Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,28
with the building manager, Mr. Winston, on my ass—I mean, sorry, my hind parts—every day about watching my mouth around the building’s tenants. That means you. He thinks cussing is a bad habit. I think cussing—or ‘the poetry of the streets,’ as I like to call it—is more akin to the real world.”
“Will you please cinch your robe?”
“The poetry of the streets is a beast in sheep’s clothing,” says Ace. “But don’t egg me on. I have to stop using so many curses. My lady doesn’t like it.”
“Check.”
“This is your lucky day,” he says, very much not cinching his robe. “I’m making some of my renowned breakfast.”
“It’s nowhere near my lucky day.”
“It’s about to be. I am known for three things: One is shredding on the gee-tarrrr; the second is my glorious morning wood.” Ace pauses and makes the international gesture for masturbation with his spatula-hand, moving it like mad in front of his pelvis. Then he does a little dance that’s mostly running in place but with a sprinkle of cross-country skiing and lip-licking. “But the thing I’m known for that you shall currently reap the benefit of is my secret French toast recipe. I’ll even let you in on it. Everyone loves Frosted Flakes. And everyone loves rum. So one morning it hit me, why not put Frosted Flakes and rum in my French toast batter? I mean, I’m going to enjoy them all for breakfast anyway. Why not combine all these ingredients into one super-food?”
Coffen momentarily forgets Ace’s difficulties with the long-lost art of bathrobe-cinching, because that secret recipe sounds delicious. Some Frosted Flaked and rummed-up super-food might be what the doctor ordered, assuming the doctor is half-crazed and clad in a gaping bathrobe.
“That’s quite a recipe,” Coffen says.
“Bet your ass, Chump Change,” says Ace. “Sorry, I meant, ‘bet your hind parts.’”
“Chump Change?”
“That’s what me and the other guys on the building’s clean team call you. You’re always getting things from the vending machines with dimes and nickels. It’s a term of endearment.”
“Clean team?”
“We don’t like being called ‘janitors.’ Makes us feel like toe jam on the corporate totem pole.”
So Bob hadn’t been crazy all those times he thought the janitors—nay, the clean-team members—smirked when he stood making one of his hourly purchases. They got a giggle out of his prudent dispersal of pocket change, eh? Well, excuse me, Bob Coffen wants to tell Ace. My blood sugar gets low, and don’t forget that frugality is an admirable trait in some societies.
“Does it make you guys feel better about your job?” Bob asks.
“What?”
“The toe jam thing.”
“Exactly,” says Ace. “We are the toe jam thing. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“You did say it.”
Ace extends the bottle of rum up in the air and says, “To all the toe jam on all the totem poles all over the world! You’re in our hearts always. You will not be forgotten.” Then he guzzles rum.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” says Coffen.
“Enjoy yourself,” Ace says, still twiddling with the bottle of booze, “and breakfast will be served when you get back.”
On his walk, Coffen texts his kids.
To Margot: How’s your morning? I think you’re great.
To Brent: How’s it hanging, amigo?
It’s only a ninety-second trip to the bathroom—take a leak, brush teeth with the plastic-bagged toothbrush, sans toothpaste, breath still stinky afterward, his tongue a hostel for transient bacteria. He sticks out his tongue to analyze it in the mirror. It’s as if he can taste the acrid flavor that this might not be a blip with Jane, might be more than a one-weekend anomaly. The idea is globbed on his tongue along with the other germs. Jane has never asked him to sleep somewhere else before. What if Bob’s life is changing and he barely gets a say in the matter?
Ace sets two paper plates down on the small table, also plastic forks. Coffen does get a non-plastic coffee mug filled with coffee, which makes the scene a bit less depressing.
“Shall we say a prayer?” Ace says.
“If you want.”
“Please, Jesus, let my hair grow back. God, if there really is a god, why is the hair on my head falling out and the hair on my back growing like gangbusters? I mean, come on: I’ve gone mano a mano versus the world my whole life, so why can’t I keep some freakin’ hair as the fruits of all these labors?”
“Amen?” Coffen says.
“A-freakin’-men!” Ace claps his hands, then digs into his French toast. Bob follows his lead and cuts himself a