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There is no engine.
There's no ticktock of the blinker, no voice of the customer, and no sizzle of the traffic. Only hearts.
In my pocket.
In my ears.
In my pants.
On my skin. On my breath.
They're in the inside of the inside of me.
"Just hearts," I say, "everywhere," but my customer has no idea what I'm talking about.
"Here'll do," she says.
She's about forty and wears deodorant that smells like sweet smoke and makeup the color of roses. When she hands me the money, she speaks, looking at me in the mirror.
"Merry Christmas," she says.
Her voice sounds like hearts.
I've bought everything I need to buy. More alcohol than food, of course, and by the time everyone shows up for Christmas Eve, my shack smells like turkey, coleslaw, and, of course, the Doorman. For a while, the turkey overpowers him, but the smell of that dog can get to anything.
First to show up is Audrey.
She brings a bottle and some biscuits she's made.
"Sorry, Ed," she tells me as she comes in. "I can't stay too long." She kisses me on the cheek. "Simon's got this thing on with his mates and he wants me to go."
"Do you want to go?" I ask, though I know she does. Why would you prefer to stay with three positively pointless blokes and a filthy dog? She'd be crazy to stay with us.
Audrey answers. "Of course. You know I wouldn't do anything I don't want to."
"That's true," I reply. It is.
We start to drink as Ritchie comes in next. We hear his bike from the top of the street, and when he pulls in, he calls out for us to open the door for him. He carries in a big cooler stocked with prawns, salmon, and sliced lemons.
"Not bad, huh?" He drops it. "The least I could do."
"How'd you get it here?" I ask.
"What?"
"The cooler? You know, with the bike?"
"Oh--I strapped it on back. I was practically standing up the whole way. The cooler took up half my seat." Ritchie winks at us, generously. "It was worth it, though." Half his dole check would have gone into the contents of that cooler.
Now we wait.
For Marv.
"I bet he doesn't show up," Ritchie says once he's settled in. His hand feels at the scratchy whiskers on his face, and his muddy hair is as unwashed and coarse as ever. Amusement is his overriding expression. He's looking forward to this. Sipping a beer and sitting on the couch, he uses the Doorman as a footstool. He's lazy and lanky, Ritchie, lying there with his feet extended in comfort. Somehow, he looks gracious.
"Oh, he's showing up all right," I affirm. "If he doesn't, I'll drag the Doorman to his doorstep and make him kiss him right there and then." I put down my drink. "I haven't looked forward to Christmas like this for years."
"Me, too," Ritchie replies. He can barely wait.
