I’m in line at the Laughing Dog Deli, forgetting everybody’s order.
“Hey, Trick,” I say.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“You eat shit!”
“Make it a double.”
Trick has perfected the cappuccino, makes them just the way I like them, like I was in Italy; dry, with a lot of froth and just the right amount of warm milk at the end.
“I also need sandwiches.”
Trick is one of a kind, that sort in life, the true loner; a Michigander who’s been in Colorado for years. He’s just finished school, has a writer’s degree and secretly, we all know he’s a serial killer.
“A writer’s degree? For what? Writing your papers?”
“Yeah,” he says, “Something like that.”
This Ted Bundy lumbers more like a Charles Bukowsky; pigeon-toed, overweight with little, beady, dark eyes that make him look something like a badger. If Disney needed a caricature of a serial-killer badger, Trick would be their man, right down to the long chops across his face. He waddles when he walks; his shoulders are broad, crooked from scoliosis and his small hands feminine. His hair is dark and thin exposing his white scalp. Behind those small, black eyes is a sharp man, a man of ideals, a rebel with no cause. To girls, he’s simply creepy. To me, he’s mysterious.