Free The Bialy Pimps by Johnny B. Truant Page A

Roger’s visits, Roger’s word-hoarding vanished and he spent his words lavishly, extravagantly, ceaselessly. He’d regale her with tales of his days in the army, of his early work life (always manual labor; Roger didn’t seem mentally ready for astrophysics), and of his daily routine. Especially the latter. Thanks to Roger’s booming, child-like Beckie-voice, the entire staff and front half of the restaurant learned what Roger had done that morning, what he’d bought at the store, if he’d gotten his hair cut (he was bald, but apparently saw a barber anyway) and what he was going to watch on TV later that night.
    When Roger came in, Beckie could count on getting nothing done. She didn’t want to be rude, so she’d respond and nod politely to every little thing he said while bagel orders piled up in front of her. Despite her love for Roger, she’d usually end up having to hide in the back after several hours of verbal assault in order to keep things moving.
    “It’s for the best,” Philip would tell her. “If he doesn’t go home and watch those reruns of Kids, Incorporated , who will?”
    Roger was a padlocked enigma, and Beckie was the key. When she wasn’t around, he stayed locked up tight. The dignified older man was all that appeared... and the slow, bubbly kid who shared his skin stayed hidden deeply inside.
    “Diet Coke! Medium!” Roger commanded the Anarchist, sauntering up to the counter in his jaunty, despondent way.
    “Hi Roger!” said the Anarchist. It was best to end everything said to Roger with an exclamation point. It’s what Beckie did. Maybe the fun Roger would come out.
    Roger said nothing and wordlessly offered him a dirty dollar bill, gazing vacantly into space. He smacked his lips, which were filmed with a white residue.
    The Anarchist rang up Roger’s drink, pulled the change out of the drawer, and glanced up to see that Roger was staring at him, stoically tapping the rim of the gallon glass jar which served as the Bingham’s tip cup.
    “Thanks, Roger!” returned the Anarchist, still following the exclamation point rule. He dropped the coins into the jar, looked up at Roger’s impassive countenance, and smiled again. Roger, saying nothing, resumed his vacuous gaze, and waited.
    After getting his drink, Roger plodded back to his seat on his skinny, uncertain legs and made himself comfortable: sideways in a chair, back against the wall, legs crossed, cigarette in hand, the elbow holding it propped up on the tabletop. He was ready.  
    Ready to harass some of the female customers with his innocent, nasal-voiced, old-man charm.

2.
    Sometime after Roger had settled in and after he’d begun one of his favorite pastimes – violating the personal space of female customers by scooting toward them until he was sitting too close – the front door opened and Captain Dipshit crawled in on his hands and knees.
    Nobody saw him enter. This was, of course, the whole idea. Bingham’s front wall from waist-level up was made of intermittently fogged, terminally splintered windows, and the front door was entirely glass. If you stood up, you were sure to be spotted by both people inside and outside of the deli. But if you approached the door on all fours, darted in, and then scampered into a cluster of tables near the outward-facing counter below the windows, you could enter while being kicked repeatedly and smearing your pants with a goo that was reddish-brown and resistant to antibiotics. And also undetected.  
    Captain Dipshit had been watching the deli from across the street at the undergraduate library all morning, waiting for a time when it would be safe to enter. He was watching for the dwarf – or for any of the other trademark whackos. But the dwarf troubled him most of all, because it was this small man who was responsible, somehow, for all of it. For Captain Dipshit’s humiliation. For the way the deli was run – the sinister, vaguely evil tenor of the place. For whatever caused