Free Suckers by Z. Rider Page A

but he turned his nose up at the flophouse. It took a while, but eventually he talked Dan into getting a “real apartment” with him. That lasted four months before Jamie moved back to his parents’—it was that or get a job to cover his share of the rent.
    The real apartment was where Dan still lived—since he was there so little, it was hard to justify moving.
    Whenever they got off the road and he found himself sitting on the couch in the empty living room listening to the neighborhood below, he kind of wished Jamie was still there. Just a little. Just so there’d be someone there he could say, “Well shit. What do we do now?” to, and maybe get an answer. Jamie, for all his lack of responsibility, had actually been fun to hang out with, way back when.
    He dragged himself off the couch, intending to start unpacking. Instead he said, “Shit,” and put a hand to his head, closing his eyes against the dull pain there.
    People get headaches.
    He’d been awake way too long. The tour was finally fucking over. A little tension headache wasn’t unusual.

CHAPTER NINE
    He dreamed of the buzzing two nights in a row, and woke the morning of his third day home with the skin at the back of his neck prickly and hot. A scalding shower—followed by a blast from the cold tap—took care of that, but not the cleaver-like headache he was getting from sleeping so much. His gut wasn’t buying that explanation for it, but he didn’t want to listen to his gut.
    He was out of coffee, and just about out of socks, thanks to the tour. He pulled on yesterday’s pair, trying to think what else he needed. Keeping busy was key, he decided. Give himself stuff to do, have a good meal, play for a while, sit out on the back porch and watch the neighborhood—maybe even write something. Then a good night’s sleep—no sweaty fucking dreams.
    He added sleep aids to the mental shopping list.
    A couple blocks from the apartment, he pulled into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot to take care of his immediate and future needs for caffeine. It was an off-hour of the morning. The place was empty. He grabbed a bag of ground coffee off a rack, plopped it on the counter, and asked a woman in a brown visor for a large regular—up this way that was how you ordered cream and sugar, and it was one of the things he looked forward to getting back to when he was on the road. The little bits of familiarity.
    “That’ll be eleven twenty-seven,” she said.
    He slid his card through the machine with her staring like she was trying to get a look at his face. He wondered if it showed something—the headache, maybe squirmy things in his eyes. A bitter taste washed his mouth. He had a sudden feeling like he needed to sit down.
    What you need to do is relax.
    “Do you want your receipt?” she asked.
    “Nah.”
    While she went to get his coffee, he tapped the counter, reading the advertisement in front of the cash register. As she made her way back, he lifted his head.
    “You look so familiar,” she said, handing the Styrofoam cup to him. Her fingers bumped his.
    The bees lurched from their half-sleep.
    The cup slipped right through his hand.
    “Shit,” she said. “I mean shoot! Shoot. I’m so sorry. I let go before you had it.”
    “It’s okay.” He lifted his bag of coffee from the counter, its bottom dripping.
    “Let me get that.” She had a towel out, reaching for the bag.
    Afraid she was going to touch him again, he let it fall into the mess. “Shit. Sorry.” He scrubbed the side of his face.
    “Are you okay?” she asked.
    “Yeah, it was just…a static shock. Sorry. I’m really sorry about this.”
    “That must have been a bad one,” she said as her towel sopped up the mess. “And I didn’t feel a thing.” A wave of cream-colored coffee splashed over the front edge of the counter, pattering at his feet, making him step back. He was glad to step back. As his breath rushed out, he realized he’d had a tight hold on it.
    “Sorry,” she