Page 125 of Vicious Saint
Three steps away from the door, a cleaning lady opens it, offering me the perfect opportunity to peek at Carlo.
He’s perched on the couch, ankle resting on his knee, with brushed back wavy hair unmoving as he looks down at his watch.
Middle aged Pacino’s handsome, I’ll give him that.
But not enough to put up with this bullshit.
I jam the door with the tip of my Chuck, waiting for the right moment to bolt to the employee-only exit.
It comes in the form of a cocktail waitress handing Carlo a menu. He declines, but she persists with a coy smile, and I silently thank her for flirting with the only suit in the room that benefits me.
When Carlo shoots a worried glance my way, I quickly remove my sneaker from the doorway, and when I crack it open again I find him looking down at the menu.
A ding goes off on two elevators across the hall, and around ten people pile out. I’m like a snake in the grass weaving through them to the exit.
I hold my breath and twist the knob, letting out a deep one when it opens onto the street.
“Freedom!” I sing into the air, spinning around as bystanders sneak me an awkward side eye.
“Freak…” some bitch mumbles under her breath, and if I didn’t just break out of jail I’d cut the hoe.
Although…I’m never one to let a good retort go to waste.
“Skank whore!” I bellow out, once again in song, and the cowardly bitch does what cowardly bitches do.
She chooses boring and keeps walking.
So, I walk. All the way to the closest train station with my head down.
It’s gotten a lot harder to jump the turnstiles in Manhattan, at least from when I used to do it sophomore year.
Not because I couldn’t afford it.
But because the cops in my neighborhood were not only out of shape, but assholes too, and I loved watching them struggle to chase me and my friends.
I managed to get through this time, though, as gracefully as possible when the old man behind the glass got on a call.
Then it was smooth riding.
The only twenty-four Starbucks Mom wouldn’t suspect I’d hide at is two neighborhoods over in Summit Park, a true beauty by day sketchy by night.
Correction: very sketchy.
Every night on the news level of sketchy.
Not that I care, because to me, the Riverside gangs are no better than the inner city ones.
At least here I can find some people I relate to.
Like the old man sitting outside the subway station as I jog up the steps, offering me some apples when I check out his fruit stand.
“No thanks,” I tell him, explaining I have no cash.
It’s a lie, but I’m not about to spend any of my last hundred on a Red Delicious.
No matter how delicious it may be.
The old man shakes his head. “You youngins and your dependency on those damn cards.” He holds out the apple. “Just take it.”
