There was only one other customer in the deli, Fitz saw: a guy in a camel-hair jacket, wafer-thin Movado glinting on his wrist, Johnston & Murphys creaking on the tiled floor as he rocked in place, watching the high-school or maybe community-college girl behind the glass counter make his sandwich for him, just like Mummy used to. A real Big Honkey, this one. The sort all too indigenous to this and all beach towns, Fitz knew. He tried concentrating on the newspaper rack to distract himself, telling himself, "Easy, boy, take it easy...." But then, of course, the sort of thing that apparently had to happen every time Fitz shared air with one of these dickheads happened again: Mr. Member, within twenty seconds of Fitz's arrival, was smiling bloodlessly at the girl on the wrong side of the cash register (“You have to be firm with these people, Junior,” Fitz could hear him telling his kid), saying, "How about making that again, and putting it on rye like I asked you the first time, hmm?"
Oh...boy! Fitz, adrenaline stoned, followed The Man, once his new and improved luncheon was made, to the door, imitating his constipated walk, hoping to draw at least one ugly glare before they even made the sidewalk. He didn't, though – so he started in next with the harrumphs and coughs of a fat-ass capitalist behind an oak desk in a ’30s political cartoon. Seeing, though, his as-yet implacable target, who was either really smooth or really scared, making a move for a gold Lexus gleaming on the curbside, pushing a button on his keychain that made the thing yelp like a scared dog, and threatening escape generally, Fitz, who would not be ignored, decided to be still more direct.
"Hey there, fucko," he called to the yuppie, who was lifting the handle on the car door, making a soothing ping emanate from the space within. "Seems to me that, uh, talking shit to people behind counters is pretty easy sport, wouldn't you say?"
The guy stared at Fitz, more confused, it seemed, than anything. So that Fitz, his hangover wreaking havoc on his brain, suddenly wasn't too sure himself what he was doing, why he was wasting this poor bastard's time, keeping him here to suffer these inanities when he almost certainly had more important things to...uh...do? Better keep talking.
"What I'm saying," he said, “is, if you wanna talk some shit, why don’t you try me out?"
The guy smirked. And, car door open, started ducking down into his private world of Billy Blass leather, only to be stopped by the crazed Fitz yet again. "Look, pal-o-rooni" – he was really getting nuts now; nobody was gonna smirk at him, man! – "what I'm getting at is, maybe you and me should just go at it."
He didn’t mean fist fight, of course. He had no idea how. He went instead for his zipper, slinging forth, momentarily, a not-so-little something that should be good for putting a less-fortunate bourgeoisie in his place. Why else drive that absurd penismobile?
The guy, though, having taken a long look, only smirked wider, making Fitz bark, "Nuh-uh. You know your smirking days are through when you take this challenge!" Apparently oblivious to the fact his dick was swaying in the breeze on abandoned wintertime Ocean Boulevard.
The yuppie, more cautious, looked up the street to the right, down the street to the left.... Then, beaming now – the balls on this guy! – loosed from captivity, bringing it up one handful at a time, this...trouser snake – some grotesque, uncircumcised python that hung there, a dumb animal between his knees.
Fitz, horrified, zipping and spinning, shuffled away down the sidewalk, wringing his hands, glancing back at the yuppie who was now cackling like the drowned lady who comes out of the bathtub in The Shining. Back in the deli, heart knocking at the front of his chest, not feeling his feet on the floor, he groped his breast pocket for his cigarettes, put one between his lips with shaking fingers, muttering to himself, "Had to be some kind of...party novelty...." But then, looking out the front window, he saw Mr. Holmes out there using his party novelty to hose down the right front tire of his tired old Corolla.
"God...damn!" Fitz choked, turning his back on the scene, lighting his cigarette.
"Hey," said the girl behind the counter, "you can't, like, smoke in here?"
