davidvienna:

Frank Olesby’s Strange Behavior (Part 3)

The activity of the city street was dampened with alcohol, honking taxis and calculated conversation. Frank wandered south on 34th, pretending to not know where he was going, until he arrived at All Nail Rock ‘n’ Roll.

The pierced lady was lazily sweeping up the empty shop. The sound of clanging guitars and machine gun drums ripped through the small slit in the door. Frank banged on the glass. When she turned, it took her a moment to recognize him. “No refunds!” she shouted over the music.

He banged again, choosing not to scream his question both through the glass and over the cacophony. She plodded to the door, unlocked it and opened it a crack. “What?” she asked.

“I just have one question,” Frank stammered.

“It’ll wash out in stages, probably last a couple of months at most.”

“No, no.” Frank nervously scratched his temple. “That woman I asked you about. The blonde. I need to find her.” The pierced woman stared at him. “Not in a weird way,” he added. “I just need to find her.”

“How is that not weird?”

“I sort of used to know her,” he lied. The practice of fabrication came easy to him, ever since he was a boy. He found it easier to lie to his father—about his grades, the goals he failed to score on the field, the broken pane in the neighbor’s side door—than disappoint him.

“From where?”

“The restaurant.” It was a gamble. “I used to go there for lunch all the time. She gave me some advice once that really helped me out and I’d like to thank her.”

The pierced woman opened the door wider, but still did not let Frank in. Instead, she stood in the doorway and craned her neck to look at his hair. “Looks good.” She leaned the broom against the wall and ran her fingers through it. “Nice job.”

She picked up the broom again. “Geri is good with the advice,” she said. “Last I heard, she was running a auto shop out at Par Station and before you ask, I don’t have her number.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Frank said. He stepped back onto the sidewalk and added, “I’m really not weird.”

“I’m not worried for her,” the pierced lady said.

Frank looked down the sidewalk. “You ever feel totally in sync with the world?” he asked.

“I don’t even feel in sync with my toothbrush.” She closed the door, barely muffling the jangle of chords and screaming vocals spurting from the shop.

To be continued…