Perchance to Dream
Disclaimer: See Prologue
Summary: Kyle is persistent.
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At Work V
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"Stan, please, I just need to talk to you," Kyle says, following me back to the counter. I sigh loudly and look him right in the eye.
"I'm on the job, Broflovski. Order something, or leave me alone."
"Stan, damnit, just talk to me!"
"Can't. Rules, and stuff. Are you going to order something or not?"
"There's no one here!"
"That's not the point!"
"Yes it is! Talk to me, Stan, please."
"No. Order something or leave."
"Fine! Give me a coffee!" he says in a very frustrated fashion, pulling a dollar out of his pocket and smacking it down on the counter.
"Just a coffee? Not one of your douchy half-caf caramel lattes?" I ask in a snarky tone, taking the dollar and ringing up his order. Kyle's face is as red as his hair, and it's obvious that he's frustrated that I'm not behaving as he imagined I would. Like I could just ignore those three years of beatings and verbal abuse and cuff him on the shoulder like I used to and say "What took you so long?"
"Yes just a coffee," he growls. I snicker as I toss him his quarter in change and pour him a cup of coffee. Apparently he's figured out that I'm going to milk his reticence to hurt me further for all it's worth. I pass it over and then go lean against the back counter, while Kyle still remains at the front counter.
"What now?" I ask, putting on an astonished yet disgusted face and glaring at him. "Want a biscotti? Those cost extra, you know."
Kyle puts on a hurt face. "No, I don't want a goddamn biscotti. I want you to talk to me."
"How many times do I have to tell you no before you understand the meaning of a monosyllabic, two letter goddamn word?" I ask.
"Come on, dude, you used to be my best friend…talk to me."
"Operative words, used to be. I'd rather have Cartman throw another scalding hot latte in my face than talk to you."
Kyle pauses for a moment trying to think up a response to that.
"You suck, Stan," he says with a glare before sitting down. I shrug it off and swing my legs back and forth before I get a burning itch in my blood.
"Greg!" I call, standing back up and going into the back room.
"Stan?"
"I need another," I say, tapping the pocket where I keep my cigarettes.
"Fine, we're slow this afternoon anyway. I doubt we'll have another customer. When you get back in, clean up the unused tables and start running people out, OK?"
"Gotcha, Greg," I say, heading for the back door. "Thanks."
I sneak out to my smoking spot and sit down, lighting myself a cigarette and taking a long drag. Goddamn Kyle. God damn him to Hell. What the hell could he possibly want with me? And why can't he see that I'm not interested in whatever it is? We're as different as apples and oranges now, there's practically nothing we have in common anymore. Kyle's the rich genius stud, I'm the poor barista with good grades but not perfect. He wears Abercrombie and Fitch, American Eagle, Hollister, and that kind of preppy shit, I'm decked out in discount Wal-Mart and J-Mart clothes. He eats gourmet Kosherfood, I'm eating Hamburger Helper and peanut butter sandwiches. There's really nothing left in common.
He should just leave me alone. I didn't ask for his attention, and I don't want it. In two months, I'll be gone, and I won't be any additional bother to Kyle and whatever ambitions the little fucker has. The problem is, he doesn't seem to be inclined to acquiesce to my request. I've already told him that I don't want anything to do with him. Pretty clearly. Has Jew-boy listened? NEIN, NEIN, NEIN!
I wonder what it's going to take to show that I'm not interested in anything he has to say. I've assaulted his associates, avoided him, and insulted him to his face. If he can't figure it out after that, I don't think there's any hope for him. He's always been determined, and I can respect that determination, but when it comes at the expense of ignoring the desires and opinions of those affected by it, someone needs to kick him in the nuts, and not stop until he admits that he gets the message. Or dies. Whichever.
I stab out the butt and realize that I'm nowhere closer to being calm than I was before I came out here. Sighing, I reach for another cigarette and light it, taking several deep drags before I hear something that sends chills down my spine and makes my heck hairs stand on end. Another lighter flicks active, and lights something. Then comes rapid coughing, coming from the alley side of my little enclosure. I quickly stand up and, against my better judgment, go around to look at who it is.
I freeze in my tracks to find Kyle leaning against the back wall of Jumpin' Java, holding a lit cigarette.
"Hi Stan," he says, with a small grin, holding up the cigarette. "This is disgusting."
"It's probably not kosher," I tell him with a scowl and a sharp glare. "You're probably going to Hell now."
His grin vanishes. "Don't act like that, damnit; I'm just trying to break the ice."
"Broflovski, a Russian-made icebreaker ship couldn't make headway in the frozen mass between us."
"Would you just stop with it already? I just wanna talk to you, Stan."
"Hmm, lessee here. I've kicked your messenger boy in the nuts, avoided you for the last two weeks, and just tore you a new asshole in there. How much clearer can I make it that I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU?" I yell, taking an angry puff of my smoke. I blow the smoke towards him, and he flinches, recovering quickly.
"You don't even know what I want to say!" Kyle accuses wildly, just a step or two on the scale of irrationality from flailing his arms through the air.
"And I don't want to!" I say, cutting him off. "It's not my problem anymore! YOU'RE not my problem anymore. Nor am I yours. We're about as separate from each other as peanut butter and cheeseburgers. Go AWAY!"
