Sean Beaudoin - Welcome Thieves

No one has ever called Adam a filthy dyke before.

Afterward Eve sits up and tells him they didn’t just fuck.

“We didn’t?”

“I enveloped you. There’s a difference.”

He pops in a new disc, Dolly’s The Bargain Store, gets up and makes a pair of G&Ts. They play chess naked in the kitchen, stick to the seats while Adam demolishes Eve’s advance of unprotected pawns.

“Listen, I think we should make it official.”

“What, like a referee?”

“I think we should be committed.”

“What, like Bellevue?”

Adam bites his tongue. Literally. It hurts.

“No, like boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Sorry pal, but you can take that patriarchy and bake it.”

He brings out the king’s horse, forks her rook. “Why, you want to see other people?”

She considers her position, doomed. “I want to not be interested in your opinion if I do.”

A fly circles in front of the stove, bobs and weaves. Adam reaches out.

“Got it.”

“Not a chance.”

“You think I’m lying, open your mouth.”

“Fuck that.”

He holds out his fist. “Scared?”

Eve shows molar. He presses his hand to her lips. The fly zips in. She runs to the sink, gags and spits.

Not gloating seems cooler, so Adam mixes another drink, heavy on the G, light on the T. She grabs his shoulder from behind, wrenches him to the floor. The drink spills, ice rattling into the corners.

Eve straddles Adam, pins his arms beneath her knees.

“Fine. We’re a couple.”

“Wait, really?”

“Really.”

She sticks out her tongue.

He bites it.

Dear Gabriel,

It’s the best of times and the slightly less best of times. Actually, I’m in sort of a bind here. I’d tell you all about it except then you’d be an accessory and when I get squeezed by the Feds you’ll be the first one I rat out. I’m not proud of my weaknesses, but at least I know what they are. Hey, has your mom talked you into joining the Peace Corps yet? If so, I say don’t sweat the grades. Party with your friends before it’s too late and you’re digging a well in Gambia.

Love, Uncle Adam

He wakes up, scared.

There’s a noise at the door. After a while it goes away.

For weeks Adam has been pretending everything’s fine. No one wants a boyfriend with baggage, right? But, seriously, shit is getting real.

If Adam had just moved into a different building he would never have met the guy across the hall. Bruce Parsley. Tall, bald hustler in a floppy Gilligan hat. Has PARSE tattooed on his neck and when you meet him points to it and goes, “Call me Parse.” Bruce Parsley spends every afternoon in the driveway under a beach umbrella. With a cooler and a tracksuit. Dudes walk by and slap five with folded twenties in their palm, walk off with merchandise. Different stuff, depends on the day. Only thing Parse doesn’t move is drugs. He points to a needle and a happy-faced spoon tattooed on his arm, “I don’t move no drugs.”

If Adam had just grabbed that studio in Piedmont, he never would have opened his yap, bragged that he was all about business, a killer salesman, crushed the numbers on the big board in the back room at Comp-U City, lit blunts with Benjamins, could talk an Eskimo into a crate of seal jelly, could get an Arab to buy rubbers packed with sand.

“It’s not what you study, it’s how you use it on the street.”

Bruce Parsley grinned. “That so?”

“Hell, yeah,” Adam said, wanting to be a tough guy without the balls to step back and laugh, Hey, man, forget it, I’m full of shit .

And now Bruce Parsley is righteously pissed. Could be for any number of slights or business aggravations, but probably rooted in the fact that he fronted Adam nine Samsung 9s in a plastic bag, the ones with the retina display and voice-activated package, handed them over like, “You know what this means, right?”

“Definitely.”

“You know I know where you live, right?”

“Of course.”

Bruce Parsley nodded, popped a can of Old Mil with his thumb.

“Don’t fuck with me son, I go ten deep.”

Adam immediately lined up a buyer for all the units at a nice profit, waited down at the waiting spot. But the rich prep kids his friend had vouched for turned out to be four speed-metals in a roofer’s truck. They revved over, wiry and feral, snatched the bag, and sped away.

Now Adam practically has to sneak into his own place, phone buzzing twice an hour, texts piling up.

BParse69: Adam, this ain’t no LOL. Need units or cash asap

BParse69: Adam, hounds r comin if u don respnd 2day

BParse69: Adam u r so dead. K?

Eve rolls over, bad breath. But the good kind. Sour apple. She’s gorgeous, half-awake, messy hair and the sort of hangover eyes stylists spend hours faking on models. Adam’s throat constricts. From hyperbole? Okay, she’s not gorgeous. But for him? Perfect. Is he so freaking lucky? He is.

“Morning.”

“Hey.”

Adam gets up and starts an omelet, sauteés onions and peppers before realizing there are no eggs, drops the whole steaming mess into the sink.

Eve takes a thunderous piss, sits at the kitchen island in nothing but boxers.

“Listen, we need to talk.”

Adam prays not pregnant, but if so resolves to handle it way cooler this time.

“Sure. What about?”

“In three days my sister’s getting married.”

He almost tears up with relief.

“Hey, that’s great.”

“Yeah. Except for the part where I so fucking hate her. Like, ten years and eleven thousand dollars worth of therapy later, our drama is even less resolved.”

“What about your parents?”

“Don’t get mad, I was totally gonna tell you. Dead. Cessna. Tried to land in a cornfield. Was saving the story for a night we had some wine and I felt like crying. Anyway, I get a call yesterday, Uncle Benny is drunk and going on about how I have to come. He keeps saying you’re a brides maid. You’ll regret it. Trust me on this.”

“Wait, you’re Jewish?”

“No. Why?”

“Um, the cadence?”

“Sorry, Lutheran.”

“Anyway, Uncle Benny is?”

“Dad’s brother. Sort of takes care of us now. You ever heard of Winter Kills?”

“Sure.”

Eve pretends to look at the watch she’s not wearing, taps the imaginary face.

“Let it sink in a minute.”

He does. Nothing’s there. Until it is.

“Wait, your uncle is Benny Winters ?”

“I mean, yeah.”

Winter Kills used to make upper-crusty sportswear that somehow blew up with the lower crust, b-boys and corner loungers suddenly wearing five-hundred-dollar windbreakers and shooting each other over gold deck shoes. There were a few lawsuits. Poor PR decisions. Eventually the Internet banded together and wrote them off as a modern corporate plantation. Protests, broken windows, million-lounger marches. So Winter Kills shuttered for a year and rebranded, changed the name to Welcome Thieves. Opened again with leather and fringe. Choke chains and biker boots. Edible gag balls. It was so weird it worked. So stupid it was brilliant. Now they’re bigger than ever.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Don’t get excited, Uncle Benny’s got cement pockets. But he is offering two plane tickets. Plus a hotel room.”

Adam imagines standing next to the guy with a drink, turning on the charm. Discussing inventory, capital. Labor relations. CEO shit. Totally not bringing up Indonesian sweatshops or child labor, even just to be like, What else would those fucking kids do ? Bottom line, Adam has legit ideas. Good ones. A dating app for strippers called Euphemism. Dental house calls. A brand of pork soda called Porksoda. He just needs a mentor. An investor. Any of the — estors .