Tom entered through the back door. Jake's van was parked outside. It was an orange, hippie van. Tom carried a pint of ice cream. It was butter pecan.
In the kitchen, it was dark and the sun set west on the front side of the house. Jake was in the front room talking to Sean. Sean was a friend of his. He was staying at the house until he could earn enough money to pay rent.
"Anyway," Jake had said to Sean when Tom was at the back door entering. Tom overheard. "I'm trying to get a 'frisbee' game going."
Tom looked for a spoon and there were none. He looked beside the sink and there were a few. He grabbed one.
Sean was unwrapping a box. He sat on a stool by the bar, which was strewn with Jake's papers and pictures. The pictures were of Jake at his last birthday party. He had posed drunk with girls and grinned in every one of them.
Tom stepped quickly through the living room and ascended the steps in the front hall. The sun lit the floor through a window in the front door and he pivoted left to climb the stairwell.
He climbed the steps one at a time and he held the ice cream pint with his fingers and thumb on the edges. He hadn't wanted to say 'hello' to Sean or Jake. In his left hand, he held a spoon.
He thought of the young woman from whom he had bought the ice cream. She worked in the shop. He hadn't seen her for some time and he had asked her once upon a time whether she went to the school.
"Oh. You mean Western?"
"Yeah," Tom had replied.
She appeared reticent when he entered the shop. She remembered him. It was a long time since Tom had been in the shop. He hadn't eaten ice cream since the last time he was there. She remembered him vividly, it seemed to Tom.
She had been standing behind the counter when Tom had entered. She was sitting on a stool when Tom entered and she remembered back to when she had been standing behind the counter when Tom had entered the last time.
A young man had been chatting with her at the counter. He gripped a beer bottle at the neck and the bottle was in a paper bag. He sported long, blond hair in a pony tail and Tom had stepped to the counter. Tom had ice cream. He had asked the man if he was buying that. The man had turned half-around and quipped:
"Why!?"
Tom had looked at him from the corner of his eye.
"Oh. I dunno," said Tom. "Facts are facts and fax is fax. Some people have fax machines and some people don't. Some people that do, send facts and others don't send any faxes at all."
It had been off the top of his head.
"What does that mean!?" the man had retorted.
"Oh. I dunno," Tom had quipped back.
When Tom entered, the clerk behind the counter seated on a stool curtly said: "hi." He picked his pint of butter pecan from a freezer in the back and placed it on the counter in front. The clerk said nothing more and rung up the sale. Tom handed her a five. It was one-eleven for change. He palmed his hand for it, put it in his pocket and quickly exited.
"Oh. You mean Western?"
"Yeah," Tom had replied.
Tom was home with his pint of butter pecan. He was up the steps in his room sitting. He spooned ice cream into his mouth and then masturbated.
In the kitchen, it was dark and the sun set west on the front side of the house. Jake was in the front room talking to Sean. Sean was a friend of his. He was staying at the house until he could earn enough money to pay rent.
"Anyway," Jake had said to Sean when Tom was at the back door entering. Tom overheard. "I'm trying to get a 'frisbee' game going."
Tom looked for a spoon and there were none. He looked beside the sink and there were a few. He grabbed one.
Sean was unwrapping a box. He sat on a stool by the bar, which was strewn with Jake's papers and pictures. The pictures were of Jake at his last birthday party. He had posed drunk with girls and grinned in every one of them.
Tom stepped quickly through the living room and ascended the steps in the front hall. The sun lit the floor through a window in the front door and he pivoted left to climb the stairwell.
He climbed the steps one at a time and he held the ice cream pint with his fingers and thumb on the edges. He hadn't wanted to say 'hello' to Sean or Jake. In his left hand, he held a spoon.
He thought of the young woman from whom he had bought the ice cream. She worked in the shop. He hadn't seen her for some time and he had asked her once upon a time whether she went to the school.
"Oh. You mean Western?"
"Yeah," Tom had replied.
She appeared reticent when he entered the shop. She remembered him. It was a long time since Tom had been in the shop. He hadn't eaten ice cream since the last time he was there. She remembered him vividly, it seemed to Tom.
She had been standing behind the counter when Tom had entered. She was sitting on a stool when Tom entered and she remembered back to when she had been standing behind the counter when Tom had entered the last time.
A young man had been chatting with her at the counter. He gripped a beer bottle at the neck and the bottle was in a paper bag. He sported long, blond hair in a pony tail and Tom had stepped to the counter. Tom had ice cream. He had asked the man if he was buying that. The man had turned half-around and quipped:
"Why!?"
Tom had looked at him from the corner of his eye.
"Oh. I dunno," said Tom. "Facts are facts and fax is fax. Some people have fax machines and some people don't. Some people that do, send facts and others don't send any faxes at all."
It had been off the top of his head.
"What does that mean!?" the man had retorted.
"Oh. I dunno," Tom had quipped back.
When Tom entered, the clerk behind the counter seated on a stool curtly said: "hi." He picked his pint of butter pecan from a freezer in the back and placed it on the counter in front. The clerk said nothing more and rung up the sale. Tom handed her a five. It was one-eleven for change. He palmed his hand for it, put it in his pocket and quickly exited.
"Oh. You mean Western?"
"Yeah," Tom had replied.
Tom was home with his pint of butter pecan. He was up the steps in his room sitting. He spooned ice cream into his mouth and then masturbated.
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