“Your moms? What were you, raised by nuns?”
He shoved two strands in his mouth like a pouty-lipped walrus. “Lesbians, actually. But that was a creative guess. I’ve never gotten that one before.”
I could have imagined my mother (see: drama queen) in this situation, collapsed on the ground after fainting from such a terrible blow. “Well, my mom is religious. Like, super religious. I think even God is embarrassed by how religious she is.”
“She sounds lovely. We should get our families together for dinner sometime.”
“I’m not trying for Clash of the Titans: Flashburn Edition.”
He laughed, and it didn’t annoy me, mainly because it wasn’t overtly showy or desperate to impress. He laughed softly and manically at the same time, which was so appealing and foolish and cool that it almost made up for the T-shirt incident at the pharmacy.
Another customer came by and received the news of the ice cream machine’s demise in a far more graceful manner than that of the motor scooter woman. He even wished us luck in fixing the problem, which I personally thought was overkill. Like, you ain’t gettin’ ice cream, dude. No need to plaster your lips to my ass.
“I bet that guy is a serial killer,” I said after he left.
“Why? The creeper van?” Snake asked, licking a Popsicle he was probably supposed to pay for.
“That, and nobody is that nice when they don’t get what they want. He was just trying to balance his karma.”
“I bet he’s a cannibal.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t mind not eating ice cream. What’s up with that? It’s inhuman, I tell you.”
“Ice cream is one of the few things in life that don’t royally suck.”
“It’s a better antidepressant than Prozac, that’s for damn sure.” He swallowed the last bite of Popsicle, his entire mouth dripping purple. “Do you ever wish that you could stop therapy and pills and just, I don’t know, do trivial and pointless things for purposeless reasons with other humans who are as weak and hopeless as you, and for even the slightest instant in time forget how vain it all is and just let yourself enjoy it?”
“You just described friendship. And no, I don’t really wish anymore.”
“Side effect of Zoloft?”
“Side effect of depression.”
He seemed to understand, and it made me feel oddly at ease. Talking to him was cathartic for me, somehow. I wanted to go so far as to tell him that I hated Oinky’s and my old co-worker was obnoxious and our hideous shirts made me want to beat myself to death with one of Peyton’s wrenches, but it was still too early to put it all on display.
Minutes passed in silence. He had this tacky silver ring on his finger that he twisted as we waited for the next adventure in the ice cream–less ice cream parlor saga. After a span of inactivity, he studied my face as if he were searching for a pimple.
I kicked his chair. “Is there a frickin’ car wreck on my face? What are you staring at?”
“You have a birthmark above your eyebrow,” he said, still scrutinizing me.
“Groundbreaking information. Let’s alert CNN.”
“I’ve just never seen someone with a birthmark on their face. It’s weird.”
“You’re weird. And your tattoo looks like you drew it on with a dried-up Sharpie.”
“I wasn’t insulting your birthmark, just pointing out its uniqueness.” He opened the register and tossed a dollar in for the Popsicle he stole. “Some people are so touchy.”
“I’m not touchy. I just don’t give a damn what you think.”
He grinned, his lips and teeth bleeding purple. “I’m starting to believe you don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”
“I don’t.”
“You know, Zoloft is a cure for depression. Not personality.”
“Stellar insight,” I mumbled. “I’ll mull it over while I’m discarding all of your opinions.”
I pulled out my phone and brought up my gaming app, hoping it would signal him to shut up. Shooting a pixel creature from a slingshot was more entertaining than anything he could possibly add to a conversation about cannibals and birthmarks. Peyton came back minutes later and tinkered around with the machine. She even had a product manual this time, which would have been great if it wasn’t in Chinese.
Time dragged on, and Peyton eventually hopped in her Jeep and sped home. Of course, that was after she drowned in aggravated tears, badgered with guilt at her utter failure to save the ice cream. Basically, she had a total meltdown (see: best pun ever).
Snake and I were left alone to close shop, which meant wiping down untouched counters with cleaning solution, buffing machines that were going to be used the very next day, and cleaning windows that children were going to smear with their grimy fingerprints within the following twenty-four hours. While I was washing the sink, Snake appeared behind me with a cone of vanilla ice cream.
“Who knew I could read Chinese?” he said, tilting the cone toward me. “Take a lick.”
“You fixed the machine?” I looked at the gray heap of metal. The top was firmly shut, the levers, bolts, and coils bound in place.
“It wasn’t broken. I tightened two bolts, and voilà.” He held the cone in his hand like it was a trophy of his not-so-grand accomplishment. “You want it?”
I reached out and he snatched his hand away, my fingers crumpling into his chest. If I had just tucked my thumb a bit, it would have been a full-on punch. Curse my reflexes.
“I would like to make a deal,” he said, hanging his head toward me.
“Does it involve me physically assaulting you with either the ice cream or the cone? Because we’re heading in that direction.”
“Cage the rage, my friend. I would like to offer you this delectable, carved by the gods, explosion for the senses, if you would hang out with the one and only me tomorrow night.”
“You want me to go on a date with you? And you’re paying for the pleasure of my company in ice cream?”
“This is called hitting rock bottom. A concept not unfamiliar to either of us.”
“I’m rock bottom?” I awwed sweetly, touching the spot above my heart. “That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I came up with that gem while you were discarding my opinions. Yes or no?”
I tapped my chin. “Tomorrow night? Nope. Sorry. I’ll be busy doing nothing and hating it.”
“Well, there’s your problem.” He smiled. “You’re supposed to do that on Saturday. Did you not read The Guide to Successful Depressive Behavior? There are pie charts and everything.”
“Must have forgotten to pick that one up.”