Sitting cross legged, back against a beige wall ten metres wide, was a man with his hands in his lap. Lying supine on a cushion wet with urine is his business partner, who goes by the name of Bug.
Doug, hunched over himself like an invertebrate drunk, was trying not without some difficulty to count the change within his palms. Bug, whose urine scented couch cushion lay within the shadow cast by the garbage storage shed of a downtown steakhouse, was counting cigarette butts. He had counted to six, then five, then six again, eventually seven when it was really eight when Doug broke his concentration.
"The last guy I asked for change spit on me," said Doug. Out came Bug's instant reply: "Did he give you any change?"
"Nope." Doug sniffed once, looked left, sniffed again, looked right.
"Bastard," said Bug, without even a hint of sympathy. He propped himself up on his right arm to look at Doug.
"So did you spit back at 'im?" asks Bug, preparing a smile.
"Couldn't." No smile. Doug sniffed at the air again.
"Couldn't?" Bug took a healthy whiff of the humid August air, presently being pierced by the buzzing wail of a cicada.
"Nah," says Doug, lifting his head to make eye contact with Bug. "He was up on the fucking roof."
"What fucking roof?"
"T.J. fucking Baxter's, man."
"The hell were you doin' yelling up to that patio fer change fer?" Bug was both confused and amused.
"I figured the city bus line would play real well there, an' I could HEAR the prick talkin' about how fat his damn paycheck was."
Bug's reply took the tone of a professor patronizing his pupil with an explanation of the most obvious of things. "Doug, man, where's your head? TJ's is a frat-brat kinda spot. Those pricks would rather throw up over the patio wall than they would throw you some change."
Bug now laid his head back down on a dry patch of the cushion. A struggle took place at the entrance of his nostrils between the stench of urine and the powerful aroma of slowly cooked steak emanating from the nearby restaurant.
"I can't believe the bastard spit on me."
"I can believe it, fucking' frat boys... lucky he didn't piss on you."
"I guess what I can't believe is that his spitwad actually hit me. Right on my nose it landed."
Bug continued to lack empathy for his business partner. "Some fuckin' frat boy pissed on my cushion." "Did he leave any change?" Doug prepared a smile. "Nope." No smile.
"Bastard."
