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After a couple more hours of listening to Bon Jovi and Cheap Trick, we arrive at our nation’s capital. Nick navigates us around the convoluted exits and loopy streets. We’re not actually staying in D.C., but just outside of it in Arlington, Virginia.
He turns into an apartment complex of two-story brick buildings. I marvel at the tall shady trees, freshly cut turf, and row of shrubs beneath the first-floor windows. Growing up in the dusty plains of Texas and now living in a concrete jungle, I’m not used to seeing so much green.
He pulls the Jeep into a space and yanks up the parking brake. “Home sweet home.”
I lean forward, gazing up at the building. “So this is a comedy condo, huh?”
“Yep.”
Comedy condos are a notorious part of road-comic life. Or so I’ve heard. The clubs save money on motels by housing all their talent in an apartment. These condos have a remarkably seedy reputation but this place inspires a friendly feel, especially with the little squirrels chasing each other up a tree trunk. Perhaps this comedy condo is the exception to the rule. “It doesn’t look so bad.”
“You haven’t been inside yet.”
I gulp hard at his foreboding inflection, imagining something in the same vein as a frat house after a wild kegger. “Is it really filthy?”
“Eh,” he utters, considering this. “It’s not so much the filth you can see, it’s more the filth you can’t see.”
My mind quickly goes to bedbugs—or as I like to call them, spawns of the devil. “Can you elaborate?”
“I’d rather not. But let’s just say I wouldn’t use a black light in there.”
“Ugh.” I cringe and consider sleeping in Nick’s Jeep tonight. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah, don’t eat the mayonnaise.”
Nick gets out of the car and slams the door shut as I’m left to my own conclusions of what that could possibly mean. I let out a nervous breath and grab my phone, typing out the text I promised Imani when I arrived.
OLIVIA:Made it to D.C. safe and sound. It’s going GREAT!
I’m not sure the trip here warrants all caps but the more she believes this is the right move, the better.
Nick unloads the luggage from the back with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “I’m gonna need to charge you a handling fee. Your suitcase is ridiculous. You want this?” He holds out my puffy garbage bag, looking like a garbage man himself.
I take it and pull up the handle on my luggage. “How many of those do you smoke a day?”
“As many as I want.”
Spoken like a true addict. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. As we wheel our things over to the first-floor apartment, my stomach knots anticipating what’s inside. Whatever it is, I have to take it. This is real comedy life. He finds a key under the flimsy doormat. Not a safety issue at all. “So I take it this apartment doesn’t have Secret Service detail,” I say.
“Relax, Olivia.” Nick leads us into the dim and musty apartment. A puff of smoke rises into the air with a wheezy cough trailing behind it.
“Oh, hey, man,” Nick says.
I push up my frames and peek around his shoulders. A guy wearing a pair of board shorts and a white tank top sits on a brown thrift store couch gripping on to a yellow bong. Who’s this dude? I reach around my bag for my fresh pepper spray can. As a wise fellow Midlander once said, “Fool me once, shame on—shame on you... Fool me, I can’t get fooled again.”
Well said, George W.
The stoner looks up. “Hey-ey, Nick. What’s up, man?” At the tone of their greeting and mention of Nick’s name, I let my bag go and step around from behind Nick. The Cheech Marin wannabe catches a glimpse of me. “Well, helloooo.” His gaze rolls over me like I’m a pleasant surprise then back to Nick. Maybe he’s our Kramer. “Isn’t it a little early to be bringing girls over?”
Nick lets out an uneasy chuckle. “She’s not my girl. She’s my feature, Olivia.”
The stoner gives me a glazed, wide-eyed stare. “Ah, shit. My bad.” He rises to his feet and stumbles over, offering me his hand. “Nice to meet you, Olivia. I’m Herb.”
“Herb?” I say, spitting out a laugh and letting go of his lax handshake. “Your name is Herb?”
He tilts his head like a dog trying to understand English. “Yeah, why’s that funny?”
