The Chosen

^{CHAPTER SIXTEEN}

“Hey, loverboy. Rise and shine, will ya?”

Lee opened one eye amid the crush of bedcovers, at first believing it must be a bad dream that stood beyond the gloom of his room. But it was only Dan B., whose chubby face intruded through the gapped door.

“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” Lee objected.

“Knocking? I’ve been knocking. You got potatoes in your ears? And how come you’re sleeping so late? You on another all-night hump with the mattress?’’

“I was humping your sister,” Lee countered. “The girl just can’t get enough.”

“Idiot, get some glasses. That was your sister. Last night when I was done putting the blocks to her with her feet pinned back behind her ears, I slipped her an extra five-spot to come and do you. Figured it was the only way you’d ever get laid.”

Lee was used to this kind of abuse; he and Dan B. were friends so it was all in fun. But it reminded him of the abuse he’d taken last night from that snide motherfucker Kyle…

“What time is it?” Lee groggily inquired.

“Time for you to get your hand out of your boxers and shag ass.” Dan B. shot his watch. “It’s two in the afternoon.”

Two in the…Then Lee remembered the rest of it. He’d been up till seven in the morning cleaning up Kyle’s room-service kitchen. And he didn’t dare tell anyone, that and his catching Kyle beating up on that fat maid. I squeal on him, and he squeals on me for drinking on the job. Who’ll Feldspar believe?

“We gotta start prepping for dinner in an hour,’’ Dan B. ranted on. “So get the lead out.”

“I’ll be down,” Lee groaned. “Where’s Donna and Vera?”

Dan B. laughed. “Shopping, where else? Isn’t that just like a couple of women? We’re not even open two days, and they’re out shopping. Looks like us guys gotta do everything.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one who’s gotta do your mom. And let me tell you, that’s some real work.”

“Idiot, get some glasses. That was your mom.”

Dan B. closed the door. Lee rarely got in the last word, which was just as well. Trying to out-do Dan B. with the gross jokes was like trying to drive nails with a French bread. It didn’t matter how hard you hit ’em they wouldn’t go in. Lee climbed out of bed, still muttering less than complimentary remarks under his breath, re: Kyle. He punched on his boom box, cranked up a little Pontiac Brothers, and went to the shower.

It was a nice pad they’d given him here, one door down from Dan B. and Donna’s room, and Lee couldn’t beat the price. Shit, a room half this size would run him seven hundred a month back in the city. They’d filled it with a lot of old-fashioned furniture and dark rugs that reminded him of his grandmother’s antique shop when he was little, that and the big, high bed with carved-wood posts. The free room and board, plus the generous wage, would enable Lee to sock away some real scratch, get himself a car, get back to school. Dishman was honest work, but he didn’t want to be doing it the rest of his life. Let somebody else take a turn washing grub off rich people’s dinner plates.

Lee stepped on the scale in the bathroom. 217. Fuck it, he thought. It didn’t bother him much that he had a gut on him like a feedbag. He was fat, and he was proud. He could do without that Kyle motherfucker calling him fatboy, though. Lee’d tried all the diets: