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Four
Riding the high of my Funnies gig, I kill it at The Mic Stand across town. Then I head to the Upper West Side, where they’ll surely put me in jail for life, because my set murders at Comedy Crypt. Finally, it’s time to head home for the night.
Walking the streets of New York in pleather pants at the end of June feels a little swampy. Though after the night I’ve had, I’m practically floating home and less inclined to care about pit stains on my white tee. That’s not to say I don’t still have my wits about me. I always take the proper precautions on my commute by grasping a self-defense weapon until I’m safely inside my apartment. Fortunately for me, and anyone who dares to cross me, I’ve never had to use it. I know what you’re thinking—I’m from the South so I must be packin’ heat. But it’s just pepper spray.
Still, don’t mess with Texas.
It’s just after eleven when I walk into my building. While the elevator climbs to the fourth floor, I check my GPS to see if Imani’s home. She is, which means her date must’ve ended at a decent hour. Ten bucks says she’s curled up in bed listening to some ASMR podcast. There’s something nice about coming home when the building’s quiet and everyone’s retired to bed for the night. I approach our unit, punch in the pin code, and the lock clicks loose.
The door creeps open to a dark apartment. That’s strange. Imani always leaves a light on for me. Gripping my pepper spray can a little tighter, I steady my glasses and step inside. A stark light spills out from the open refrigerator, and a chill sweeps over me. Huh? How could she have forgotten to—
I catch a foreboding glimpse and gasp. A broad-chested man in a black-and-white-striped shirt glares back at me with his big gray eyes. What the...
A burglar?
Are we being burgled?
Still armed, I aim my loaded can at the intruder. He gulps, face morphing to a panic-stricken gape. Good. I’m glad he’s scared because I haven’t exactly tested my weapon before (a terrible decision in hindsight). Dammit! Why isn’t there a spray range with Ted Bundy cardboard targets, pepper-proof masks, and badass songs like “Heads Will Roll” blasting overhead?
My mind races as fast as my heart, and it’s painfully obvious that I’m not at all prepared for this. I press on anyway. “Stay back or I’ll spray the shit out of you!”
Yeah, Olivia. I’m sure he’s shakin’ in his boots now.
He steps away from the fridge, yelling back in some kind of guttural gibberish I can’t understand.
“Now get out! Shoo!” I gesture with my free hand, getting the sense that I’ve been atrociously misinformed of how to deter a cat burglar.
He backs into the hall with no intention of escaping. “Oh. No. You. Don’t!” I hit the trigger and a pitiful foamy spew sound emerges. Not the heart-stopping hiss I had expected.
Mother fu...
I shake the can and shoot again only to hear another measly squirt. My nose crinkles, stinging something fierce from the peppery stench. The intruder shouts incomprehensibly, shielding his face with the crook of his elbow.
“What in the hell?” Imani’s voice cuts through the scene as she flips the light switch. With her fists balled at her hips, she stands firmly in her black nightgown and matching satin robe.
I screw up my eyes and rub my nose. “Imani, run! This guy’s robbing us!”
He stomps her way, uttering that gobbledygook once again. This time with overly animated hand gestures. In the illuminated apartment, the man appears more human and less creature of the night. Wait a second... He’s not speaking gibberish. It’s German.
She raises a commanding hand. “Calm down. He’s with me.”
“Huh?” I guess the horny heels strike again. Still, I didn’t expect her to bring anyone home. She prefers to love ’em and leave ’em at their place, keeping her bedding clean. So yeah, a robbery seemed more plausible.
“Yes, Olivia. Stand down.” Her stare shifts to my still-aimed pepper spray. I lower my poor excuse for protection while Imani turns to her fine foreigner and speaks to him in his native tongue. What are they saying? After a moment, he shoots me a look and stomps back into her bedroom in a huff.
“You okay?” she asks.
With a hand on my heart, I could melt into a puddle of relief right about now. “Yeah.” Gotta love a girl who’s concerned for her friend even when said friend attempts to assault her date. But that’s what we do. She’s my penguin—a term of endearment we started using way before everyone started calling their besties my person. Why penguin? Well, they mate for life, and while we don’t mate, we are forever mates.
We met in our junior year at Highland High. She was an army brat who spent half her life on a U.S. military base in Germany and the other half in the States. Her newly retired father took an oil job in Midland of all places. Since she knew no one, and I was desperate for any insight as to what life was like outside of Texas, we became fast friends. To avoid babysitting one of her younger siblings, she’d escape to my house, where we were free to scarf down stovetop quesadillas and watch as many Chappelle’s Show reruns on DVR as we wanted. We followed each other to UT in Austin for undergrad. When it came time for law school, I stayed in the Berlin of Texas and Imani left for New York, which made my decision to move here that much easier.
Imani moseys over to the scene of the crime and grabs a glass from the cabinet. “I meant to text you that I had company but, um, I was a little busy.”
“More like gettin’ busy.”
She does her best to hide a bashful smile but no dice.
I set my bag down, adjust my glasses, and toss the pepper spray can into the garbage. “So where did you pick up the Hamburglar?”
