What the Bungalow Brings

By Harlow

Three: Reticent Words

Ned's Copy Shop whirred away on Thrushcross Street, where copies were being made, beams of green Xeroxed across pages, and papers faxed in and out, in and out all day long.

Sid had his back to the customer—shoulders slumped—making faces to mimic the current idiot he had to deal with. Leaning a bit too heavily against the copier, Sid was creating and recreating two dozen glossy sheets of a horrendously ugly little runt of a dog that the customer – a suspiciously fruity man in a green suede jacket - continued to refer to as "my lovelykins." The papers continued to print out, each one more difficult to look at than the last.

"Don't you think that's my lovelykin's best angle?" the customer drawled on in a standard gay lisp, the words streaming out of his mouth in strings of proverbial taffy. Sid gathered up the last of the papers, knocked for a loop that he hadn't gone blind.

"I couldn't say. Camera angles really aren't my thing," Sid replied sarcastically, handing the glossed sheets over to Mr. Avocado and plastering on a wickedly fake grin.

"Oh, well then. What do I owe you?"

"Twenty-one, seventeen."

"That's a bit pricy, don't you think?"

"Only the best for your lovelykins, sir."

Finally catching on, the man huffily paid the price and sauntered out oft the copy shop, a new stick lodged firmly up his butt.

Snickering, Sid grabbed his open can of soda next to the register and took a long swig. The day was dragging by slower than molasses, but with only half an hour to go, Sid was getting antsy to leave. He had to make Gerald's tournament or there would be hell to pay.

Skinnier than a rock star on coke, Sid stood an average five foot eight and only topped in at around one-fifteen. His green eyes were large, almost too big for his thin, gaunt face. Having a big nose all his life, Sid had somewhat grown into it, even though it still hooked slightly, and he still remained secretly self-conscious about it. His black hair was cut more stylishly than usual these days—pseudo punishment from Rhonda, who worked at a hair salon three blocks south, and insisted that he start working on his "image." She had chopped it short in the back, leaving the bangs long to hang constantly over one eye like a dark, mod curtain. She assured him it was all the rage, so chic. To Sid, it was nothing but an annoyance. Humoring Rhonda, Sid had also taken to wearing tighter jeans, jazzy pearl-snap button shirts—the collar always flipped up, and a white studded belt.

Noting his appearance, Sid realized he probably looked about as queer as Mr. Avocado. The flawlessly white go-go boots didn't help his heterosexuality much either, but some things never changed.

With a practiced shake of his head, Sid flicked the stubborn hair out of his eyes (a habit he'd recently noticed that girls noticed, and so he had discreetly perfected the art.) Sid commenced on his chronic closing duties before Ned could waddle out from the back room and roar at him for slacking off. Ned was a big scary Cro-Magnon that nobody
wanted to cross, Sid being no exception. However, he was convinced Ned wouldn't bother emerging from his lair any time soon. The man was, no doubt, too preoccupied with his vast array of downloaded porn.

Cleaning up around the shop took a good two minutes. That's what Sid enjoyed most about his job. Less people meant less work, and a crowd at a copy shop, especially in the seedier district of the city, was about
as likely as Sid getting a raise.

That'd be the day, Sid thought dryly as he made his way around the counter to Ned's priced possession: the shop's own copier/laserjet printer hybrid. Ned never failed to remind Sid that Old Faithful (he'd taken to naming the machine after a geyser of all things) was worth more than Sid's entire existence. With only the push of a few buttons, Sid could scan whatever pictures he wanted, edit them to faultlessness on the touch-screen monitor provided, and print them out again and again and again.

With only fifteen minutes left till clock-out, Sid pulled a small photograph out of his back pocket, examining it thoughtfully before putting it facedown on the scanner. The familiar ribbon of emerald green streamed over the picture, illuminating Sid's waistline for only a moment in a perverse sort of limelight, before pulling up the photo on the monitor.

