matter how many joints you smoke.”
Ah, shit. Here we go.
“You keep talking about my bones and one of these days, I’m going to knock you out with my fist.”
I lean back and cross my arms over my chest to watch them bicker like they always do.
Arrow plucks the blunt from Homer’s fingers and places it between his lips, inhaling. “And then your knuckles would snap, crackle, and pop. Just like those rice crispy treats.” He blows the smoke out and Homer snatches his beloved weed back.
“I’m going to slit the tires of your bike.”
“If you bend over, you’ll throw out your back. Don’t try so hard,” Arrow tosses back at Homer. Anger fuels the lines etched on either side of his eyes.
Sometimes, I wonder if they mean to fight as bad as they do. Is it fun? Is it real? I can’t tell anymore.
Homer grabs a tool from the box on the ground and throws it at Arrow. Arrow dodges it and it hits against the back wall. Luckily, this entire place is made of concrete so nothing can hurt it, but Arrow can get hurt if Homer throws something else.
Arrow wouldn’t dare to hurt the old man. While a grumpy fuck, Arrow likes Homer, even if the feeling isn’t mutual. “Okay, break time. Homer, go back to the clubhouse. Arrow, take five. Go get a juice box.”
“Hey, you little baby. Go dwink frowm your wittle sippy cup,” Homer talks like a baby, bringing his fists to his eyes pretending to cry.
Oh, that’s just great.
“You know what? I will go get my juice box, and while I’m sipping on my favorite drink, you can go to the clubhouse and get your walker before you go to bingo. And when you get there, you’ll lose.”
Those are fighting words.
“You take that back!” Homer yells, jumping off the hood of a car and landing pretty decently for an old guy.
“No, I won’t take it back. No one fucks with my juice boxes.” Arrow pokes Homer in the chest.
“No one fucks with my bingo, bitch!” Homer jabs a finger in the middle of Arrow’s chest in return.
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble and head toward the front door, flipping the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed.’ I don’t want to run off customers because these two knuckle heads can’t see eye to eye for more than twenty seconds. My boots pound against the floor as I stomp my way toward them. I kick a few tools out of the way and push them away from one another.
They are yelling at the top of their lungs now. I can’t even understand what they are saying. “Okay, that’s enough!” I bellow, my voice bouncing off the metal and chrome of the bikes. “Homer. Home. Now. Arrow. Juice box.” They don’t move. Just linger and stare at one another.
“I said to go!” I kick another tool and it skitters across the floor. Arrow is the first to leave. His shoulders are tight and there is an oil stain across his white shirt. He gives Homer a dirty look before curling his lip and disappearing into the employee lounge where the kitchen is.
“What the fuck, Homer?” I wrap my arms around his shoulders and direct him outside where his motorcycle is. Water drips from the roof and pellets to the ground since the ice is melting from the warmer weather finally coming in.
“What? He started it.”
“I don’t care. I don’t know why you two bumps heads so often but save it for the clubhouse. This is a place of business. And I’ll be talking to Arrow too,” I add, so he doesn’t think I’m only giving him a lecture.
Homer flips me off and puts on his bucket helmet, starts his bike, and roars out of the parking lot. The only thing that gets worse other than Homer’s age is his temper.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pinch my eyes shut, not wanting to deal with whoever is on the other line. I head inside the shop again and dig my phone out of my pocket. Arrow is standing there, and I didn’t know it was possible to angrily sip on a straw, but he is. He’s sucking on it from the side of his mouth, one arm crossed over his chest.
“Hello?” I answer, fucking exhausted, and it’s only three in the afternoon. I miss Violet. When I’m with her, it isn’t crazy hectic. It’s the opposite. It’s laughter and comfort, safety. And the sex… Jesus, the fucking sex is out