Page 12

Diesel

Gun hanging in a loose grip at my side, I march from the motel room and through the parking lot, no particular destination in mind except that, wherever the fuck I end up, it better have a fucking pineapple. On the street corner, I stop, looking first one way, then the next. To my left is suburban desolation that reminds me of a small city in northeastern Somalia where my old unit was sent on a raid to root out some al-shabab militants. Except that the bombed-out city in Somalia looked cleaner. To my right, there’s a line of payday loan business, pawnshops, and a laundromat. There’s a well-dressed man in a suit and tie sitting on the sidewalk in front of the laundromat, with a bucket of Tide pods in his lap and a smile on his face. Every so often, he reaches into the bucket, plucks out a pod, and pops it into his open mouth. What the fuck is Boise?

“Evening,” I say as I limp by the laundromat, waving at the guy with my hand that’s carrying the gun. I’m in no mood to fuck around with the local wildlife.

“Nice night, ain’t it?” He says, his teeth a mix of blue and green, his mouth foamy with suds. “I like your gun. Wanna hang? I got plenty of snacks to share.”

He wiggles his bucket of pods in my direction.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“You’re missing out. We could shoot stuff, you and I, and maybe do a little more. All I’m saying is I’m open minded.”

“Sounds like a fun time, but my night is booked. Hey, you know where I could find some fuckin pineapple?”

“Sure as fuck do. Same place I got me my snacks. There’s a Trader Joe’s just around the corner.”

“Fucking seriously? You have a Trader Joe’s out here?”

He nods, pops another pod into his mouth, and then laughs. “Course we do. It might be a little savage in this neighborhood, but that don’t mean we don’t love some good grub. Like that orange chicken of theirs, oh boy, why that’s some prime time snackability right there.”

“Oh fuck, I love their fucking orange chicken,” I say, finding myself salivating. “I could eat a whole fucking pack in one sitting.”

“They got some new shit, too. Xiao long bao that’ll blow your mind.”

“What now? What the fuck is a xiao long bao ?”

He shakes his head at me. “You serious? They’re Chinese soup dumplings. Tasty little morsels that, you just pop them in your mouth, and bam, they erupt with this delicious little liquid. Fucking love them like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh, I’d believe it. But I’ve never heard of ‘em, either.”

“It’s the twenty-first fucking century, man. Good snacking knows no cultural boundaries. Educate yourself.”

“I’d love to. Where the fuck can I find the Trader Joe’s?”

He gestures off down the street. “Two blocks, then take a right, go three blocks more. It’s next to the burned-out building that used to be a Golden Corral.”

I wave to the man and then get walking. After following his directions, and a group of guys wearing leather vests and jean shorts and riding skateboards, who all looked like rejected extras from The Warriors , I find the Trader Joe’s. It’s still open, so I go inside. The fact that I’m armed and look like I’ve been beaten to hell and back earns me an extra-hearty ‘Welcome to Trader Joe’s’ from the guy working the front door. I nod at him, because I don’t want to be an asshole, and it feels nice to have some extra acknowledgment from someone who cares.

I make my way through the aisles, my eyes scanning for the familiar yellow of pineapple. The store's surprisingly busy for this time of night, filled with an eclectic mix of hipsters, soccer moms, and what looks like a biker gang comparing different types of organic granola.

"Fuck me," I mutter, realizing I've wandered into the frozen food section. The orange chicken catches my eye, and I'm tempted, but I shake it off. Pineapple. Focus on the fucking pineapple.

I round a corner and nearly collide with a petite woman wearing the TJ’s uniform.

"Can I help you find anything?" she chirps, her eyes widening as she takes in my appearance and the gun still dangling from my hand.

"Pineapple," I grunt. "Where's your fucking pineapple?"

She doesn't miss a beat. "Fresh, canned, or freeze-dried?"

"Fresh," I say, impressed by her composure. "And maybe some of those xiao long bao things. Do you have those?"

She nods and leads me through the store.

"Rough night?" she asks and raises an eyebrow at my bruised face.

"You could say that. This town's fucking insane."

She laughs. "Welcome to Boise. You should see it during the potato festival. Shit gets crazy. My uncle was nearly drowned in a vat of mashed potatoes because he said he prefers fingerlings over russets.” We reach the produce section, and she hands me a pineapple. "Anything else?"

“You have a pharmaceutical section?”

“Oh, dear, you won’t find the answers you’re looking for there.”

“I’m just looking to fix my busted face and patch my friend up, too. I’m not looking to get high, lady.”