"No!" he insists, pushing himself off the wall and walking angrily towards me. "You're going to listen to me, and you're going to like what I have to say."
"That sounds like a threat, Broflovski," I sneer, putting on an air of dispassion while internally I'm more than a little scared of the guy. I mean, he's run over guys twice my size, and he's been doing it for four years.
"The second part's not," he says. "The first part's up for discussion. Now, are you going to listen, or not?"
"Not. Are you going to back off, or do you want to have to explain to Wendy just why you can't have children?"
"Go ahead, kick me in the balls. I'll have your ass thrown in jail and you won't get out until you listen to me."
"You can't do that," I scoff, rolling my eyes, though not really doubting his abilities.
"I'm a Jew. I can do whatever I want," he says, a smug look on his face, which is way too close to mine.
"Get away from me," I seethe. "Broflovski."
"Don't call me that," he says, bearing down. "My name's Kyle. You know that. We were best friends for ten years, for Christ's sake. Stop calling me Broflovski."
"The key word in that statement, Broflovski, is 'WERE.' We WERE best friends. We aren't anymore. I can call you whatever the hell I want. I could call you Chuckles McGee the Assramming Serial Rapist if I wanted, but I'll settle for Broflovski. It angers you."
"YES it angers me!" he says, and I think a little spittle lands on my jacket. "Of course it angers me! Goddamnit, you're being unreasonable!"
"And you're just not fucking listening. I told you to leave me alone and go away." My voice gets hostile and I slam my cigarette into the ground in order to clench my fists. I will hit this little fuck if I have to.
"And I told YOU that's not going to fucking happen. Now be a good boy and sit down and open your ears." My mouth hangs open, incredulous. What the hell did he just call me?
"What the fuck? 'Be a good boy'? I'm not a dog, asshole!"
"No, but you're acting like a fucking child. SIT!" Kyle yells, pointing at my alcove. Jesus, does he have no people skills at all? Or any sense? Can he not tell that I'm not exactly in a mood to follow orders from him?
"Fuck you, Broflovski."
"Don't call me that! Only those stupid fucking asshole teammates of mine call me that!"
"You mean those fucking asshole teammates of yours that have been beating the shit out of me under your orders the last three years?"
"No, Goddamnit, I didn't tell them to do that! I'd never hurt you like that, Stan!"
"Oh fuck you! Goddamn lying Jew-rat. I believe that like I believe the government faked the moon landing!" I say, pushing Kyle away from me and heading for the door.
"Now LEAVE ME ALONE!" I shout, walking back into Jumpin' Java and slamming the door behind me. I slide down to the floor, panting while Kyle hammers on the door. Greg looks back in, concerned.
"What the hell happened out there?"
"That asshat from a couple months ago showed back up. Between you and me, he's crazy," I answer. "Just gimme a minute and I'll help you clean up," I add, taking deep breaths to try and calm down.
Goddamn that Kyle. He does NOT know how to leave well enough alone. Bad enough three years ago when he threw me out of the group, but now that everyone's adjusted to the new status quo, he doesn't like it anymore? Does he not understand the way High School's supposed to work? He's been there for four years, he should know that jocks are king, cheerleaders are queen, nerds are to be bullied, emos are to be constantly mocked, brown people are to be avoided and have INS called on them, and I'm not supposed to even exist in the eyes of everyone else. But he doesn't, apparently. Four years, and the genius doesn't know the basics of the High School Hierarchy. That's. Fucking. Bull.
He's dating the HEAD CHEERLEADER! If anybody in that school could be counted on to know the acceptability levels of every kid in every class, it would be Wendy. It's her JOB, as girlfriend of the leading man and leader of the popular girl clique, to know who can be spoken to, and looked at, by those under her command. By extension, Kyle – who is VERY rarely separated from her – would hear her updating the lists to the other girls every day. He KNOWS what's what.
Moreover, that denial that my beatings are his fault is totally ridiculous. Jock rule number one: The star jock runs the show. The show comes with the team. The team doesn't do anything the star jock doesn't approve of, or hasn't approved. Especially not OUR team. They even have their own language. Kyle invented it after I left. The little genius can claim anything he told them before I got the crap beaten out of me had nothing to do with me, and do it with a straight face.
That little fucker'd better leave me alone. I don't think I can take much more of his whiney yammering and his begging and pleading for me to just listen to what he has to say, that he never meant to hurt me, and telling me that I'm being unreasonable, all with a little half-pout on his face and trying to pull off the puppy-dog eyes (failing miserably), and never taking the final step into pounding my ass into the wall. I can see it in his eyes, the burning rage and desire that are always oh so close to overtaking him and just laying it on me.
If he keeps going, I'm going to give him the worst beating of his life on April Fools' Day and use that excuse at trial. "It was just an April Fools' joke, Your Honor." God, I want him to keep going now. Keep pissing me off, Broflovski. We'll see who's laughing when your stupid ass is in traction.
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Notes: Look! The new chapter! And Jesus isn't even in the ground yet! Amazing, right?
I'll tell you what's amazing: You folks! TWELVE reviews! TWELVE REVIEWS! OH MY GOD! I've never had that many on a single chapter in my ficcing life! … Ficcing as in fic-writing, not as a milder derivative of … well, you get my drift.
Enjoy, everybody!
Phoenix II