three seconds … two … one …
He hit Congress just as the north-south light turned green, leaned hard to the right, and swerved into the southbound lanes in a wide arc. Angry horns honked behind him, and Andy heard the roar of massive engines as drivers put their pedals to the metal, but he was a block out front before the SUVs cleared the intersection. They were just losers eating his dust. He straightened his course, sat up, and tried to raise both arms into the air like Lance Armstrong crossing the finish line at the Tour de France—but he winced with pain. His right arm still wouldn't go past half-mast, so he settled for one raised fist.
"Yee-hah!"
He had won that morning, for what it was worth. He glided past the 1200 block of funky SoCo shops—Vivid and Blackmail and Pink Hair Salon & Gallery—and the Austin Motel, a favorite stop of Julia Roberts and your other celebrity types, then skidded to a stop at Jo's Hot Coffee. He leaned the Huffy against the newspaper racks lined up along the curb and removed his helmet. He passed on the Texas papers and the New York Times and grabbed a free Austin Chronicle, the bible of SoCo. Just then one of the SUVers blew past, yelled "Asshole!" and gave Andy the finger.
"Drink decaf!" Andy yelled back.
Okay, that was lame, but it was the best retort he could come up with before his morning coffee. Max barked to show his solidarity—or he wanted a muffin. Smart dog that he was, Max had stayed on the sidewalk all the way to Jo's.
"You want a muffin, big boy?"
Max bounced up and down and barked a Yes! Yes, I do!
A Great Dane the size of a small horse stood at the sidewalk tables next to its guardian—in dog-friendly Austin, you were not a "dog owner"; you were a "dog guardian." The Dane gave Max a guttural growl. Max ducked behind Andy's legs.
They stepped to the back of the line that looped down the sidewalk. There was no walk-in lobby or drive-through lane at Jo's. It was a walk-up place, a small green structure stationed curbside on Congress in the parking lot of the hip Hotel San José. Jo's catered to those Austinites who loved good coffee but hated corporate conglomerates and so could not in good liberal conscience drink Starbucks. Jo's cost almost as much, but Andy preferred the place because (a) it was locally-owned, (b) the coffee was stronger than Starbucks, and (c) you didn't have to say "venti." You could just say large.
Andy said, "Large."
"Like I don't know, three thousand straight days I've made your coffee."
Guillermo Garza. Every morning since Andy had first moved into SoCo ten years before, he had stopped at Jo's and bought a large coffee and a muffin, two since his dad had transferred guardianship of Max to him.
"Banana nut muffin for me and a …"
Max was fixated on the freshly-baked muffins behind the low glass display; the intoxicating smell had him salivating only slightly more than Andy.
"Max, you want banana nut or blueberry?" Max barked. "Blueberry?" Another bark. Back to Guillermo: "Max is going for a blueberry this morning."
Guillermo bagged the muffins and nodded at the Huffy.
"You steal a kid's bike?"
"Crashed the Schwinn."
"You land on your face?"
"Several times."
Guillermo pointed down the street.
"I saw that stunt you just pulled coming off Nellie. One of those SUVs hits you, dude, you're a piece of history … and Congress Avenue."
Andy shrugged. "Nothing like a little adrenaline rush to get your day going."
"First step to recovery, Andy, is to admit you're a junkie."
"Never denied it."
"Brother, you got more guts than brains." Guillermo Garza knew of what he spoke; he had an M.A. in political science. "Any progress on the Slammer?"
Andy threw a thumb at the Huffy.
"You're looking at it."
They fist-punched through the open window.
"Keep the faith, bro."
Andy paid, grabbed the coffee and muffins, and walked over to the tree-shaded patio. Max slinked by the Great Dane as inconspicuously as possible. Andy sat at a table
He hit Congress just as the north-south light turned green, leaned hard to the right, and swerved into the southbound lanes in a wide arc. Angry horns honked behind him, and Andy heard the roar of massive engines as drivers put their pedals to the metal, but he was a block out front before the SUVs cleared the intersection. They were just losers eating his dust. He straightened his course, sat up, and tried to raise both arms into the air like Lance Armstrong crossing the finish line at the Tour de France—but he winced with pain. His right arm still wouldn't go past half-mast, so he settled for one raised fist.