She eyes me skeptically, then shrugs. "Aisle 3. But don't expect anything stronger than ibuprofen and some herbal remedies. This ain't that kind of establishment."

I nod, grabbing the pineapple and following her to Aisle 3. As we walk, I spot the xiao long bao in the freezer section. They look fucking tasty.

"Fuck it," I mutter, snagging a package. Then I grab a package of the orange chicken, because I can’t remember the last time I was in Trader Joe’s, and I don’t know when the next time will be, either, and I don’t want to die without having had orange chicken one last time. In Aisle 3, I load up on bandages, antiseptic wipes, and every pain reliever they've got. The clerk watches me, a mix of concern and amusement on her face.

"You sure you don't need a hospital?" she asks. “You look bad.”

"Nah, I'm good. This ain't my first rodeo." I pause, then add, "You got a knife I could borrow to cut this pineapple? I’ve only got this gun, and that won’t work on this pineapple unless I want to blow it to pieces, which I don’t."

“No, yeah, that gun’s no good. Even though blowing up pineapples is fun.” She hesitates, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a large folding knife. "Company policy says I shouldn't, but fuck it. You look like you need it more than I do."

I take the knife and nod in thanks. "I'll bring it back."

"Keep it," she says. "Consider it a souvenir of your Boise visit."

As I'm checking out, the biker gang from earlier approaches, their carts full of organic granola and kale chips. They eye my gun, and then my groceries.

A barrel-chested graybeard with an ‘enforcer’ patch grunts and taps the bag of dumplings in my hand. "Nice choice on the xiao long bao . We keep the freezer in the clubhouse stocked with them. They’re fucking amazing post-ride fuel. You had them before?”

I shake my head. "Thanks, man. First time trying them. They look good, though.”

"Oh, you're in for a treat," he says, his eyes lighting up. "Pro tip: steam them for exactly eight minutes. Any longer and they get mushy. Any less, and the filling doesn't heat through properly."

"Uh, thanks for the advice," I mutter, wondering how the hell I ended up getting cooking tips from a biker in a Trader Joe's at ass o'clock in the morning.

As I'm about to leave, the biker calls out to me. "Hey, brother. You look like you could use a ride. Where you headed?"

I pause, considering. These guys seem alright, and I'm fucking exhausted.

"The Sunset Motel," I say. "You know it?"

The biker nods. "Sure do. It's on our way. We’ll get you there. Come with us."

Outside, I find myself perched on the back of a Harley, my grocery bag nestled between me and the biker, his grocery bag containing kale chips, granola, organic eggs, and six cartons of oat milk on top of mine. The night air whips past us as we cruise through Boise's streets, the city's bizarre mix of suburban sprawl and urban decay blurring into a surreal landscape.

We pull up to the Sunset Motel, and I climb off, my legs wobbling a bit from the ride and the night's events.

"Thanks for the lift," I say, and hold out my hand..

He shakes it firmly. "No problem. You take care now. And enjoy those dumplings."

“I will.”

“Hey, one other thing, brother.” He pauses and looks me up and down like I might be a dumpling. “That pineapple… that wasn’t a sign, was it? You part of the lifestyle?”

“The pineapple lifestyle? Since when the fuck do people mold their lives around fruit?”

“No, it’s a swinger thing.”

“No, not interested in whatever you have in mind. Look, that’s not to say that I don’t appreciate the offer of group sex, but my group, well, we’re already a threesome, and bringing you in would just throw off the vibe. And our vibe is tense enough as it is. This pineapple here is actually all about digging myself out of a hole that I don’t even understand how the fuck I got into in the first place.”

“Got it. Been there, done that. Good luck digging with that pineapple, brother.”

I watch the bikers roar off into the night, their tail lights fading into the darkness. The weight of the grocery bag in my hand brings me back to reality. I turn towards the motel room door, my feet dragging like they're made of lead.

My hand hovers over the doorknob, and I realize I'm holding my breath. What the fuck is wrong with me? I've faced down warlords, terrorists, and corrupt government officials without breaking a sweat, but here I am, hesitating about walking into a dingy motel room with an armful of groceries.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. This is ridiculous. I'm a trained killer, for fuck's sake. I shouldn't be getting weak in the knees over some woman I barely know.

But I am.

She saved my life, tried to kill me, kneed me in the groin, and sent me eagerly scampering to find her a fucking pineapple in the middle of the worst neighborhood in Boise.

And I’ve never wanted anyone more.

The second the door swings open to reveal Samantha, she leaps to her feet and charges toward me with a look in her eyes that says that everything is about to go straight to hell.