Perchance to Dream

Disclaimer: See Prologue

Summary: Work gets interesting.

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At Work IV

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It's pretty funny to think of all the benefits avoiding Kyle has brought me. Over the past two months, he still hasn't stopped trying to talk to me. Assuming (correctly) that beating the shit out of me would be counterproductive to achieving that goal, he's called off the dogs. And while I'm grateful for that, that doesn't mean I'm going to talk to him out of the blue. For all I know, he's trying to make me happy with him again and then sell me to Mexican drug-dealers to be a gay love-slave.

I talked with Wendy when we got back from Christmas break. Carefully, of course, lest I inflame Kyle's Jew-temper to a point where he sics genetically-enhanced Rottwielers on me. I didn't get a lot out of it. She only told me that Kyle had been spending a lot of time on the Internets. I found out, somewhat to my distaste, that he does NOT have any problems getting it up. In fact, he can get it up sometimes three times in one night. I nearly puked.

She also told me that he's not at all a cold, distant bastard like I've seen him as. He's very affectionate, never forgets a birthday or anniversary, and he always buys sweet little presents. In bed, I learned (before I covered my ears and started humming loudly), Kyle was slow and gentle, making a point to kiss almost every inch of skin before he even STARTS anything that could be actually be considered sex. He remakes his entire bed, putting on 1200 thread count sheets and really, really soft pillows, and just "makes a girl feel loved."

Unfortunately, I didn't get much of a reason for why he would be so obsessed with me. She said that he seemed to act funny after she told him that I told her to tell him to have a great day. Apparently, she didn't catch the sarcasm I'd lain on that statement, and thus, neither did Kyle. The next thing she knew, she said, she'd been dropped off, Kyle had begged off their plans for that evening, and he was driving off with a manic look in his eyes.

At first, I refused to consider it, but I think it's entirely possible that this whole mess is based on a misunderstanding. Wendy had a blonde moment and failed to pick up on a sarcastic statement, relayed it as genuine to Kyle, which sparked … something or other in him, and made him think I want to talk to him, and somehow over the past two months hasn't figured out that I actually DON'T. The variable in that is what that sparked in Kyle. I mean… there had to be some sort of festering desire to speak with me that would make him jump at the "opportunity" like he did, but it had never shown itself before. If he wanted to talk to me and make up, he wouldn't have let me go three years being bullied and slandered and treated worse than a fucking emo kid! Everything is fine in that formula, until that roadblock.

There's also the small problem that Kyle hasn't come back to Jumpin' Java since. I know, because I spend every minute of my shift on alert, ready to duck down out of sight the second I see his curly red hair. Or his shiny silver Beamer. Or Wendy, for that matter. I talked Greg into instituting a "No-cell-phones-while-in-line" policy that should give me advance warning, if someone like Kenny, Butters, or Lardass ducks out of line and pulls out their cell.

Today's been very quiet. It's the first weekend in March, and the Park is in the middle of a thaw. Everybody's outside, or walking, bottles of water in one hand and MP3 players strapped to their arms, and nobody except the old people are seeking coffee. A couple people have stopped by for iced drinks, but even I know that Harbucks has more of those, and of better quality. At least Greg's happy, it's nice and quiet for him to study back there.

At three, with two hours left on my shift, Greg comes out and lets me have a smoke break, after which I will close out my afternoon by playing guitar for deaf old people who can't hear me. This, for me, is probably a blessing, because I know maybe three songs old people like. And I even mess those up fifty percent of the time. My old-person repertory is two songs by Styx, one old Jimi Hendrix song, and a cover of "All Along the Watchtower". Which is… complicated. A good song, I loved it on Battlestar Galactica, but it's still complicated. Took me three months to get down.

I sneak out back for my break, and look around carefully before I light up. A week after Kyle first showed up, I carefully constructed an area for me to smoke in the back of the alley. It's structured so that nobody can see me from the entrance, but that I have clear view of everything that passes by the entrance to the alley. If I saw Kyle looking into the alley, I would spike out my cigarette and wait for him to pass. It sounds slightly paranoid, I know, but I don't want to be accosted by him. I don't want this inevitable confrontation until I know what the hell is going on with him. Once I figure out his motivation, why my statement that was intended as sarcasm set him off, I'll confront him and tear him thirteen new assholes.

But I'm going to do everything in my (limited) power to hold off that conversation until I know exactly what's up. Hopefully, something will happen to help me figure that out. Maybe Kyle will make a mistake, or something like that. Something, anything, to help me out. Even though I doubt he wants me to know what the hell's going on with him. Hell, HE might not even know what's wrong with him. Though, being the evil Jew genius he is, he almost certainly knows what's wrong with him. And will in no way make it easy for me to figure out what's wrong with him. Goddamn Jew.

Finishing my cigarette, I flick the butt out into the gravel and check one last time for any signs of Kyle before sneaking back into Jumpin Java and heading for my guitar stool. I tune Delilah up before strumming a few chords and launching into "Show Me the Way." It's one of two of my old-people set that I actually like, along with "All Along the Watchtower."

