FICTION-Chapter Three

Prince and Grease Monkey yapped at each incessantly, neither listening to the other. Born fraternal twins, they couldn't have been more different than their respective names implied. Prince, thin, slight, blonde hair long, curling round his face like a Raphael Aryan. He pranced his sexuality and his Republican politics around like a schizoid circus. Grease Monkey, short, stout, muscular, hair straight as a Mormon and black as a demon. He seemed menacing with his macho mechanics' tools and hard drinking. A union member, he was not keen on his brother's politics, which led to endless arguing, at times. That night, sitting at the bar in Bea's Lounge, it was no different. Yadda-yadda-yadda, getting louder as the night grew longer.

"Look, you two," Bea's brother, Sammy swooped in between the two, "you're going to have to keep it down." Winking, "Of course, I know it's hard to keep it down when I'm around." His eyes mascara-ed and his lips lipstick red, the only concessions that Sammy made to his drag tendencies. Otherwise, he was crass, unshaven, dressed in the polyester of the day and smelling of more than a bit of alcohol. His dyed blonde mop top and his sarcasm got him through days and situations. Being bartender, of course, helped, as well.

"Oh, just kick them out already," demanded Paul, who looked and sounded more like Paul Lynde himself. He was so into playing the part that we didn't even know if his name was really Paul. "Who needs two gay boys who have no idea how to conduct themselves in public, let alone any idea of which topics to avoid? They should just fuck themselves and get it over with. My god, if I had a twin . . ."

"And when did fucking stop two people from arguing?" Sammy asked, smiling at Prince as he touched Grease Monkey's hand just slightly.


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On the street, outside the restaurant, Hurley lit a cigarette.

"Might I join you?" Izzy inquired.

Handing Izzy the pack, "Sure, take a couple."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Let's go the office."

"Office?" Izzy was surprised that Hurley actually had a place of business. "Your apartment?"

"No, a dive on Rivington. Sixth floor walk-up. Small but it works except when the dealers next door break through to avoid the cops."

"Sounds wonderful," Izzy sneered.

"It'll do."

Chugging up the six flights of stairs, Izzy falling behind, they finally reached the sixth floor, Izzy huffing and puffing. Hurley took a satisfying seat behind his desk, which was made out of an old door and two saw horses.

Iz inquired of Hurley, "Gotta drink?"

Hurley pointed to a small frig in the corner behind Izzy, who when he opened it, groaned mournfully. "Any alcohol?"

"Nah, gotta liver condition. Inherited from my mother's mother, sister got it, too. Women got a seventy percent chance of getting it and men only a thirty percent chance. Never won the lottery but I won this."

"Damn," Izzy slightly sympathetic.

"Yeah, well docs tell me I can live to be a hundred or I can die tomorrow. Hey, but couldn't we all?"

"Guess so. You know, you could use a door on the office, maybe with your name on it?"

Hurley smiled, "Yeah, that's where I got this desk, had someone else's name on it."

Izzy looked around the office, sparsely furnished: the mini-fridge, the desk, a twirly office chair; no file cabinets, no bathroom, no office door. Izzy saw a very small, claustrophobic office with a shit desk, the pits.

"This is your office?"

Hurley smiled, "I'll be on the pavement most of the time. Make yourself at home."

Taken aback, Izzy surveyed his sudden working domain. Potential, he tried to fool himself. "Think we could get a file cabinet?"

"Yeah, sure," agreed Hurley, "saw a couple at the Salvation Army."

"You got a phone?"

"Cell."

"Advertising?"

"Word of mouth."

Izzy frowned. Hurley eyed a slim sliver of light that shot across Izzy's face like fast lightning. It danced a moment ephemeral.

Hurley smiled, his bright green eyes twinkling. He's got protection.