Then they began to laugh.
They laughed like fools. Pete folded at the waist and pounded the counter in a screaming fit. Linda rolled about in such hysterics that she nearly fell to the floor. They wept with laughter. Even when the laughing subsided, they held their chests, their aching ribs.
Outside, the car alarm continued its wail like an outraged banshee, echoing through the city.
Pete propped himself up on one arm and said, “Actually… that might be… my car.”
The pair burst into roaring cackles again.
She laid face down on the counter and slapped her palm in surrender. But their riot continued.
“What if you hit… a cop… a cop car… oh, Jesus!” howled Pete. He massaged his sternum and sweated as if he was having a heart attack. His puffing cheeks made Linda cry out wildly.
She managed to say, “I peed… a little… I’m so… ashamed!” She slipped to the floor and flailed to get up. Pete came around and lifted her by the elbow. She was a paper bag of sticks, weighing nothing. He felt thrilled to hold her. As she sat back on her stool, her raised eyes were wet, chocolate brown, and alive. She smiled broadly at him. Pete looked past her teeth.
“Want eggs?” he asked, retreating behind the counter. “Bacon?”
“Well,” she said. She slipped her hand in and out of her pants pocket, revealing nothing. “Can I pay with lint?” Pete waved her off and got busy at the griddle.
Then the car alarm stopped. The sudden silence was jarring. Almost painful. They strained their ears, trying to hear it still, but the alarm was gone and with it, the moment. They both sighed.
“Wasn’t your car,” said Linda with a weak grin. Pete smiled and nodded. She arched her eyebrows, encouraging him to laugh once more, but his well of silliness was dry.
Another customer shuffled in. Linda cleaned her plate while Pete served the new man. When she stood to leave, Pete tossed her a cigarette for the road. That, the coffee, and her breakfast were on the house.
Outside, Linda looked back. The birds stayed steadfast, immobile. Pete went on with his business. His sign was still buried in shit.
Russell Richardson lives with his wife and sons in Binghamton, NY, USA. His publishing credits include October Hill Magazine, Crimson Streets, Scarlet Leaf Review, Jitter Press, Fabula Argentea, and others. @ruxxdeluxx www.russellrichardson.org
I enjoyed this story very much. Pete and his customer, Linda’s, comradery, their “partners-in-crime” bonding, the shared laughter over the failed throwing attempts and subsequent “oh oh” hilarity bringing a bright shine to their otherwise mundane existence, was heartwarming. We could use more of those kind of connection moments in our own lives. Well done! Shame about the sign though, lol, silly birds.