The rainstorm lets loose just before Gus wheels into the covered short-term parking garage, bleating the MINI's horn while pushing into the ticket lane.
After jerking to an abrupt halt, I jump out and squeeze the water from my soaked shirt, then turn to my carry-on bags. Gus pushes me aside, yanking out the heavier luggage with surprising vigor.
I'm taken aback. "You're coming in?"
Dabbing his face with a greasy snot-green bandana, Gus points his elbow at the pouring rain. "You wants me to drive back in this?" He gums a drunken Cheshire Cat grin. "Besides, is six in the AMs. Times to make my daily fit-shace."
My lips pinch to the left while I pace along in thought. My potentially ex-work shift just started. Am I really going through with this?
"No free hour?" Gus stops dead in his tracks, reading the parking sign overhead: Hourly Parking (Short-Term Parking Garage)/Rate: $3 Per hour/$27 Per Day. "I'm telling you, Duck, why even gets outta bed for Mondays?"
I look down and stifle a chuckle. "Nice shoe."
Gus looks down with a pained expression. A lone, red, decrepit girl's shoe lies at his feet as if waiting for its soulmate on the cold, hard concrete of the airport parking garage.
"What?"
"Terr-ee-bleh. You see? Usually they comes in pairs."
"Unless she was an amputee."
"No. Is serious. This place has fallen into the wicked juju." Gus grimaces and shuffles slowly around the offending shoe. "I bet some depraved icehole's keying my MINI. I can feels it."
"Yeah, probably that same googly-eyed fucker you cut off coming in here."
"And I just stole it, too."
I give a good tug at the rolling luggage. "C'mon, I'll buy you a coffee you goof." I point my head to the yellow sign over the skybridge entrance.
"No coffee." Gus' voice pitches upward to a whiny tone. "Life's so unfair."
Gus' superstitious mood turns even weirder when a well-coiffed matriarch and her mega-brood meatplows in front of us at the airport's revolving glass doors. We watch helplessly as they bog down.
"Fuck it." I bound towards the lone side door.
"Duck, wait! Is bad luck going in there."
Too late. I trundle on through with Gus following behind, staring back in slackjawed horror at the masses of flesh straining to pancake their way through the turnstile.
Gus snuffs out his cigarillo on the escalator handrail, then crosses himself rigidly as we drag our bags down to the airline check-in.
"This is way too much bad karma for a Monday, Duck. Dios mío."
After ticketing, we saunter into the airport bar, greeted by a small cortege of waitstaff in Hawaiian shirts flashing plastic-lollipop smiles and barraging us with 'Hellos' and 'Good Mornings'.
"Aha." Gus marches towards a firepit table lined with chairs, not a stone's throw from the server's station at the bar. We sit down and Gus' eyes widen in surprise when I pull out a notebook and a weighty tome about Peru from my backpack.
"You is really taking charge of this change-of-lifestyle thing, hey Duck?" He whistles approvingly.
"You bet your bippy." I start thumbing pages. "Lima is the second biggest city in the world that's technically a desert even though it sits on the coast? Isn't that amazing?"
"Increíble."
"It's because of the Humbolt Current."
Gus rolls his eyes, yawns and lights a Swisher Sweet. "JesuCristo. Do I needs to use the white courtesy phone to get a drinks around here?"
Shaking my head. "Please don't. And you know you can't smoke in here."
"No. Is okay 'cuz no one ever stops me." After a big, satisfied puff, Gus looks around and squeaks a sharp whistle, trying to get the attention of the closest waiter, who's helping a Japanese couple order in English by raising his voice several decibels and pantomiming.
My phone rings. "Dammit. It's my work. What do I do?" I set the phone on the table like it's contagious.
Gus tilts forward at me. "You know, Duck, I has a theory."
This can't be good. We have a staring contest while the phone continues ringing. After some seconds, I give in. "Okay, what's the theory?"
He gestures like a street hustler performing a card trick. "They is two types of hombres in this flucked up world: the ones who gets weird and the ones who work. Which hombre is you, Duck?"
I should have known better. "Really, Gus."
