Free Syrup by Maxx Barry Page B

get to the front door. “Don’t you want your razor?”
    I stop.
    “It’s in the bathroom,” she adds helpfully. “Seems like a nice one.”
    I take a few deep breaths and work up a seriously evil glare by the time I turn around.
    “Oooh,” Tina says.
    “Tina,” I say steadily, “will you please get my razor for me?”
    “Hmm, let’s see ...” Tina says. “No.”
    “Okay.” I dump my clothes in the doorway. “Fine.” I march resolutely to the bathroom door, set my lips in a tight line, and rap three times. I don’t knock, I rap. Firm, authoritative raps.
    I’m braced for another Asshole or perhaps a Fuck off, and the long silence is something of a relief but also something of a concern. I resist a grimace as I try the handle.
    It turns. The door swings open. 6 is sitting on the rim of the bath.
    She looks fine, which stops me a little. I had expected red eyes, maybe disheveled clothes, at least an attractive sniffle. But she looks as composed and cool as if today had never happened.
    “I just want my razor,” I say.
    “So get it,” 6 says.
    “I will.” I sidle past her to the sink and pick up my razor, which looks a little lonely among the jungle of 6’s and Tina’s mysterious sprays and bottles.
    Then there’s a little pause, and in it I realize just how easy it is for me to walk out of here and never see 6 again. I only have to say, Well, see you, and she’ll probably ignore me and I’ll just walk out. And that’ll be it. No more 6.
    It’s that simple.
    I stand there and hold my razor.
    I say, “You know, if you’re not doing anything ...”

a tender love scene with scat and 6
    “‘Not doing anything’?” 6 says, her eyes narrowing. “You mean, like working?”
    “Oh—no. I mean ...” I sigh. “Come on, 6. We’ve spent a week working eighteen-hour days. We’re both strung out. So let’s ... let’s just go out somewhere.”
    She arches an eyebrow. I’ve noticed that 6 is very egalitarian with her eyebrows: sometimes the left gets to arch, sometimes the right. “You want to go out?”
    “Yes,” I say. “I think it would be good for us. Both of us.”
    6 lets long, silent seconds pass, as if this really is a judgment call. Could go either way. “Fine,” she says.

mktg case study #7: mktg music
    REVIVE A ROCK STAR FROM THE ‘60S AND APPEAL TO BABY BOOMER NOSTALGIA. NEVER FAILS.

billy ray
    There’s a southern-style restaurant called Billy Ray just two blocks down from 6’s, and since I can see from the street that they have a well-stocked bar, I suggest we go in.
    “Here?” 6 says, wrinkling her nose. “It’s southern.”
    “Yeah,” I say, thinking fast, “but it’s secretly ironic.”
    “Really?” she says, suspicious.
    “You bet,” I say. “It was in Vanity Fair.”
    Inside, however, it quickly becomes obvious that Billy Ray is a big mistake. Their booths each represent a particular southern state, and the waitress leads us straight to Georgia. Squeezed among the pictures of Martin Luther King Jr. and someone I think is Jimmy Carter is a banner happily proclaiming “The Home of Coca-Cola!” and next to our table there’s even a big Coke machine. “Uh,” I say to the waitress. “Could we get another state? Louisiana, maybe? Or even Texas?”
    “Sorry,” the waitress says, with a truly frightening hybrid accent. “Georgia’s all we got left. Texas always goes first, on account of the hats.”
    “Oh. Of course.” I glance at 6. “I guess this is okay, then.”
    “Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink?”
    “Scotch and ... water,” I say, pulling out of a Coke reference just in time.
    “A Bloody Mary,” 6 says. “A tall one.”
    “Y’okay,” the waitress says, which I think is pushing it. She scribbles this down on a little pad.
    “6,” I say carefully, “you should take it easy tonight.” Then it occurs to me that maybe 6 shouldn’t take it easy tonight: that, in fact, if 6 doesn’t take it easy tonight, she might just hold