Free Finding Mr. Brightside by Jay Clark

asks for our order.
    “Your usual?” Abram asks me.
    I’ve developed this unfortunate habit of leaning over him and ordering for myself. Doing it again, trying to yell out as politely as possible, still sounding like a swashbuckling lady truck driver. Abram pulls up to the window, pays with my card, and hands me one of my two drinks, placing the other in the cup holder beside his; I put his straw in for him, finding our early-morning synchronization to be quite scary.
    I hand him his wallet and ask him to pull up beside the bench in front of the store.
    He looks over to make sure I’m serious. “The one with the dead homeless lady on it?”
    “Yes, that’s Claire … I think.”
    Last week she preferred Georgette.

 
    18
    ABRAM
    J ULIETTE HIDES MY WALLET AGAIN, this time where I can see it, before opening her window and shouting, “Claire!” The woman jumps up from the bench and walks over to the car, quicker than she looks. Juliette holds out one of her two ventis and says, “Morning,” minus the good in front of it. Claire mutters an “Mm-hmm” in response, clearing the cobwebs from her eyes. Looks like she’s got some on her clothes, too, but those are less of a concern. She takes the coffee from Juliette’s hand and says, “You’re so sweet to me, girly.”
    “You can do better,” Juliette insists. She waits for Claire to take her first sip before asking if the coffee’s strong enough. Claire waves her hand back and forth like a connoisseur not quite ready to commit. Juliette hands her ten dollars, explaining she’ll be gone for a few days.
    “Excuse me?” Claire asks, like a homeless mother figure caught off guard. “Where to?”
    “The beach.”
    “With him?”
    “What’s wrong with him ?” Juliette demands, which makes me smile.
    Claire puts her hand over her eyebrows, trying to get a better criticism vantage point. I’d tip my cap in her direction, but it’s on backward, so I just nod.
    “Cute,” Claire admits to Juliette. “Smiles a lot, though.”
    “Somebody has to,” Juliette says. Claire forgets about me and begins talking about the ladies she plays bingo with at the church. Juliette’s finger points forward, beneath where Claire can see, indicating I should drive away from the story.
    “You help homeless dogs and people?” I can’t resist bringing this up as I’m merging onto the highway slowly, but not too slowly, trying not to scare her as she tenses and tightens her seat belt.
    “Claire’s my last one.” Then, looking more amused, she adds, “My dad thinks she’s faking her homelessness.”
    “Really? Never thought of that.”
    “Good, that means you’re not crazy.”
    “What do you think?”
    “The worst,” she says. “Easier to avoid surprises.”
    I raise my eyebrows and point to myself, like, What about this surprise? She scrunches up her nose, still looking for a way to explain away the whole me-and-her phenomenon. I don’t think there’s a scientific explanation.
    “Was he—your dad—better with everything this morning?”
    “No. But he silently handed me some emergency hurricane supplies on my way out.” She removes several items from her enormous purse: a wind-up radio, water purification tablets, flashlights, a flame-retardant blanket, and a Nylon Paracord(?). “He even left the house to get it all,” she says, a slight uptick of pride sneaking into her voice.
    “That’s awesome.”
    She waves away the awesomeness. “We all have our milestones, I guess.”
    I almost mention she’s reached one herself, by suggesting this trip in the first place, agreeing to get to know me out-of-state and hundreds of miles from her comfort zone. Instead, I say, “Possum chunks,” motioning to the dead animal on my side of the road. Juliette doesn’t get grossed out by the gory randomness of my icebreaker, just raises an amused corner of her mouth and continues staring out the window.
    “Deer carcass,” she notes, a minute or two