimeter to begin with. The porting won’t do much more than increase the report.”

That’s pretty much all I remember. I had no idea what he was talking about and I’m pretty sure he could tell. Now I know the difference between a semi-automatic and a revolver, but that’s about it.

When I get back out to my car, the barefoot guy is dialing a number on what looked like the most humongous cell phone I’d ever seen in my life. It turns out that it was one of the cordless landlines from inside the pawn shop.

I said, “I thought you said you weren’t going to rob them.”

“I didn’t. To rob them, I’d have to go in there with a gun and say, ‘Give me your money!’ All I did was grabbed this phone off the counter. And I’m not keeping it, anyway. I’m just making a call.”

Apparently, the number he called was some weather service in Australia. The reason he called it was because he went to that pawn shop a couple weeks ago to sell an engagement ring. They told him they needed to keep the ring overnight and have somebody look at it the next day and, when he went back, they told him the ring was only worth two hundred dollars and when he wanted his ring back, he says they gave him a completely different ring and kicked him out of the store when he complained.

I asked him if he called the police. Did he file a police report? Did he call a lawyer? Calling some long-distance number and hiding their phone under their dumpster won’t help anything.

“It’ll help them,” he said.

“What? How? Why?”

“I’m a karmic rejuvenation therapist—a karmic enforcer—whatever you want to call it. I help people improve their karma.”

“Karma Police?” I asked. He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Radiohead? OK Computer?” Still nothing. “Seriously?” I said. “If you’ve never heard that song, where’d you get the idea? My Name is Earl reruns in Bizarro World?”

“I don’t know what that is. I’ve employed these same techniques for hundreds of years, over many lifetimes.”

“You’ve been making long-distance calls on people’s phones for hundreds of years?”

“Providing karmic adjustments,” he said. “It’s different today—we don’t have the same student-master relationships—so I’ve had to adapt. I help more people this way, but the help I provide isn’t as significant.”

I was like, “All you’re doing is getting revenge on people who piss you off.”

“It probably seems like that to the untrained eye. It’s not revenge, though. It’s a service. I provide them with unsolicited spiritual renovation.”

“You should put that on business cards.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I still don’t know if he was messing with me, or if he really believes what he was saying. He seemed pretty excited about the whole phone thing, though, until I told him the pawn shop would just call the phone company and dispute the charges.

“Some people make it hard for me to help them,” he said.

So, yeah, he’s a freak.

He gave me ten bucks for gas, though, so I’ll probably give him a ride again if he needs it.