The Predicament of Persians - A.G. Henley Page 0,8

my feet in years, and darn it, I’m letting Joe sweep.

But I hope the surprises don’t involve sharp objects. Which reminds me.

“Can I, um, see some ID?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow.

“I told James I’d send him your name and some form of identification in case . . .” I can’t finish the sentence.

“In case I turn out to be less than a total gentleman?” Joe asks.

“Or more specifically an axe murderer,” I say.

He reaches into his back pocket and slides out his wallet and then his ID. He hands it to me. Joe Davis, 201 Sunset Drive, #378, Tampa, Florida. He somehow manages to look as handsome in his driver’s license photo as he does in person. I snap a picture and text it to James.

“What’s Florida like?” I ask Joe. “I haven’t been there.”

He slides an arm behind my head but doesn’t touch me. Unfortunately.

“It’s a big, diverse state, so there’s no one way to describe it. Lots of water, lots of swampland, lots of mosquitos, and lots of tanned old folks.” He winks. “Tampa is a suburban area on the gulf side of the state. My condo’s in the Channelside District east of downtown. I like my place. Lots to do around me.”

“Like what? I know you like to fish.”

“Bars, restaurants, good spots for jogging, and hanging out.”

“And you don’t like your work, you said?” I ask.

He puts one foot up against the front edge of the carriage. “Not really. It’s sedentary, repetitive, and there are too many meetings. Nothing like your job, I’ll bet. What about you? Do you like styling people’s hair?”

I sigh. “Yes, but I wouldn’t mind doing it less and spending more time doing other things. I just can’t afford to yet. And James doesn’t help.”

Joe looks surprised. “Why is that?”

I feel a vent coming on. “He’s such a drain on my finances. He doesn’t pay rent because he can’t afford to. He works part-time at a grocery store, so I ask him to buy our food, which he does, but then he eats everything while I’m at work. He doesn’t have friends, doesn’t date, and doesn’t have any hobbies—except television.”

“Sounds like you have a case of failure to launch there.”

I turn to him. “Exactly! The only thing he really does to help around the house is take care of my cat. At least he does that well. Anyway, I’m sorry to complain. He’s just . . . a headache.”

I stare out at the street to distract myself from thoughts of James. It’s busy with people enjoying their Friday evening.

“I’m sorry again about James.” Joe follows my gaze. “Hey, is that Union Station? I’d love to get a look if you don’t mind a stop before dinner.”

“Of course not,” I say.

He tells the pedicab driver, who makes a quick turn to the right and pedals a few blocks down. Joe leans forward, his eyes drinking in the station as we ride toward it.

It is a beautiful, vibrant spot. Colorful lights shine on the grand stone terminal building of Denver’s downtown transportation hub. They renovated the area about ten years ago, adding a fancy hotel, bars and restaurants, and one of those flat fountains out front where water shoots up from brightly lit holes in the ground for the kids to run through. Lots of them are doing that now, shrieking as they go. We stop in front.

“Are you getting out here?” the driver asks.

“We can if you want to,” I say to Joe, who’s still taking it all in.

“No, that’s okay. I’m happy to have gotten a look at it. I’m good,” he tells the driver, who turns the pedicab around and pedals back the way we came.

“Are you a train fan?” I ask.

He chuckles. “I was one of those kids who loved model trains. My dad had a table in the garage where we’d put tracks together and I’d spend hours running the trains around. I outgrew the models, but not the interest in trains. I try to see stations whenever I go to new places.”

I nudge him. “Then we should have gone in so you could see it properly.”

“Another time. Tonight is about you.”

The driver takes us across a bridge that crosses the Platte River. I’ve been here once or twice before while visiting the nearby REI flagship store for hiking boots, ski equipment, and such. Once we cross the river, we’re in a neighborhood of hip condos, cafes, and eateries on a hillside overlooking downtown. After pedaling hard to ascend