Risk

The Fight

George was sitting on the couch. He hadn’t yet had a shower, and he was sweaty, tired, and dirty. Spread out around him were his old university textbooks, which he was flipping through absent-mindedly. Remembering all the theorems, diagrams, structural stratagems, design styles, columnar motifs and line and space complements that he had had to draw up and memorize and delineate in the multi-thousand word essays. At the time, it had all seemed worthwhile. Was a dream come true. Something he’d planned since he was in tenth grade art class with Mrs. Dewicki. Now what did he have to show for it? Fuck all.

And now the job that he at least enjoyed, even if it wasn’t going anywhere, thank-you Gina, was going to hell because of that dumb ass Chet and his drug-running cronies. These were people he used to call his friends. He thought he knew them, but obviously he had misjudged them and the seeming simplicity of the job. So what was he left with? Fuck all. A job he couldn’t get, a job he could no longer do, and nothing else he really wanted.

He couldn’t take their offer. Running drugs is stupid. There’s a reason they call it being a mule. Intelligent people know that petty crime doesn’t pay. Someone down the line will tell the wrong person, who tells two friends, and so on; and eventually you find yourself handing your no-questions-asked-package to a friendly narcotics officer. Who has a few questions to ask. Not to mention that it was immoral. Being a moral person was such a burden sometimes.

He really couldn’t work with these people anymore. He knew what was going on. To remain silent made him a possible accomplice, or even worse… a liability to their little scheme. There were clearly darker forces behind all this, who wouldn’t be as easy-going as his courier buddies. Someone might not like the idea of him knowing what he knows and not going along. Someone who might show up with a package of tasty lead just for him in the dark alley of his choice some night. Not to mention the fact that it burned him immensely that they made more money than he did. Illegal or not.

But the idea of looking for another job was actually frightening. Starting from the bottom, taking a “responsible” job with future prospects was a whole lifestyle choice that he had been putting off. The easy-come, easy-go lifestyle of a bicycle courier was very simple. It had become a safe place, where he had an excuse for not being a success. The whole architecture thing didn’t work out, so now I’m stuck in this cool, go-nowhere job, poor me, lucky me. It was an identity. And change was scary.

“Hi, Georgey,” called Gina from the kitchen. “Sorry I’m late. Have you eaten?”

“No,” he said without getting up.

“Oh, good. Let’s go out. I can’t face making any… what’s wrong with you?”

He looked up from the couch. “Nothing.”

“You haven’t showered, and you have all your architecture books out. Bad day?”

“Not particularly. Just tired. You know, hump day. Busy.”

“Okay, well go clean up and we’ll go out and then have an early night. I’ll be on top tonight and you won’t have to do any work.”

“Sounds good to me.” He smiled and kissed her lips as she sat on the couch next to him.

“I’m pretty beat myself.”

He finally roused himself enough to stand. “All right, I’ll be right back.”

He had a quick shower and changed and bounced back a bit. They went to an Italian place a block away and had the special, Eggplant Primavera. Flat bread and hummus to start and two Pellegrinos on ice. They chatted away for awhile about Gina’s day and something her Mom had called her about that was happening on Sunday. It was a relief to focus on something else for awhile, but he could feel her looking at him and knowing something wasn’t right. She had a radar for these things.