Two: Gaffey and Price
Gaffey and Price lived together across the street from the post office. They lived together because at one time they’d been best friends but now Gaffey was so burned out from drugs that Price could hardly stand him anymore. Gaffey had been in college for a while, trying to major in biochemistry, but dropped out when the drugs became more important to him than a six-digit income. Later Price dropped out too, but only because college had disappointed him.
Gaffey worked at a convenience store when it was convenient for him to show up. Sometimes Price said things to him like, “You’re going to get fired,” but since Gaffey was the store manager’s supplier he knew his job was secure.
Price worked at the library. He liked to read and there he could steal old copies of the New York Times when no one was looking.
Today Price was reading the newspaper like he did every day, but since it was Sunday morning Gaffey had snatched the comics and read them over a bowl of cereal. Price sighed loudly at intervals, letting Gaffey know that his idiocy was wearing thin on his patience.
“I don’t know why I read these things anyway!” Gaffey tossed the comics onto the pile of paper Price had already perused. “The jokes are stupid.”
“But don’t you like the kids’ page?” Price asked with evident condescension in his voice.
Gaffey stayed quiet. His cereal had turned soggy.
Price was to the obituaries now. “So, I wonder which one of my former high school classmates offed him or herself this week,” he said, for the small town he and Gaffey shared with 5,000 other residents had the highest suicide rate in the entire state. He looked up and down the page. “Megan Macon. Shot herself Friday night.” He smiled ironically and folded the paper.
“I remember her,” Gaffey said, even though he didn’t.
Price pulled out the Sunday crossword and began concentrating. Gaffey slid off his chair, leaving his bowl on the table. Megan Macon was still fresh in his mind. He went to find his high school yearbook.
“Where are you going?” Price asked without looking up.
“Outside.” Gaffey made a detour in the hallway and went to the front door. He was ashamed that Price thought he was so stupid. “To kill some ants.”
“Well, be home before the street lights come on.” Price’s brown hair was sticking straight up, and despite what he had said, Gaffey laughed out loud. Price looked at him sharply.
“Brush your hair,” Gaffey said, giggling.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Price returned to his crossword. “Besides,” he said after a moment had elapsed, “you don’t have any hair.”
Gaffey ran some fingers over the smooth dome of his head. “What can I say, the ladies like me bald.” He grabbed his magnifying glass and went outside.
Gaffey worked at a convenience store when it was convenient for him to show up. Sometimes Price said things to him like, “You’re going to get fired,” but since Gaffey was the store manager’s supplier he knew his job was secure.
Price worked at the library. He liked to read and there he could steal old copies of the New York Times when no one was looking.
Today Price was reading the newspaper like he did every day, but since it was Sunday morning Gaffey had snatched the comics and read them over a bowl of cereal. Price sighed loudly at intervals, letting Gaffey know that his idiocy was wearing thin on his patience.
“I don’t know why I read these things anyway!” Gaffey tossed the comics onto the pile of paper Price had already perused. “The jokes are stupid.”
“But don’t you like the kids’ page?” Price asked with evident condescension in his voice.
Gaffey stayed quiet. His cereal had turned soggy.
Price was to the obituaries now. “So, I wonder which one of my former high school classmates offed him or herself this week,” he said, for the small town he and Gaffey shared with 5,000 other residents had the highest suicide rate in the entire state. He looked up and down the page. “Megan Macon. Shot herself Friday night.” He smiled ironically and folded the paper.
“I remember her,” Gaffey said, even though he didn’t.
Price pulled out the Sunday crossword and began concentrating. Gaffey slid off his chair, leaving his bowl on the table. Megan Macon was still fresh in his mind. He went to find his high school yearbook.
“Where are you going?” Price asked without looking up.
“Outside.” Gaffey made a detour in the hallway and went to the front door. He was ashamed that Price thought he was so stupid. “To kill some ants.”
“Well, be home before the street lights come on.” Price’s brown hair was sticking straight up, and despite what he had said, Gaffey laughed out loud. Price looked at him sharply.
“Brush your hair,” Gaffey said, giggling.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Price returned to his crossword. “Besides,” he said after a moment had elapsed, “you don’t have any hair.”
Gaffey ran some fingers over the smooth dome of his head. “What can I say, the ladies like me bald.” He grabbed his magnifying glass and went outside.