There are times I'm grateful for a versatile voice. When I'm singing "Show Me the Way" is definitely one of them. I let it go softer and higher, and close my eyes as I start singing.

"Every night I say a prayer, in the hopes that there's a Heaven.

But every day I'm more confused, as the saints turn in to sinners.

All the Heroes and Legends I knew as a Child, have fallen to idols of clay.

And I feel this empty place inside, so afraid, that I've lost my faith…" I sing. I identify with this song, a lot. The oldies really had it right, sometimes. My fingers are going fast and light, strumming away, as I think about the empty place inside of me and head to the chorus, my tapping toes taking the place of the drum bridge.

"Show me the way.

Show me the way.

Take me tonight, to the river and wash my illusions away.

Please show me the way.

"As I slowly drift to sleep, for a moment, dreams are sacred.

Close my eyes, and know there's peace,

In a world so filled with hatred.

That I wake up each morning, and turn on the news, and find we've so far to go.

And I keep on hoping for a sign, so afraid, I just won't know." A valid fear. I'm not sure HOW I would know, or that I even really want to know.

"Show me the way.

Show me the way.

Bring me tonight, to the mountain and take my confusion away.

And show me the way.

"And if I see your light, should I believe?

Tell me, how will I know?" I launch off into the guitar riffs that take off a minute or two, and take this time to reflect on what's going on with Kyle. He's a light, right? Or something like that? At least, it appears he wants me to think of him that way. So, me being all rejecting and distrusting is like the crisis of faith here. Which is bad…isn't it? But…it's good for me as is. How would I know if I should believe him?

"Show me the way

Show me the way

Sake me tonight to river and wash my illusions away

Show me the way

Show me the way

Give me the strength and the courage to believe i will get there someday

And please show me the way.

Every night, I say a prayer in hopes that there's a Heaven."

I know something's wrong even before I open my eyes after playing the closing chords. Because SOMEONE is clapping. The old people don't applaud, ever. They're deaf, and even if they CAN hear me, applause is something reserved for grandchildren and the Count Basie Orchestra. So, cautiously I open my eyes and what HAD been a smile as I relaxed into my music immediately flipped over into a frown.

Kyle was standing in front of me. He's wearing a Kelly Green polo shirt that stretches across his muscled torso, cargo khaki shorts, and two-week-old Nikes, and he looks nervous and slightly embarrassed, now that he sees he's the only one clapping. I put my guitar away to see a twenty in my case. Gee, I wonder who put THAT there.

"That was good," Kyle says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"Thanks," I mutter, standing up with a scowl and heading for the counter.

"What the hell do you want, Broflovski?" I ask, not looking back at him.

"I, uh, I wanna talk," he says, following me. I sigh and lean up against the swinging half-door thing that separates my part of the counter from Kyle's, turning to face my ex-friend.

"I don't," I reply, crossing my arms.

"I do," he replies, crossing his and giving me a glare that clearly means "and I could kick your ass, you scrawny fuck, so you're going to listen to what I have to say."

"I don't care what you want."

"I don't care that you don't care. We're going to talk."

"No, we're not. We're going to argue about talking, and then I'm going to go away."

"No, you're not. You're going to listen to me."

"I have to work, you stupid dick."

"What the hell did you just call me?" Kyle's eyes flash with anger and narrow to glare at me, and his arms drop down, hands clenching into fists. Ooh, this is fun.

"I called you a stupid dick, you fucking deaf kike," I retort, not flinching in the slightest. "Or did my words go straight to that fucking huge nose of yours? Maybe got lost in your afro?"

"You son of a bitch! I try to be nice to you, and come to have a friendly chat, and you just stand there and mock me and insult me?" He's pissed. He's VERY pissed. Oh, this is just delicious.

"Yep, exactly. Maybe you're not as dumb as you look."

"WHAT!?"

"Oh, and congratulations."

"For WHAT?"

"Finally growing some fucking balls and coming down here to confront me yourself instead of sending one of your thirty eight flunkies," I reply with a cocky tone in my voice.

"I didn't come down here to CONFRONT you, I just wanna talk!" he says, tearing at his hair in frustration.

"Yeah, well, not gonna happen," I tell him, backing through the little half-door and resuming my duties in front of the counter.

Stan: 1, Jew: 0.

Woot!

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Author's Note: What's this!? An update? Before Easter? But didn't that bastard author say that it would take that long to do another one?

Well, yes, I did. But, I got bored over the weekend, and inspired by Faery Goddyss updating SSwTE, and then by Zakuyoe updating Where No Leaf Blooms, which is 10 away from him getting 300 reviews and doing something for somebody, I think.

Ah, anyway, reviews for last chapter were still phenomenal, even though I didn't quite get 60. I suppose they'll balance out eventually… like if we get 10 this time, or 16 between the next two. Either way :D

Same rule from last chapter is still applicable; I will attempt to have another chapter uploaded before Easter. Given the way this chapter ended, if I took any longer, y'all would probably come after me with the torches and pitchforks XD

Happy March!

Phoenix II