by Skrubly


	The Hazamat's sign hung at an angle because one of its chains had
snapped; the yellow lucite had broken at the bottom of the H, and the
lighting behind it glared over the top.  I hadn't been around for when it
broke, and I didn't know anyone who had.

	Inside it was a series of tables with benches, and a semicircle of
little cracked plastic windows set into the far wall.  There was a
changer to the left, where you slid your bank card through and it gave you
little brass tokens.  They had a man's head embossed on them but you
couldn't tell who it was anymore because they were so worn.  Then you'd peer
into those little plastic windows, and when you saw something you liked
you'd put in your tokens, it would whir for a little bit and the window
would open.  Then you'd take your thing, and if it had to be hot, you'd rip
the heatstrip on it and set it on the table while you waited for it to warm
up.  It was a cheap place to eat, but it had all the ambiance of a muni
station.

	Ashton had wanted me to meet him here at eight; we sometimes ate but
mostly just drank the coffee out of the vending machine out front.  It was a
lot better than most of the coffee places down the strip - in-your-face kind
of yuppie waiters sneering at you if you didn't clear out of one of their
flimsy wire chairs the moment you finished your cup.

	He worked at a Renco in an arcology thirty miles out from the city;
he lived in a Cube, ate three times a week, and poured all of the money he
could into his bike.  He had bought a Yamaha KLZ a year ago; he had skipped
out on payments three months into it.  When they came calling for the rest,
he had to borrow from a dealer even though he knew he couldn't come up with
enough in time.  That's why he rolled up to Laytonville with the clothes on
his back and a wallet full of useless credit cards.  At least he didn't
bring a set of broken fingers with him, too.

	So he paid cash for everything, or more accuratly, I paid cash for
everything and sometimes charged it.   I think he thought of me as his
girlfriend, but he'd never talked of it like that.  He talked about his
motorcycle and occasionally asked how I was doing and then looked the other
way.  A classic case of "Why do you stay with him?" and you never have an
answer to that, no matter what the situation.

--

	So eight oclock came and went, and I kept sitting there sipping my
coffee and wondering if it would be worth it to take off my jacket or just
get up and leave.  I had started to chip off the rim of my cup with my
fingernail when he came in, rain beading off his suit, his faceshield fogged
over with condensation and sweat.

He slid into the booth squeaking from the rain, wearing his sunglasses and
black stubble on his chin.  The first time I saw him wear those glasses at
night I thought he was nuts, but he just shrugged and said he saw it in an
old movie.   Tonight he looked like one big shrug; shoulders hunched and his
head tilted down.  

"Hey" he said, waiting for me to start in on him about being late again, but
I let it rest when I saw his face when he looked up.  

"My dad died."  I didn't know what to say, so I just sort of sat there for a
second.  "I have to get his stuff out before tomorrow morning." 

When he got up and started to walk out, I trailed behind him saying I was
sorry and wondering how he was going to manage getting anything out from
anywhere on his motorcycle.  

We walked to his bike, and he didn't even look at me.  Just unlocked it with
a swipe and a squeal of the alarm and handed me the helmet.

I didn't ask him anymore questions on the ride out.  The rain started to
soak in through my coat, but I just grabbed on tighter and hoped we'd be
there soon.  Falling asleep on a motorcycle isn't that bad - your legs
tighten up to keep you on, and I had my arms around his stomach which he
didn't seem to mind.

I woke up to a sodium lamp and Ashton telling me to get off the bike.  My
legs cramped and I nearly fell over while he put it on the centerstand.  I
took the helmet off and turned around and looked at an old brick building
that looked like it hadn't been washed in a decade.

Ashton looked at me and shrugged, and went to the side of the building.  I
followed up the rotting stairs as he unlocked the door at the top.

Dust and more dust.  Dust all over every conceivable surface, even the bed
in the corner, and paper everywhere.  We stood there dripping for a moment
and then stripped off most of what we had on and put it out on the porch.

"This was my father's office.  I have to get his stuff out of here before
tomorrow.  Tomorrow they knock the building down."  he started to shuffle
through some of the papers.

"Doesn't look like he used it much..." There was a weird map on the wall
with all the names spelled in another language. 

"He used to, I guess."  His hair dripped onto a piece of paper and he
quickly tried to wipe it off.  I thought I was going to sneeze.

After awhile I slumped into an old chair and fell back asleep.