“I don’t know,” they say. “The one time I went back there, it smelled like mildew and there was a short, thick, older man doing somersaults with an overly determined look in his eyes.”
“The one time I went back there,” I say. “I saw Timbo giving it to a very old lady lying on a couch who was vomiting into a bucket on the floor. They both seemed to be having a really good time. I might have been hallucinating.”
We’re sitting in two posh recliners, fairly close to each other, after having turned the OPEN sign off for the furniture store.
“I wonder what’s going on in there right now,” they say.
“I don’t know. I’m too drunk to get up.”
“There’s definitely an odor.”
“Moderately alarming.”
“I don’t think there’s any reason to freak out. This place has always been here. Probably not going anywhere.”
They’re right. We’ve worked in the furniture store since we were in high school. Our parents worked here before us. I’m nearly fifty.
“No. Unfortunately. No.” I dig the flask out of my pocket and take a healthy slurp. “We going home or …” I have to ask. Sometimes, when we’re both in this condition, we’ll find a mattress in the warehouse and sleep on that. Usually with another mattress on top for warmth and added stealth. I’ve almost suffocated myself on at least three occasions.
“I was just going to sleep in my car. Tell them I got here too early and dozed off.”
“Have you ever done that?”
“What?”
“Gotten here too early.”
“No. But there’s a first time for everything.”
“You mind if I sleep under it?”
“My car?”
“Yeah. I normally sleep in the bathtub at my apartment. I like a hard surface and there’s carpet everywhere. Like … everywhere.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
“Thanks. I really don’t want to walk home.”
“You live across the parking lot.”
“Too far.”
