"Hey there Rocky. Why so dour?"
Dead-end job. Poverty. Mutilation. Loneliness. Inescapable, crushing dread.
"I'm fine Ivy. You still got the stove running?"
"'Course I do, it's only 11. Good thing you came when you did, some slumps just left."
"Yeah, well, some slump just arrived. Mind making me something?"
"Sure thing. Pancakes, I assume?"
"…Naaah. Just give me whatever you feel like cooking."
She gave me a weird look first thing, but turned around to cook after the sincerity. I put my mind on other things, like escaping. The big question was was I gonna do it again. For years now I've just sorta skipped town whenever shit got bad. There wasn't anything in my way now. Even though I worked on an illegal operation with enemies, I wasn't exactly going toe to toe with Capone. Most of the people we faced didn't even have all their toes. Hillbillies and parasites, dotted with the occasional poser for spice. Mitzi didn't have the resources or the want to try and track me down if I skipped. I doubt she'd even notice to be honest. The thing I was concerned about was what meager friendships I'd managed to scrape together inbetween hits to the face. I've been closer to Zib and Ivy than I have my own cousin these past few years, even if there were a few patches in our quilt, like what just happened. I was in that wishy washy regret period now, clasping my hands and thinking over all the things that coulda woulda happen. As long as I could repair my status with Zib I'm proof positive I could get him to skip with me, and the band too. Ivy could barely get out of her own house, I doubt Florida was an option. I could say some sweet words and slip onto the ether with Zib. I could fix this whole thing. I could become a normal, law abiding man and go to school. I could punch a bear. Could, would, should; who the fuck cares.
"You okay over here…?"
That's how she found me. Sitting there with my muzzle smashed into the table, hands pulling my ears, grimacing at the woodwork. She had a plate of something; I couldn't see from this angle. Smelled like meat and batter. I stared at her for a few seconds with the one eye facing her, watching her own eyes wandering over me. She set the plate down, sliding it next to me. I could see her lips purse but she didn't say anything for a bit.
"You need something to drink I'll get it for you."
She walked back to the counter. Bacon and waffles. Copious syrup to drown it in. I asked for no pancakes, and, well, I did get no pancakes. She was still crafty with it though. For all my hunger I still didn't seem to have much of an appetite, poking at the food this way and that with my fork. I mostly used it as a distraction while I took out my little book and jotted down an entry. I was gonna call it a diary but that just seems so girly. Tried calling it a log but I wasn't manly enough. "The book" seemed to stick so far. For all its names it was just a place for me to collect my brain should it get scattered across an alleyway by a bullet of confusion. I pulled out the pen lodged in the spine and wrote down my argument and my obsession with negativity today. A side-effect of having this thing was that my handwriting has improved. The first few pages were written by an epileptic one legged chicken; now they were on par with a 12 year old. My writing seemed to focus on coddling; I wanted to hug Zib and tell him sweet things to make him feel better after crushing him like that. A lot of flowery, fairy-like stuff I never had the gall to actually tell people. Wrote about my contempt for Mitzi. Wrote about my sour mood. Finished off with some plans to hop a train out to New Orleans.
It'd been maybe half an hour since the food arrived; been scratching at the paper ever since. Heard the bell ring a few times, people coming in for something. The diner was slow but it was Times Square compared to what lurked below. Nobody sat near me and everybody was quiet. Kinda liked it like that; much better than drunken rambles and random notes from the band. A page and a half filled with my tiny, scrappy handwriting. I flopped the book down and looked around me for once, noting the stuffy old people and the bored Ivy. I didn't wanna talk to anybody still, and I didn't have anything to do. Opening it back up, I dashed a line below my entry and set about doodling in the space there. Not sure what time it was, but when I was interrupted I knew it down to the second. I saw a shadow move on the table and noticed the outline; large ears and pointy sides. Snapping the book shut, I spun around and came face to face with Zib's shoulder. I spun the other way and smashed my muzzle straight into him. He backed up a bit, a stupid grin on his face. His eyes hadn't left my book.
"I love your use of words."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"How much did you read."
"Not enough."
"…"
"You should get a new pen, that one is pretty scratchy."
With that, he walked back behind the counter and to the speakeasy downstairs. I got up to follow him, pocketing my book and leaving the plate. Ivy frowned at me as I went past, probably angry over the food. As I walked down the steps I couldn't help but rub my face. Just something about it I guess.