Sid smiled in satisfaction.

The picture was of Gerald and Rhonda, the two standing together on the green. Gerald was dressed to the nine-irons in goofy golf clothes, decked out in varying shades of pastels, a golf club held awkwardly in one white-gloved hand. Sid was certain Rhonda managed her boyfriend's attire considering her status as the unofficial wardrobe Nazi. Appropriately, Rhonda stood next to Gerald. A whole head shorter, Rhonda Wellington Lloyd was a beacon of pristine beauty, smiling a dazzling set of enamel pearls and wearing a green designer sundress that complimented her body perfectly. The two were holding hands, their fingers intertwined like stitches on a patchwork quilt.

Sid felt only a moment's stab of jealousy at the two's happiness. Their ritzy, upscale life.

Sid snorted. That's exactly what he needed. A few extra greenbacks. But Sid's optimism would have to skyrocket if he believed for even a moment that a behemoth like Ned would grant him another wrung up the corporate ladder. For now, he was stuck in a low-end job with a mediocre salary, making a stupid little gift for one of his best friends because he couldn't afford a real one. Hell, he could barely afford the rent he
split with the guys.

Sighing, Sid finished souping up the picture, making everything about it so photogenic that it was almost unrealistic. The plastic couple. Rhonda and Gerald. Barbie and Ken.

Using a text tool on the monitor screen, Sid selected a fancy font and typed something out over the picture, the word hanging over the couple's head like an ominous charm. It looked hokey, and Sid was about to erase it and start over when the jangling of bells above the door sounded a customer's entrance.

Mentally grumbling, Sid turned around to face whoever couldn't wait until tomorrow to make a couple of goddamned copies right before the shop closed.

Eyes widened. Pulse quickened.

For a little over a moment, Sid's conviction that he was being robbed clutched at him like the force of a large hand over a soft, vulnerable neck. Two men stood before him—young men. They couldn't have been more than a few years older than Sid himself, but they were both big, much bigger than skinny Sid.

The two were tall and bulky. Real football, jock types. Except grungier, and both with an untamed hunger in their eyes that did not come from a want of tackling or scoring a goal.

The one in front stepped forward. He was the taller of the two, and possibly older, with dark, long brown hair that was tied back in a surprisingly neat ponytail. His eyes were an overcast grey that looked at Sid with a feral inquiry that Sid could not even begin to guess at. Also…something he couldn't quite place. Something like familiarity.

"Can uh—can I help you guys?" Sid finally stammered, shaking his head till his mind was back on track.

Suddenly, the man with the ponytail gave Sid a very dazzling smile, and though Sid could tell it wasn't entirely sincere, it could have convinced a lot of people. "Yeah," he replied. "Help is what I'm looking for, man. In fact, I'm going to need quite a bit of help. Care to hear a proposition?" The smile bloomed into a full-blown Cheshire grin as the man reached into his leather jacket.

Sid's stomach clenched and a wave of panic set in. A gun. There was a gun in his—

No. Sid immediately relaxed as the man pulled a twenty out of his jacket and placed it on the countertop. It was crisp and new like it was freshly ironed. Jackson looked solemnly up from his two-dimensional realm.

Confused, Sid looked from the bill back up to the man, the same feeling settling over him. That familiar feeling. Did he know this guy?

"So, you'd like to make a few copies of something?" Sid asked slowly, still trying to place that face, those eyes. The demeanor.

The man with the ponytail laughed good-naturedly. Sid was relaxing more and more. "Something like that," he replied, his grey eyes never leaving the twenty while he said it.

Ponytail guy's accomplice made no comments, no add-ins. Merely stood back near the door and waited with his arms crossed. Gruff elegance mixed with nonchalance. Sid gave him the eye, noting that he, too, looked unnaturally familiar.

"OK, so whaddaya want me to copy?" Sid asked, his voice bordering on annoyance, but not dabbling in it. He didn't want the shit beat out of him, but if this guy was going to play word games all night, Sid had better things to do.

