Midnight Brunch by Marta Acosta

Author:Marta Acosta [Acosta, Marta]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-01-21T06:00:00+00:00

I finished my drink. The wine had a very low alcohol content, because I’d had a few glasses and felt almost nothing. “I’ve got to take off,” I said, picking up my bag of groceries. I didn’t want the meat to go too long without refrigeration. “I’m expecting a call from my boyfriend.”

“It’s time for me to get home, too,” he said.

He stood up and we walked out of the bar and directly into an argument. Technically, it wasn’t an argument because one belligerent, hairy, large man was shouting and cursing at some poor old skinny drunk, who wavered on his feet. It was an extended rant with phrases repeated over and over with a Mamet-like rhythm and intensity. This La Basura Sasquatch made me yearn to curse, too, except that every time I did, I pictured my abuelita shaking her head in shame. Then the large, angry man looked at Bernie and stopped shouting. “Uh, evening, Mr. Vines,” he said politely.

“Get outta here, Joe,” Bernie said. The man went into the bar, and the drunk crumpled to the ground. “Joe was one of my students,” Bernie explained as we watched the drunk crawl on the sidewalk. “I didn’t mind his bad temper, but he couldn’t punctuate worth a damn. Since his abduction, all he does is rant.”

“Abduction?”

“Joe went missing for three days. Came back dumber than ever. Give me a hand with this guy, will you?” Bernie went to the drunk and took one arm.

I steadied myself for the shock of gory visions, but when I took the drunk’s arm…nothing. Nothing. Maybe I had overcome the nasty, cannibalistic condition. My joy was so great that I laughed out loud.

But before I had time to linger on this feeling, the drunk turned toward me. I was stunned. This shriveled old man was Thomas Cook. His copper skin, stretched tightly on high cheekbones, had a gray hue. There were dark hollows under his eyes, his clothes hung from his large, gaunt frame, and his straight black hair was greasy.

“Well, if it isn’t Thomas Cook,” Bernie said.

“Hey, baby,” Thomas mumbled with an attempt at a leer.

It was a magical moment, the man of a million fantasies flirting with me. Of course, the fact that he was blind drunk and began retching immediately afterward somewhat tarnished the effect.

When Cook had emptied his guts and I’d nearly lost my dinner, Bernie handed him a crumpled tissue from his pocket.

“Wipe your mouth, Cook. Where’re you staying?”

“Spa,” Thomas said.

Bernie looked at me. “Can you give him a ride back?”

“Actually, one of the drivers dropped me off in town so I could pick up some groceries.”

If Bernie thought this was strange, and he did, he didn’t say. “You can drive his car.” Bernie shook Thomas’s shoulder. “Cook, where’s your car?”

The actor muttered something about PCH and a party and the police and “I was set up.”

Bernie frowned and said, “I’ll take him back. You coming?”

“Sure. I call shotgun.”

We hauled Thomas into the backseat of a beat-up brown car, rolling down the window so he could hang his head out like a dog.

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