Free Adventures with Max and Louise by Ellyn Oaksmith Page A

with a man who talks to my breasts, but three minutes to hail a cab is a personal record.
    As I continue to pace, I decide that Chas was probably talking to someone else, the man beside him, no doubt. It’s more likely that he’d been watching Denise’s little tantrum, saw me, and while trying to put a name to my face, told his associate to wait for him. How stupid, assuming Chas’s words had anything to do with me.
    If I stay here, he’ll see me, loitering coatless and shivering for no reason. He’ll hurry past, late for a meeting, vaguely aware that we ran into each other a while ago. It will be high school all over again, except that I haven’t learned a damn thing in ten years. Perfect men like Chas don’t date women like me, even if I do have breasts bubbling out of a borrowed shirt. As far as I know, Chas thinks I’m dating that spider monkey of a man, Wolf.
    If I hurry, I can catch Martin as he arrives at work. I’ll talk him into skipping lunch. He can take me shopping for more appropriate clothing. Great. I have, at twenty-five, become my middle-aged mother. “More appropriate clothing” was something Mom would hum under her breath whenever Trina came skipping down the stairs dressed in a night-clubbing getup for high school. Taking off at a brisk pace, I am certain I’ve avoided humiliation. My new shirts will be variations of the turtlenecks I’ve worn in the past. Why change my life just because a surgeon screwed up? I don’t want to be Trina.
    Reaching the first half block, I swing my arms with resolution and purpose. I’m not going to fall into a dithering mess just because of a high school flame. I have a career, a cookbook languishing in my drawer, waiting to be published. I’m a grown woman who will not be sideswiped by some juvenile crush. While I’m shopping, I’m going to see if Jockey for Her has some sturdy cotton bras in my size in beige and white. My comfort zone might not be the most chic address, but it sure feels good to be going back.
    “You moight as well be a giant flippin’ chicken,” a man’s voice says. A thick Cockney accent booms nearby. I recognize it.
    I spin around.
    “Who is that? Where are you?” I stick my finger in my right ear, rubbing it. I’m hearing things.
    “Big yellow feavers is all you need. Runnin’ away from him loik you was scared of the very sight. You saw what ’e said. A direct invitation, and you’re runnin’ off, wings flippin’ an’ flappin’.”
    The voice must be coming from above; maybe from someone hanging out an apartment window. Looking up, there is no one, just windows closed against the cold. An old couple in a Kinko’s storefront stare at me. There isn’t a soul within twenty feet on the sidewalk, save an old panhandler bundled against the morning cold in a ratty sleeping bag. Gazing around suspiciously, I continue walking.
    “Buck, buck, buck-buck-buck.” He clucks like a chicken.
    “Who are you?” I scream. The couple in the Kinko’s eye me cautiously. They exchanged worried comments. Probably something about the budget cuts at Western State Psychiatric Hospital.
    “Max,” the voice says quietly.
    I stop, examining every doorway, sewer grate, window cornice, anywhere a speaker could hide. “Okay, Max. Where are you hiding?”
    “I’m ’ardly hiding.” Max grumbles. “You got me pushed up ’ere loik a puppet at a bleedin’ Punch and Judy show.”
    Glancing down at my breasts, immediately I know that this was where the voice lives. My legs shake. I have the weird sensation of having been here before, but it can’t be possible. This is the voice of the man who was talking to me on the bus. Holy mother of God, I’m going crazy. Those nut jobs on the bus; I’m one of them.
    “You’re . . . you’re in there, in the implants?” My heart races; I might as well make myself a pair of foil antennas right now. Maybe insanity is contagious. Maybe I caught it on the bus.
    “Knockers, breasts, tits, boobies,