"Allow me to explain," he said, and explain he did.

Some time later, Arnold stepped off the bus with his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Class at Fairview had ended just in time for him to meet up with Sid at work and catch the bus over to Greenwich Park for Gerald's match.

It had been drizzling on and off all day, and a light veiled mist fell around Arnold as he walked with hunched shoulders and hands in pockets up to Ned's Copy Shop. Arnold was about to walk inside, prepared to spring Sid loose from Caveman Ned, but he stopped in front of the large front window, peering into the shop from outside.

Sid was behind the counter, grinning like a maniac and shaking the hand of a man whom Arnold could only glimpse at a quarter profile. He didn't recognize the guy though the way his skinny friend was acting, he'd guess it was Sid's new best friend. Next, he saw Sid take something off the counter and place it into an envelope, then put envelope in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Arnold noticed another man inside closer to the door, but because of the misty rain, the window was too foggy to make out his face. All he could glimpse was a shock of wild blonde hair and distorted facial features, like a real-life mosaic.

The other guy crossed over to the door to meet his blonde-haired companion and the two walked out of the shop, quickly turning the other way and walking down the street before Arnold could get a good look at either of them. All he saw was their retreating forms and an echo of fervent excited whispers. Arnold almost called out to them, almost told them to stop, hold on. Almost demanded to know who they were. But the moment passed and Arnold realized that was ridiculous. Just some last minute customers.

So why had Sid been so happy to see then?

Chewing meditatively on the inside of his cheek, Arnold entered Ned's Copy Shop, the bell above the door ringing its strangled, baby bird cry. Sid had his back turned, facing the copier, printing out something. He turned around at the sound of the door, a sullen expression etched into his face like he'd expected yet another customer to come and ruin his day. A grin crept onto his face though when he saw it was Arnold.

"What's up, man?" Sid asked, slapping fives with his friend. Arnold's gaze drifted to the paper Sid held clutched in his hand.

"Not much. What's that?"

"Oh." Sid looked down, messing up the back of his raven hair in what appeared to be a nervous gesture. "Just a little something for Gerald. You know, for the match." He slid it across the counter, crossing his arms.

Arnold studied the paper. On it was a picture of Gerald and Rhonda. Arnold remembered the picture from Gerald's nightstand in his room—one that was taken a few months ago at another golf club in some city up north. Above the picture was the word

CONGRATULATIONS

and below it:

SID

Arnold smiled his easy smile, looking up at Sid.

"You're pretty sure of Gerald's skills. He hasn't even played yet. How can you congratulate him?"

Sid shrugged. "The guy hasn't lost yet. Come on, Arnold. I thought you were the freaking optimist around here." Sid grinned again, going over to the wall by the door that led to the backroom. Behind it lurked Ned, who, judging by the muffled noises that sounded like steel grating against cinderblocks, was fast asleep. Sid pulled out his time card, punching out, and then heading back over to Arnold.

"Let's go, dude," Sid told him, the grin still on his face. "The rolling green and boring commentators await us."

"Alright," Arnold agreed, opening the glass door to be greeted by a blanket of humidity. The rain had stopped, encompassing the atmosphere in a sticky, stagnant web. As they walked down the street towards the bus stop, Arnold asked the question bothering him. "So, who were those guys I saw you talking to in the shop?"

Sid faltered for only a moment, his eyes registering a concealed motive he was deadset against revealing. Smoothly he replied, "Ah, just some customers." And, to change the subject slightly: "Weird thing is, they both looked so familiar. Maybe they went to P.S. 118…?"

Arnold nodded, his interest already waning. No big deal. Just some customers like he'd expected. Perhaps Sid was just incredibly good at faking the courtesy his job required.

The bus arrived and the two young men stepped aboard, their change clattering into the bus's dispenser. Diamonds cascading onto glass.