Page 9 of Tito

3

Reggie

“Abiker?” She coughed as if saying the word brought a bitter taste to her mouth. “This is going to be interesting. Hopefully he won’t hack you up into pieces.”

On most days, Mel was my best friend. Sometimes, albeit infrequently, she acted like he was my parent.

I opened her refrigerator door and peered inside. “He’s a biker, not the San Diego County Strangler.”

“Sport bike or American V-Twin?”

Apparently, Mel was a closet motorcycle enthusiast. I, on the other hand, wasn’t. I glanced over my shoulder. “What’s an American V-Twin?”

“An American V-Twin is a Harley or one of the Harley look-alikes.”

“Oh.” I went back to pilfering the fridge. “I dunno.”

“Did it have a low rumble or a high-pitched whine?”

“I haven’t seen it yet.” I opened a small Tupperware and smelled the contents. “When did you cook this?”

“Are there noodles in it?”

I studied it. It seemed noodle-like. “There’s some noodle-like stuff in it. Tomatoes. Meat. Cheese.” I gave it a closer look, and then poked it with my finger. “Yeah, they’re noodles.”

“Tuesday.”

“What’s today?”

“Sunday.”

I counted the days on my free hand. According to those in the know, it was on the cusp of being rotten. I tasted my finger. “Do you think they lie to us when they say three to five days?”

“When who says three to five days?”

“Whoever they are.” I smelled the container’s contents. “The food people. I think the organizations who give the warnings own the companies that sell the products. The pasta manufacturers want us buying new pasta instead of eating leftover pasta. It’s a farce.”

“I’ve eaten month-old pasta without getting sick,” she said, confirming my suspicion. “You’ll be fine.”

I dumped the contents into a bowl and put it in the microwave. While I waited for my early evening snack to reach the 160-degree safe zone, I faced Mel. “If dip-shit leaves anything at my house, do you wanna help me light it on fire?”

Her eyes widened with excitement. “Hell yes.”

“I really hope he left something. Or, several somethings. Like those furry little slip-on loafers. Or that stupid fucking couch.”

She rubbed her hands together. “The green pleather one?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“God, I hope he leaves that thing,” she spouted. “I hate that fucking couch. It makes me sweat and then my legs stick to it.”

“I can’t believe he talked me into buying it.”

“I’m just glad it’s finally over. It’s time to start a new life. Be single for a while. It’s fun.”

Melanie’s soon to be brother-in-law, Brandon, was at a bachelor party in Oceanside and had seen Jared at the strip club. After staying until closing time, Brandon and his friends stumbled into the parking lot, only to find Jared in the front seat of his car, balls-deep in one of the strippers. Brandon promptly called Mel. Mel, who detested Jared, informed me within seconds of receiving the news.

“It’s going to be weird not having him there,” I admitted.