18
New Pullers jerseys were in at a shop a few blocks down from the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet, so Rupert and Jesus parted ways there and Rupert walked through a few parking lots, cross-body bag bouncing against his hip, aware that a living plant—a potentially talking plant—bounced around inside, so he slowed down to not jostle it so much. He needed to get it into some water.
At that moment, he was narrowly missed by a man who’d run out of a Holly’s Hush-Hush lingerie store with two armloads of women’s underwear. Thongs and open-crotched panties fluttered to the blacktop around Rupert. A managerial-looking woman in a smart suit and a phone in her hand ran a little way behind the man, stopping next to Rupert, who’d also stopped to watch. They saw the man navigate the main road traffic, leaving a trail of frilled undergarments in his wake. Behind this set piece, the sun shone its brightest as it prepared to retire for the day. Rupert wondered how many times he needed to burn out his retinas before he remembered to buy sunglasses.
“He does this about once every three or four months,” she said to Rupert as her inventory ran away.
Rupert nodded.
Then, police cars screeched and squealed from all directions and the next thing the thong thief knew, he was knocked sideways, his booty scattered to the sky. He landed on his hip, but it was hard to tell through the streaming cars.
“He never lands the same way,” the woman said, sighed, and walked towards the scene.
Rupert moved on, remembering the Plant with No Name.
Back at the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet—after ignoring Angel and wondering if anyone else worked or was even staying there—Rupert sat at the small, square table in his room. The plant now sat safely in a glass of water on the other side of the table, as if they were about to share a meal together. He stared at it, waiting.
The plant said nothing.
Rupert inspected it—the black ridges, the strangeness of its twisted limbs fascinated him. It had incurred an injury in his cross-body bag during the escape, and it oozed now, not the clear, slippery sunburn-soothing liquid of normal aloe, but something translucent and blue. He wasn’t quite up to putting his fingertip in it to see if it at least shared the same consistency.
Finally, after much deliberation with his solitary pride, he brought himself to address the plant.
“So . . . ” he began in almost a whisper.
The phone rang. Rupert resisted the urge to slam his head onto the table.
“Yes,” he said as the receiver reached his ear.
“Where’s everything at, Rupe?”
Pyrdewy’s uncharacteristic calm sounded strange to his ear. Rupert tensed up, waiting for the shiny, well-maintained business shoe to drop.
“Well.” Rupert stalled. He really needed to spend more time during the day thinking up lies to tell this man. “It’s . . . good.”
“Oh, it’s good?” Pyrdewy cooed. “Good.”
Silence.
“What the fuck are you telling me, you fuckin’ weed?”
Rupert relaxed once the screaming started.
“I’m in the program. I’ve . . . gotten in, and I’m observing, and . . . ”
Fuck. He didn’t even know where the D.E.A.T.H. program was. Pyrdewy had already warned him that it was so top secret that finding it without an introduction from already-matriculated Methheads would be next to impossible, and yet he’d given him no hint.
“Well,” Pyrdewy said and then a pause. “None of our operatives have mentioned seeing you.”
“I suppose they haven’t noticed. I haven’t seen any of them either.” Rupert cringed.
“You’re a six-foot-ten inch black man,” Pyrdewy said.
“I prefer ‘multi-ethnic’—”
“Shut up.”
“Yes.”
Pause.
“They treating you alright down there, Rupe? I mean, everyone being nice?” Pyrdewy’s voice became calm again, as if speaking to a child.
“Um, sure. Fine.”
“Good, good,” Pyrdewy said in a soft, soothing manner that made Rupert a bit nauseous. “Sarasotans aren’t so much known for their hospitality for your . . . type, Rupe.”
“My . . . ?” Rupert got it. And Pyrdewy was right. There were some racist motherfuckers down here. But there were obviously some racist motherfuckers in DC, so what difference did it make?
“The swarthy type, Rupe.”
I get it. Rupert said nothing.
“The melanin-friendly type, Rupe.”
Yep, got it. Rupert still said nothing. He wished Pyrdewy—and everyone—would stop calling him “Rupe.” He also thought it better not to respond to this particular line of conversation.
“Get back to work, Rupe,” Pyrdewy said, then hung up.
Rupert replaced the receiver and then glared at the plant sitting oblivious on the table.
The phone rang again and he let it. A moment later, the green message light flashed. Rupert listened; it was Leenda. “Just checking in.” His chest filled with sparks, but they dissipated into a dull ache and he returned the receiver to its cradle again. Rupert thought about the last time he saw her, which felt like forever ago. The elevator door sliding shut, and a dinner proposal that hinged on the re-appearance of Stanley. Rupert hoped even more fervently that they found him, though by now it seemed improbable. But Leenda would be here soon, and there would be a meeting regardless. He felt both eager and terrified.
Sock it to me...