Choosing Happy

Chapter One

Sugar, butter, flour, oh my. I feel like a goddamn munchkin doing the same thing day in and day out. I love my little corner on SW 3rd and Washington but the solitary lifestyle is starting to get to me. Not having anyone else to think about gives me too much fucking time to think about myself and all the mistakes I've made. All the people I've hurt. And all that I'll never have again.

"Toppings?" I ask for the two-hundredth time since I unlocked the door this morning.

"What do you have?" The teenybopper at my window has pink headphones hanging half off her head, a phone in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. I don't know how the hell she's gonna carry a waffle plate too but that's her problem. Not mine. I've got enough of my own to not take on others.

"Sign on the left has everything." I nod toward the very prominent sign with big black and white letters that clearly lists all the toppings I offer. "Whipped cream and powdered sugar are the most popular."

"Do you have anything healthy?"

She's at a fucking waffle stand and she's looking for something healthy.

"Bananas, raspberries, strawberries or applesauce." The line is getting longer and I can see the dirty glances shooting her way.

"I'll just have whipped cream and... chocolate sprinkles."

Of course she will.

"Sure thing. It'll be a few minutes." I take her money then turn to the irons to pull out two almost burnt cakes. They've been beeping since she started digging through her oversized, overpriced bag for her wallet.

Another day. Another dollar. Another nameless hookup or night of bad reality TV. There's no place like home.

It's just after six and I'm ready to close up but I haven't seen little duck yet so I organize my shelves one more time and wait for my daily dose of heaven. Little duck isn't actually his name, of course, but since I've only spoken to him once, I don't know what his name is.

And, like clockwork, there he is in a black cashmere sweater and black skinny slacks. His shoulder length hair is so blond it's almost white and fine enough that I can imagine it tickling me if it brushed against my skin. He would be a perfect vision if it wasn't for the uptight prick he's always walking just a stride behind.

They pass by every weeknight at exactly six ten. Never earlier. Never later. Always the same. If I had to guess, the prick is probably some type A business man that is so regimented, his boy spends a lot of time waiting around for him.

The only time my little duck has ever come to my window was about a month ago. It was three in the afternoon on a Saturday and he was alone, wearing an Oregon Ducks t-shirt. I've never seen him in casual clothes before or since, and his carefree smile made an impression.

He's maybe twenty-three or twenty-four. Only a few years younger than me but I feel like an old man when I look at his porcelain skin and angelic blue eyes. I've spent more than a few nights picturing those eyes staring up at me from between my thighs.

But that'll never happen. He's very obviously taken, and the only signs I've seen that he wants for anything is that deep whiff he takes of the sugar laced air every time he passes my window. I don't know why they don't stop more often if the kid wants a damn waffle but it's not my business.

So, like a ship in the night, my little duck passes by, inhaling deeply as he goes. My ego tries to convince me he's added a glance my way but I know I'm projecting. I want him to look at me and see beyond my tattoos and practically shaved head. To see beyond the scars and the flaws, both physical and emotional. The remnants of my time on the streets when I would pick a fight if someone looked at me sideways. It took me a while to figure out it wasn't worth it.

These days, I mind my business, literally and figuratively, and don't get involved in other peoples' problems. Last time I tried to help out a friend, it almost destroyed the best thing that ever happened to him.

Zach, my ex-turned-good-friend, wanted to do something special for his boyfriend. He mentioned a video of a group scene that his boyfriend liked and I coerced them into a three-way that neither of them were ready for. I'm not sure Zach will ever forgive me even though they managed to move past it.

So I wait to see little duck every day, and now that I have, I can lock up. Rachel is opening in the morning so I send a text to my buddy and tattoo artist, Allen, to see about getting together.

You going to Ray's tonight?

Nah. Phil doesn't like to go out.

I get it. Still good for Saturday?

Yeah. I'll be by at three thirty.

Allen is supposed to do a cover up job for me. He's one of the best body artists I've met and the only one I'll let stick me these days. Used to be a time I'd look for the cheapest guy I could find. Now I want to know that whatever I'm permanently adding to my body is something I'll want to look at for the next fifty years.

The Waffle Haus logo that'll hide the dagger I got when I was fifteen will likely be my last tat for a while. I'm tired of the judgment. I've got plans to expand my business beyond a street cart and having to partner with respectable businessmen to be taken seriously is starting to wear thin. Not to mention, I pretty well burned the last bridge I had to a respectable businessman last spring so that's not gonna work anyway.