Free The Antagonist by Lynn Coady

pate and grotesque little ponytail nestled in the folds of flesh insulating the back of his neck.
    “Jesus, Croft,” he grunted as he approached. “I can’t watch this anymore.”
    Croft smiled up at him. “What?”
    “What,” repeated neck-fat. “What. It’s like you’re sitting there crocheting fuckin doilies is what.” He took the knife from Croft’s impassive hand and briskly finished the job like an executive chef chopping onions. A second later, he’d wrapped the chunks of hash and shoved them, along with the requisite baggies of pot, across the table at me.
    “Good?” he said to me.
    “Um,” I said.
    “Hey man,” said Croft. “I’m just trying to do a good job by this guy. This guy’s a good guy.”
    “How nice,” remarked neck-fat, peering at me through his sunglasses. I didn’t know how he could see a thing in Croft’s red-lit living room. “So is the customer happy?”
    “I think so,” I said, rapidly counting the baggies. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, this is good.” Thank you neck-fat, I thought to myself. This is exactly what was needed — someone to step forward, punch through Croft’s leisurely, lord-of-the-manor pace and move this business along. I stood up from my chair in order to yank my wallet from my back pocket.
    “Forty,” rumbled neck-fat.
    “Wait a sec, Jeeves,” said Croft. “I thought we’d give my buddy Rankin a little discount.”
    “Why that’s adorable,” said Jeeves, gazing up at me — and could his name really be Jeeves? “And why would we want to do that?”
    “Little dust-up at his dad’s restaurant the other day. Just wanted to say no hard feelings.”
    I was still standing there with my wallet in my hand, practically hopping up and down with the need to get this over with and go meet my buddies behind the mall. The parking lot behind the mall seemed the most wholesome place in the world all of a sudden.
    Abruptly, the mountain man heaved himself to his feet and extended his hand to me.
    “Call me Jeeves,” he said.
    “OK,” I said. The top of Jeeves’ red-shining head came level with my nose, which meant he was a pretty big guy. And, as I contemplated his stringy skull, I realized that he had about twenty years on the rest of us.
    And he still hadn’t let go of my hand.
    “Oh,” I said. “Rank. Gordon Rankin. Call me Rank.”
    “Rank,” repeated Jeeves. “Like pee-yew, right?” He smiled and wafted his other hand in front of his nose.
    “I never thought of that,” I said, thrown, because I really never had. I realized for the first time that I had basically been insisting people call me Stinky since I was twelve years old.
    “You’re a big fucking guy, Rank,” remarked Jeeves. He pumped my hand and finally let it drop.
    “Yes,” I agreed. “I am a big fucking guy.” I had trained myself at this point not to automatically respond “Thanks,” when someone made this remark.
    “Well why don’t we say thirty-five, big guy?”
    “Thirty-five, sure,” I said, digging through my wallet and glancing over at Croft. Because why was I doing business with this Jeeves guy all of a sudden? Croft gave me one of his sweet smiles, the same kind, I recalled, that had sent the Geography teacher into such paroxysms. The thing about Croft was, he had something of an angelic face. When he smiled his bright blue eyes tended to dance — he could light up a room. That face, I think, was what really sent people like Fancy and the Geography teacher over the top. Being a badass little shit is one thing. But being a badass little shit who follows up his snotty remark with a smile that melts your heart is too much to ask of anyone’s patience.
    06/07/09, 7:05 p.m.
    Adam, I notice you still haven’t emailed me back. I know I told you to sit back and enjoy the story, so maybe you are just being obedient and, if so, I appreciate that. And sorry again, really, for my drunken e-nagging earlier. I just want to let you know it’s okay if you feel the need to