Page 108 of I Am the Messenger

Not long after I return the cab to base, Audrey pulls into the lot. She winds her window down to talk to me.

"Sweating like crazy in here," she says.

I imagine the sweat on her and how I'd like to taste it. With blank expression, I slide down into the visual details.

"Ed?"

Her hair's greasy but great. Lovely blond, like hay. I see the three or four spots of sun thrown across her face. Again she speaks. "Ed?"

"Sorry," I say, "I was thinking of something." I look back to where the boyfriend stands, expecting her. "He's waiting for you." When I return to Audrey's face, I miss it and catch a glimpse of her fingers on the wheel. They're relaxed and coated with light. And they're lovely. Does he notice those small things? I wonder, but I don't speak it to Audrey. I only say, "Have a good night," and step back from the car.

"You, too, Ed." She drives on.

Even later, as the sun goes down and I walk into town and onto Clown Street, I see all of Audrey. I see her arms and bony legs. I see her smiling as she talks and eats with the boyfriend. I imagine him feeding her food from his fingers in her kitchen, and she eats it, allowing enough of her lips to smudge him with her beauty.

The Doorman's with me.

My faithful companion.

Along the way I buy us some hot chips with lots of salt and vinegar. It's old-style, all wrapped in the racing section of today's newspaper. The hot tip is a two-year-old mare called Bacon Rashers. I wonder how she went. The Doorman, on the other hand, cares little. He can smell the chips.

When we make it to 23 Clown Street, we discover that it's a restaurant. It's tiny, and it's called Melusso's. Italian. It's in a little shopping village and follows the small-restaurant ritual of being dimly lit. It smells good.

There's a park bench across the road and we sit there, eating the chips. My hand reaches down inside the package, through the sweaty, greasy paper. I love every minute of it. Each time I throw the Doorman a chip, he lets it hit the ground, leans over it, and licks it up. He turns nothing down, this dog. I don't think he cares too much about his cholesterol.

Nothing tonight.

Or the next.

In fact, time is wasting away.

It's a tradition now. Clown Street. Chips. The Doorman and me.

The owner is old and dignified, and I'm quite sure it isn't him I'm here to see. I can tell. Something's coming.

On Friday night, after standing outside the restaurant and going home after closing, I find Audrey sitting on my porch, waiting. She's wearing board shorts and a light shirt without a bra. She isn't big up there, Audrey, but she's nice. I stop for a moment, hesitate, and continue. The Doorman loves her and throws himself into a trot.

"Hey, Doorman," she says. She crouches down warmly to greet him. They're good friends, those two. "Hi, Ed."

"Hi, Audrey."

I open the door and she follows me in.

We sit.

In the kitchen.

"So where were you this time?" she asks. It's almost laughable because usually that question is asked with contempt to unreliable-bastard husbands.

"Clown Street," I answer.

"Clown Street?"

I nod. "Some restaurant there."

"There's actually a street called Clown Street?"

"I know."