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Ritchie's pleading with me, but I don't let it get in the way. I can't let him slink off to that darkness place inside him, where his pride is strewn all over the floor in some hidden room. In the end I talk completely devoid of emotion.
I say, "Ritchie--you're an absolute disgrace to yourself."
He looks at me like I just shot his dog or told him his ma died.
He sits in that kitchen every night, and no matter what the voices on the radio say, the words are always the same. They're the words I just spoke and we both know it.
Ritchie stares at the table.
I stare over his shoulder.
We both pore over what was just said. Ritchie sits there like an injury.
This goes on for a long time, until a certain smell arrives--the Doorman walks in.
"You're a good friend, Ed," Ritchie finally says, and returns to his usual easygoing expression. He fights to keep it there. "And you," he says to the Doorman, "smell like the sewer."
He stands up and leaves.
The words repeat themselves around me as the Kawasaki starts up and meanders down the dark, motionless street.
That was a bit harsh, Ed, the Doorman says.
We stand awhile in mutual silence.
The next night, I'm there again, outside Ritchie's. Something tells me I can't relent on him.
The figure of him becomes visible in the kitchen, but this time he comes out the front door with the radio in one hand and a bottle in the other. His feet fall and his voice calls out to me.
"Hey, Ed."
I step out.
He says, "Let's go to the river."
The river runs past town, and we sit there, having walked from Ritchie's place. We hand the bottle back and forth. The radio talks quietly.
"You know, Ed," Ritchie says after a while, "I used to think I had that chronic fatigue syndrome...." He stops, like he's forgotten what he's going to say.
"And?" I ask.
"What?"
"Chronic fatigue--"
"Oh, yeah." He regathers it. "Yeah, I thought I had it, but then I realized that in actual fact, I just happen to be one of the laziest bastards on earth." It's quite funny, really.
"Well, you're not the only one."
"But most people have jobs, Ed. Even Marv's got a job. Even you've got one."
"What do you mean, even me?"
"Well, you're not the most motivated person I know, you know."
I admit it. "That's pretty accurate." I swig. "And I wouldn't call driving a taxi a real job."
"What would you call it?" Ritchie asks.
