Free The Unexpected Salami: A Novel by Laurie Gwen Shapiro Page A

Rachel,” Selena from Temp Solution said. “I have another job for you. I think it should last about two weeks. It’s not glamorous, but the pay is seventeen dollars an hour because they’re in such a bind.”
    “What is it?” I said, breathing hard, one eye on the door. I wanted to be sure that Stuart wasn’t going to bolt.
    “At a nice private school, Friends Seminary on Sixteenth Street—the lunch staff’s on strike. They need someone to serve hot food to the students.”
    “Selena, that was the school I went to for eight years, I don’t think I could do that.”
    “You shouldn’t be proud. That’s loads of money for moving some spoons around. We’re in a recession. Everyone needs the money.”
    “Look, I’m not proud, but I won’t cross a picket line.” Bullshit, Rachel, you’d die before being seen in a hair net by one of your old teachers. “But Stuart, a friend of mine who’s visiting New York, he’d take it.” I heard the bike noise stop.
    “From out-of-town? Is he American?”
    “No, but—”
    “Working papers?”
    “No—”
    “Sorry, we couldn’t help him. You don’t want the job?”
    “Yeah. Please call me though with other work.”
    “Okay, but I have to tell you that the people who accept every job get called more often.” She hung up. Cow. Stuart was sitting on the couch now. I put on a game show, and we sat there in silence.
    Eventually, I heard the lock turning. Frank propped his bike up in the hallway.
    “Is he still here?”
    “On the couch.”
    “So, you going to introduce me to the French Connection?”
    “Shh!”
    Frank poked his head into the living room. I have a proud feeling when anyone meets my brother. He’s actually very averagelooking, five nine, brown eyes, a slightly pointy nose. But even when he had his retainer, cats ran to his lap. Sideburns hadn’t come back into style yet. (They’d be in the next year.) But Frank had them now, long black rectangles.
    “Stuart, isn’t it? Frank—Rachel’s brother.”
    “Yeah.”
    “So how’s it going?”
    Stuart shrugged his shoulders.
    “I hear you’re a drug addict.”
    Stuart looked to me to protect him from this strange creature with no mercy. No way, Problem Child. Frank is Easy Street compared to other fates I could have thrown your way.
    “First trip to New York, right?”
    “Yeah—” What do heroin addicts think of between injections? Stuart was so expressionless I thought his head might be empty except for where to get his next purchase. A mindless loop. See worm. Catch worm. Raise wings. Fly. See worm.
    “Rachel tell you I’m an artist? I’m picking up some comics I have in my old desk. I want to be inspired when I start my new piece. Lichtenstein made a million bucks off his comic book collection, right?”
    No response from our mute. Anesthetized existence, no Art 101 under his belt, downright intimidation, all three.
    “Talkative, huh? I was going to take Rachel out for lunch, to calm her down. She’s freaked out over your arrival—and you don’t want her going off the rails, yeah? Want to join us?”
    “I can’t afford any restaurants, ta.”
    “Ta? What’s
ta
?”
    Stuart looked confused. He was in no shape to comprehend that lower-class Australian is as much a dialect to Americans as Northern Territory pidgin is to Melbournians.
    “
Ta
is ‘thanks’ in Australian,” I said quietly, the UN translator.
    “Ta? Yeah, well, it’s my treat. Why don’t you? I’m not a priest, man. No jive from me.” Frank’s street talk was embarrassing, but as always, somehow he carried it off to great effect.
    “You’re paying? Yeah, sure.”
    “Throw something else on, man—it’s fucking cold out there for April. Let me pick up my comics from the back. I should be able to dig up something warm for you from the closet. My mother never let us throw out anything. Depression-survivor mentality.”
    Stuart slipped on Frank’s old double-layered RISD sweatshirt. My brother carried his