"Yee-hah!"
He had won that morning, for what it was worth. He glided past the 1200 block of funky SoCo shops—Vivid and Blackmail and Pink Hair Salon & Gallery—and the Austin Motel, a favorite stop of Julia Roberts and your other celebrity types, then skidded to a stop at Jo's Hot Coffee. He leaned the Huffy against the newspaper racks lined up along the curb and removed his helmet. He passed on the Texas papers and the New York Times and grabbed a free Austin Chronicle, the bible of SoCo. Just then one of the SUVers blew past, yelled "Asshole!" and gave Andy the finger.
"Drink decaf!" Andy yelled back.
Okay, that was lame, but it was the best retort he could come up with before his morning coffee. Max barked to show his solidarity—or he wanted a muffin. Smart dog that he was, Max had stayed on the sidewalk all the way to Jo's.
"You want a muffin, big boy?"
Max bounced up and down and barked a Yes! Yes, I do!
A Great Dane the size of a small horse stood at the sidewalk tables next to its guardian—in dog-friendly Austin, you were not a "dog owner"; you were a "dog guardian." The Dane gave Max a guttural growl. Max ducked behind Andy's legs.
They stepped to the back of the line that looped down the sidewalk. There was no walk-in lobby or drive-through lane at Jo's. It was a walk-up place, a small green structure stationed curbside on Congress in the parking lot of the hip Hotel San José. Jo's catered to those Austinites who loved good coffee but hated corporate conglomerates and so could not in good liberal conscience drink Starbucks. Jo's cost almost as much, but Andy preferred the place because (a) it was locally-owned, (b) the coffee was stronger than Starbucks, and (c) you didn't have to say "venti." You could just say large.
Andy said, "Large."
"Like I don't know, three thousand straight days I've made your coffee."
Guillermo Garza. Every morning since Andy had first moved into SoCo ten years before, he had stopped at Jo's and bought a large coffee and a muffin, two since his dad had transferred guardianship of Max to him.
"Banana nut muffin for me and a …"
Max was fixated on the freshly-baked muffins behind the low glass display; the intoxicating smell had him salivating only slightly more than Andy.
"Max, you want banana nut or blueberry?" Max barked. "Blueberry?" Another bark. Back to Guillermo: "Max is going for a blueberry this morning."
Guillermo bagged the muffins and nodded at the Huffy.
"You steal a kid's bike?"
"Crashed the Schwinn."
"You land on your face?"
"Several times."
Guillermo pointed down the street.
"I saw that stunt you just pulled coming off Nellie. One of those SUVs hits you, dude, you're a piece of history … and Congress Avenue."
Andy shrugged. "Nothing like a little adrenaline rush to get your day going."
"First step to recovery, Andy, is to admit you're a junkie."
"Never denied it."
"Brother, you got more guts than brains." Guillermo Garza knew of what he spoke; he had an M.A. in political science. "Any progress on the Slammer?"
Andy threw a thumb at the Huffy.
"You're looking at it."
They fist-punched through the open window.
"Keep the faith, bro."
Andy paid, grabbed the coffee and muffins, and walked over to the tree-shaded patio. Max slinked by the Great Dane as inconspicuously as possible. Andy sat at a table
Similar Books
After The Virus
Meghan Ciana Doidge
Project U.L.F.
Stuart Clark
Women and Other Monsters
Bernard Schaffer
Bella (A Sagatori Family Saga a Mafia Romance Book 3)
Kimberly Blalock
Murder on Amsterdam Avenue
Victoria Thompson
Wild Island
Antonia Fraser
Eden
Keith; Korman
The Loner: The Bounty Killers
J. A. Johnstone
High Cotton
Darryl Pinckney
Map of a Nation
Rachel Hewitt