"Sí. Most guys ditching work use lame fluckarounds like I gots the flu, or my grandmother just dies again. That's all wrong."
"Yeah?"
"Aye, them weak-sauce flake outs might gain an extra long drunkfest in Vegas or Cancun, but for an extended reprieve from your working class shitehole, you needs something extra special."
"I can tell you've put a lot of thought into this."
"Pffffththththahh!" Of course I has. I is unemployed. I has all the times in the worlds. The points is to let your imaginations run wild. Hows about you gots Hairy black tongue disease from eating an infested hamburger. Wouldn't that be a nice?"
I wipe Gus' spittle off my face. "Charming."
"Or. . ." He sticks out his tongue. Sweet, musty smoker's breath hits me in the face. "Aye. Or maybes your fecal replacement surgery got boshed. That's a real game-changer."
The phone rings.
"Or Exploding Heads Syndrome. You just wakes up y that little noggin of yours, Pffffththththahh! pops like a zit, exploding in two!"
"Unbelievable." I snatch the phone and get up from my notebook. "Watch my stuff and get me a coffee."
"A Cuba Libre?"
"Coffee."
"I is just kidding. Don't take life so seriously you dumb ding dong, Duck." Gus chortles, then pulls out his bandana and blows his nose.
I dodge foot traffic past a statue of ex-governor Vic Atiyeh. "Hu. . . hello?" Dammit. Get that milquetoast tone out of your voice, Doug. The secretary's chewing gum habit pops through the receiver. I can almost smell the spearmint. "Doug?"
A fake a half-assed coughing fit. "Sorry I couldn't make it into work this morning. I'm feeling a bit under the weather. The. . . sniffles." Crap.
The gum smacking stops. "Aw. Does somebody have a case of The Mondays?"
A case of The Mondays? "Oh, heck no, Linda. Uh, I would never. . . it's just. . . I've got a headache." Cringy.
"A headache? Well, pop a Tylenol and buck up, little soldier."
"Head cold. I meant head cold. Like the flu."
"Well, which is it?"
"I'm not sure." A couple more coughs for good measure. "I was so out of it when I checked myself into urgent care."
"Urgent care? Which hospital?" She sounds genuinely concerned.
Good question. "Ah. . ." Heck if I know. "I was. . . catatonic when they brought me in." The gum-chewing starts in. "Wait a minute? I thought you just said you checked yourself in?"
Double crap. "Maybe both? You know doctors, Linda. Buncha dorks in white coats."
A deep voice from behind. "Fuck you!"
Wheeling around, a huge, mohawk-sporting bodybuilder-type in a white jacket and matching loafers barges past me and scowls. I cover the phone with my palm. "Sorry, sir. I meant that it looks great on you."
Linda's voice. "Is that your doctor?"
"Yes. His bedside manner is quite. . ." I watch Lord Humongous flip me off while marching down the hallway. "Intense."
Chewing gum popping, then a breathless, "What's his name?"
I'm pacing around. Don't panic. Stay sharp.
"Your doctor's name?"
Leaning over, I squint at the golden statue's plaque. "Vic. Vic Atiyeh."
"You mean the dead ex-governor?"
Why does she have to be so damn smart? Our educational system sucks. I inspect the plaque again. When did this poor bastard die? "I think it's his, uh, grandson, actually."
"Doug, this sounds like another one of your--"
"How long have we worked in Hell together, Linda?"
She draws in a big breath. "Forever and a long day."
"Exactly. And I've always been consistent and, uh. . ."
"Weird."
"Quirky."
"Fair enough."
"Consistently quirky. You know what it's like to be trapped day after miserable day with Larry and the suck up twins, Tom and Jerry."
"Yeah, buddy. Ugh."
"Exactly. Listen, any idiot can do my job."
"Any idiot has done your job. Hahaha."
"Haha. Very funny. Please, I just need some time to find myself. I'm begging you."
"And what if you can't find yourself, Dougie?"
"Well, then you'll never have to hear from my consistently--"
"Weird."
"Quirky self, again."
A pause on the other end. "Just call in tomorrow."
CLICK.