The front door to Joyce’s Fast Foods finally creaked open at 11:53 am.
Behind the door Little Man’s eyes bloomed like daisies in Spring when he saw my tits, and then wilted like Valentine’s roses on the side of Adderley Street on the 15th of Feb when we made eye contact. I guess it must have been the hashish veins in my eyes (I’d smoked at Mrs Patel’s about thirty minutes previous)—either that, or he’d spotted my unshaven pits.
‘So, how are we going to play this, Little Man.?” I said, folding my arms over my chest.
‘First of all, you can stop calling me that. Take three steps forward and don’t turn around. Don’t look back. I mean it’
‘Ah. Little Man has little balls. Little teensy-weensy canned meatballs for little people. Agreed—only if Little Man agrees to crawl out from behind the door and show his face instead of the bottle blonde streak over his one eye.’ I turned around and faced the hallway of the Cape-Dutch style house converted into a fast food joint. The counter gleamed ten feet away, empty.
‘Stop. Calling. Me. That.” Little Man emerged with a squeak, the wheels of his little wheelchair burning my eardrums. The front door slammed shut and the OPEN sign smacked CLOSED against the glass panel.
‘Christ, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were paraly—’ I started.
‘No, of course you didn’t. You thought I had blades. Feeling a little … little now, Dolorez Obscure?’
Now I could feel the veins in my eyeballs bulging.
‘Whoa, man.’ Christ, Dolorez, this isn’t a movie. Say something more … interesting. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Christ on crutches climbing Mount Fuji. ‘How do you know my name?’ That’s not better, but less cliché.
‘You’ve been going to those AA meetings. Word gets around, Dolorez. I was wondering when I’d get to meet you,’ Little Man said.
‘This isn’t a movie, man. Say what you want to say.’
‘Look … who’s … talking.’ Little Man was out of breath, and his little voice started to squeal like his wheel chair wheels. His asthma inhaler hissed him back to life to life, and I swear I could feel him getting hot under the collar.
I liked Little Man.
‘Can I … who are you? Can you at least come out from behind the door so that I can see you face? You’re not the owner of that bunny chow place I ripped off a few months ago at the station, are you?’ I said.
‘No, I’m not that guy. Story has it he committed suicide after the incident,’ Little Man said. ‘Left his wife and three kids behind with a debt so big it could pay off the Greeks’. How do you like that?’
‘I fucking love it, Little Man. Good riddance. There was almost fuckall in the till.’
‘I must warn you that that would be the last time you refer to me as Little Man. I thought we had a deal.’
‘We did, but you never told me your name.’
‘That’s not important. I have a gun.’
‘Congratulations, Mr that’s-not-important. I have great tits.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Dolorez. I’m serious, I have a gun.’
‘No, you don’t. You have an inhaler. It has the complete opposite effect of a gun. It gives life.’
‘Okay, okay, fuckit. But you have to admit it looks like a gun in the shadow on the wall.’
‘Oh, right.’ I looked to my left, and over the kitsch Italian food posters that decorated—no, soiled the hallway walls, hovered the shadow of Little Man’s short-muzzled ‘gun’, kinda like the ones they sell to children in Prick&Pray’s toys aisle. Not that that’s a good thing—just an obvo.
‘Your gun’s awfully … little,’ I said, stifling a rumble of laughter.
‘Your arse is awfully tight.’
Have I mentioned that I fancied Little Man?
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Tell me what happened in medical school while we have a … sausage roll. You have five minutes.’
‘You’re on, Little Man.’
‘Okay. But no peeking. You have to face forward the whole time. And no more Little Man. I’m serious. One more Little Man comment and no sausage roll.’
‘Gotcha. But I don’t think I can tell you all about what happened in medical school in five minutes.’ I almost said ‘Little Man’ when his wheelchair-wheelied his cock up my skirt.
‘Okay. Let’s see how it goes, my little … sausage roll.’