by Michael T. Heath

Created on: November 25, 2010   Last Updated: November 26, 2010

THE DIRTY SHIRT

Copely was feeling mighty fine. He had a flashy car – a Mustang – and the engine growled like a bear you’d run into after dark. Music was throbbing from a multitude of speakers surrounding the passenger compartment. A new sound tinkled in his pocket, and he dialed the stereo down as he fished the cell phone from a front pocket. The Whitney Houston tune clipped off as he answered the call. “Copely.” He nodded, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel as he listened, waiting at a red light. “Sure. I’ll be around, man. Sure. Later.” The stereo zoomed up in volume and the traffic raced forward en mass. He took the next right, squealing a little on the brand new tires. A cop was sitting on the hood of his cruiser, talking with someone as the Mustang breezed past. The cop and Copely locked eyes for a second as he sped past. Couldn’t get much speed up in the space of a block, but the black car found all it had. He turned left and slowed a bit. People were jay-walking between parked cars – the movie house had just emptied out – and he didn’t want to scratch the paint on some asshole’s belt buckle tonight. A stray pack of good-looking women peered out past a big van and he slowed to a stop. They smiled and waved, strolling out in front of him. One kissed her fingertip and planted it on the hood as she passed by. He grinned, revving the engine a little in acknowledgment. Then he chirped the tires as he got rolling again. The stereo was thumping one of his favorite tunes – boom, boom, boom – and the windows seemed to vibrate with every beat. He spotted a car pulling out from the curb up ahead and darted smoothly into the vacant space, quickly shutting everything down. He checked the mirrors all around: the street was quieting down. No blue lights, no packs of young men roving nearby. He took the cell and looked up at the second floor across the street. Dialing, he laughed and responded “Get your ass down here” when the call was answered. A figure ran over the road, angling toward his parked car. The guy slid in beside him and the car roared to life.

Droun liked razzing Cope – he was a virtual brother, after all. His parents had only birthed sisters for him. They were all right, as far as sisters went, close enough to his age to have friends he could poach for dates. One of those – Miranda – had been squired by both himself and Copely.

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