The Common Lawyer by Mark Gimenez Read Free Book Online Page B

and placed Max's blueberry muffin and the coffee lid on a napkin on the ground; he poured coffee into the lid. Max tasted the coffee and barked.
    "It is good."
    Andy leaned back, took a long sip, and felt his body come alive when the caffeine hit his system; Jo's brew was double-strong. He bit into the muffin and glanced around at the other regulars.
    "Keep Austin Weird" was the official slogan of the City of Austin. North of the river in downtown, it was just a marketing tool; but south of the river in SoCo it was a daily reality—and weird you would find at Jo's. Young men and "womyn"—you spell it "women" in SoCo and they'll castrate you like a stray dog—were savoring a morning java at Jo's: Ray, tapping on his laptop, a Ph.D. in anthropology who was writing the Great American Novel when he wasn't driving a cab … Darla, Masters in psychology, with her tattoos and wild rainbow hair and Pippi Longstocking leggings and red high-topped retro sneakers; she dished out ice cream at Amy's across the street … Oscar, B.A. in art, grabbing a large Jo's before he started his shift at Güero's two blocks away … George, strumming his guitar and enjoying a latte before commencing his twelve-hour work day playing for tips on the curb … Dwight, blogging his life on his laptop, recording every thought that crossed his mind for all the world to enjoy; he averaged two hits per day … and an assortment of other tattooed-and-pierced oddballs.
    SoCo was like a can of mixed nuts. Fortunately, the cashew of the neighborhood, Queen Leslie, wasn't present that morning. The sight of a middle-aged man wearing a black bra and a pink thong first thing in the morning always made Andy nauseous. The Queen was a harmless homeless transvestite and a SoCo fixture. He was also a serial mayoral candidate; he had once gotten three thousand votes despite campaigning in women's lingerie. His mere presence assured that SoCo would retain its perfect ten rating on the Weird-Shit-O-Meter-of-Life.
    But weird was normal in the thirteen-block stretch of South Congress that constituted SoCo. The people, the shops, the music, the tattoos. Especially the tattoos. Getting a tattoo inked into your skin was a tribal ritual in SoCo, like Mayan Indians who had scarred their bodies to declare their tribal identity. No tattoo and you were marked as an outlander in SoCo, a tourist, a pale-skinned spectator in this multicolored extravaganza called life. Andy Prescott was a member of the tribe. The tattoo on his upper arm was a steel-gray horse head, the American IronHorse motorcycle emblem. He had gotten stupid drunk one night and let Ramon ink it in.
    And most of all, SoCo was about slacking off. Austin had always been a city of slackers; difference was, SoCo's slackers were credentialed, boasting B.A.'s and M.A.'s and J.D.'s and Ph.D.'s from the University of Texas. But UT graduated ten thousand such students every year, and none of them wanted to leave Austin. Consequently, the Austin job market was tighter than Queen Leslie's thong. So they drove cabs and waited tables and served coffee and wrote novels that would never be published.
    And they all hung out at Jo's.
    Andy stood, grabbed the Chronicle, and walked over to the pickup window. He paid again, and Guillermo handed him a small paper bag.
    "Later, dude."
    He saddled up, folded the Chronicle lengthwise and tucked it inside his back waistband, put the helmet on, and whistled to Max. He steered and held the bag with his left hand and the coffee with his right hand. He rode up a gentle slope for two blocks past the San José with the tall agave plants lining the sidewalk and Güero's where Ronda was sweeping the front porch. He crossed over Elizabeth Street and pedaled down the sidewalk past Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds with its façade of faces from Jesus to the Beatles and Uncommon Objects with a metal sculpture of a cowboy riding a jackrabbit above the marquee.
    Andy braked to a stop in front of a storefront