Saturday Night IX
by Joel Deutsch
Sasha is waiting for the Walk signal at Santa Monica Boulevard when the Rothko Rooter van comes up Fairfax from behind him and stops at the crosswalk. His long strides having kept off the night chill, he still has his jacket slung over one shoulder.
“So Alex, your feet getting tired yet?” how about we give you that lift now?”
“I don’t need a ride,” says Sasha, with a quick glance. This time it’s Marvin, the one with the glasses, who’s sitting shotgun. “Really I don’t. but thanks again for asking.”
The light turns green and he steps off the curb. The van rolls alongside, keeping pace. Sasha doesn’t turn to look but is aware of it in his peripheral vision. Again, he notes the low, powerful throb of the exhaust, strangely dissonant with such a vehicle’s bland utilitarianism.
Across the intersection, the van pulls ahead and parks at the curb a few yards past an empty bus stop and a bolted-down bench whose back is a billboard for the Berlowitz-Kaufman Funeral Home.
Marvin Rothko jumps out, turns the handle to release the sliding side door and pushes it open. In the glow of the dome light, Sasha sees a passenger bench seat and, behind it, pipes of various lengths and diameters, open boxes of plumbing parts, a clutter of wrenches and other tools he doesn’t recognize,, and several long, thick brass coils with handles at one end lying one atop the other on the floor like sleeping reptiles.
“C’mon, Alex, hop in,” says Marvin, beckoning with his upturned hand. “We’re family. Mispochah. So why don’t we all go somewhere for a bite to eat and a little kibitzing, you know what I mean? Just a little get-together. A little get-acquainted.”
To be continued…