Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
The young woman is still watching me like I’m a god stepped down from a heavenly throne when I approach. As Anthony stares me down with those undeserved gifts for eyes, I calmly tap a few buttons and switch it right back to Aerosmith, then saunter away without a word.
I barely make it three steps before the song cuts off yet again and switches to Britney Spears’ Oops!... I Did It Again.
This motherfucker.
I’m not used to jukeboxes that don’t play through their queue, able to have one song cut off for the next. I guess it’s a trick of this particularly cruel jukebox, facilitating Anthony’s childish acts of retaliation against me, becoming something of a referee in this musical boxing match between us.
I’m right back at the jukebox, pressing the buttons with as much patience as I can muster, my steely eyes burning Anthony, as I switch it yet again back to Aerosmith.
This time, he doesn’t even wait for me to go before his fingers fumble over the buttons, his lips twisted up into a mocking smirk, his blue eyes watery with madness and alcohol.
And out of the speakers comes Hit the Road Jack.
I grind my teeth as I switch to something else entirely: Three Days Grace’s I Hate Everything About You.
Anthony’s face tightens when he switches to Cry Me a River.
The buttons creak when I switch to Loser by Beck.
He scowls as he puts on You’re So Vain.
I play Go To Hell.
He plays Sorry Not Sorry.
I play Bitch.
He plays Sesame Street’s Rubber Duckie.
Then he turns to the jukebox, his swagger destroyed. “What the fuck? I didn’t—” He bangs the side of the machine with his fist, looking betrayed. When he presses buttons, it appears the jukebox has hit some song limit, because it doesn’t respond. His girlfriend next to him is busy sipping her drink, oblivious to all, dancing to the kiddy song like it’s her favorite jam.
That’s when the bartender appears next to us. “Is it you two who’re giving my jukebox dissociative personality disorder?”
I blink. An oddly brainy joke, coming from the bartender.
Before I can respond, Anthony pushes away from the jukebox. “We were jus’ headin’ out,” he states, proud of himself anyway, as if declaring himself the winner of this jukebox ping-pong match. He hooks an arm around his girlfriend, who seems surprised by the gesture and murmurs, “Oh, we are?”
Then he struts past me, knocking forcefully into my shoulder on his way by, his pretty eyes full of triumph, even with his sweaty matted hair all over the place, stumbling drunkenly every couple of steps and stinking worse than he did at the gas station.
I watch him push through the crowd, his butt swaying in his loose jeans, torn at the back pocket and showing a peek of his blue boxers, the back of his tank top bunched up at the top of his butt, his neck glossy with sweat. His girlfriend struggles to peek back over her shoulder at me, bewildered by everything, until the two of them are out the door.
“Sorry, sir,” I say calmly to the bartender as my pulse keeps thumping with rage in my ears. Ernie serenades the bar about how his rubber duckie makes bath time so much fun.
5
ANTHONY
I can’t stop laughing, throwing myself into the booth by the window as I shovel a spoon of ice cream dripping with chocolate sauce past my lips. My free hand drums on the table to the beat of a made-up song in my head, probably one of the ones I put on the jukebox back at Tumbleweeds. I’m on such a crazy high right now after showing that guy up—twice. First with a drink on his crotch. Next by besting him at a music territory war.
I played his nerves like fiddle strings.
And I hate fiddles.
But I sure love them tonight.
“He was awful handsome,” sings Juni, dancing in the aisle by the booth despite the cheap soft rock music playing here at T&S’s Sweet Shoppe, lost in her own loony world, her hair undone from however she fixed it before and flapping all over the place.
My next spoonful stops halfway to my mouth. “Who?”
“He looked like military, if I had to guess.”
“You mean Cody? You saw him with his husband? He’s a vet, married to Trey, the reverend of Spruce. You know them.”
“No, no, the other one,” she says, then suddenly drops onto the seat across from me, her dancing plug pulled, wide eyes reeling. “The guy you were playing with at the jukebox.”
“Huh?” My plastic spoon drops to the floor. “Playing with?”
“His shoulders were so broad and strong.” She sinks into the booth, nearly falling beneath the table as she hugs herself. “I think he’s military. He has such a … a masculine … a … such a strong and masculine … or like … like a masculine …”