Speechless: REWRITTEN

19. Larkspur

Mordecai

If I told you that for the past three weeks, Robin has done absolutely nothing but irritate the shit out of me, would you believe me?

Of course you would.

I will tell you this, though. There's never a dull moment in my apartment. Robin is the most lawfully evil person you can think of, and that's because he might have learned a thing or two when he was in prison. Or at least I'm hoping so.

The first thing I told him to do was get a job. I know it's not an easy feat when you're fresh out of prison with murder on your record, but doing the bare minimum of trying would make my day. He decides to do food delivery, which is counterintuitive regarding the connection of his criminal record and things that go into people's bodies, but it's money. You have to do what it takes to survive. His whole thing is that once I get off of work at six, he takes my car to do late night deliveries through a food ordering app. Okay, whatever, just don't crash my car.

He puts a scratch on it. Then he uses his paycheck to buy spray paint to spray the scratch. But he happened to buy a color that was one or two shades off from the original color, so it's noticeable as hell. But then he insisted that I was seeing things.

So that job was done. I suggested that he'd do housekeeping or yardwork. The recent snowstorm that Manhattan suffered from gave him plenty of work, but then someone made the mistake of being rude to him one day. So he decided it would be 'absolutely hilarious' to pile all of the snow from the driveway in front of both doors to the house so the people inside couldn't leave. The owners of the house had to climb out of their windows to curse him out.

Housekeeping wasn't much more successful. Once someone was willing to let a recent ex-convict into their home, he was on his way. And the problem wasn't how he did the job; he actually cleans very well, to the point that he's in charge of cleanliness of the apartment. It's his disposition that had the family running the other direction. Since we were kids, Robin has taken on this personality of a charming introvert to mask the shit that's going on in his head. It acts like a diversion in a way, and he doesn't realize how he comes off to certain people. Specifically, to unhappily married women who have read one too many erotica novels.

That wasn't what killed him. It was the gnarly Yelp review left by the husband that did it.

There was only one industry left for him. Of course, we saved the best for last.

"So, how did it go?" I ask as he walks into the apartment after an interview.

"Terrific," he shrugs, smirking at me. "I think you're looking at the new barista of the Starbucks on 5th and Messing."

"And you don't even drink coffee," I note. "Impressive."

"Hey, they have other things," he points out. "Their smoothies are top tier."

I run a hand through my hair. "For the last time, Robin, they're called frappuccinos."

"You say 'tomato', I say 'potato."

"No..."

The thing is that you can't even say that Robin is childish. He doesn't tease me out of fun; he purposely does it to get a rise out of me. In fact, everything he says and does has some sort of intent or purpose to it. Every movement is calculated and designed beforehand. He knows exactly what he's doing.

"So," he plops down on the futon next to me, a bowl of cereal in his hands. I frown, wondering when he got that and I realize I probably retreated into my thoughts and ignored the rest of the world. I've been doing that a lot lately. "Don't get mad, but I hacked your Facebook."