Part 2 (2/2)
He decided to risk trying to lift the couch to his shoulder. It felt pretty light, and it was far enough away from the parked cars he was pretty sure he'd miss them if he had to drop it. He gave the upright couch a tug, knelt, and caught it on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around it and lifted.
The couch came off the ground. It wobbled on his shoulder for a moment and he steadied it with his hands. He took a few steps and it didn't tip. His back didn't twinge, either. He'd caught it at that perfect balance point where it seemed to weigh nothing. He turned until the dumpster came into his field of view, then started across the parking lot.
When he reached the dumpster he let the couch settle forward until one end sat on the rim. He worked his way backward, trying not to tear his s.h.i.+rt on the metal frame, until he had the other end in his hands. He heaved again. Gravity grabbed the couch and flipped it into the dumpster with a loud clang.
Slow applause broke out behind him. George turned and saw Nick leaning against his BMW. His friend was still wearing office clothes. The Beemer was parked in the center of the lot, blocking at least half a dozen cars.
”Very impressive,” said Nick. He clapped a few more times, but his head was turned back to watch the young Asian woman unloading the backseat of the sedan.
”Don't ogle the students,” said George.
”I'm not ogling,” said Nick, ”I'm appreciating. Look at those legs. I'm betting swimmer or gymnast.”
Nick was two inches shorter than George, but made up for it with att.i.tude. His dark hair was spiked out and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of sungla.s.ses that probably cost more than George made in a week.
”So what brings you to campus?”
”I know I'm not supposed to be here,” said Nick, ”but I needed to talk to you. I need a favor.”
”And you drove over here rather than called because ...?”
”It's a face-to-face, look-you-in-the-eyes kind of favor.”
”Great,” said George. ”Take the gla.s.ses off.”
”Hah. Hah,” said Nick. A bad blood transfusion a few years back had left his eyes sensitive to light. He never took his sungla.s.ses off outside, and rarely inside. ”Coldplay at the Bowl next Thursday.”
”It sold out, didn't it?”
”Yes it did. And my boss got a set of complimentary tickets this morning and doesn't want them, so-score. I'm taking Nita and you need to be my wingman because her college roommate's in town.”
”Which one's Nita?”
”The publicist.” Even as he said it, Nick glanced over his shoulder again. The young woman was walking across the lot with a swollen backpack over one shoulder and a suitcase in either hand. ”d.a.m.n, she is really cute.”
”Focus.”
”Fine.” The dark gla.s.ses turned back to George.
”So that's it? You need a wingman?”
”Yeah.”
”What's the catch?”
”I'm asking you to spend the night with a woman you have absolutely no chance with so I can spend the night with a woman I have a pretty good chance with.”
George frowned. ”That far out of my league?”
”More like you're that far out of her circles of interest.”
”So you're setting me up with a lesbian?”
Nick shook his head. ”I'm not setting you up because we're all acknowledging there's no chance of anything happening. I'm just asking you to keep a third wheel occupied.”
George smiled and shook his head. ”Are you buying drinks?”
”I got the tickets.”
”Someone gave you the tickets. And don't you want to impress Nita the publicist with what a generous, high-powered agent you are?”
”That's not how I'm hoping to impress her,” said Nick. ”Fine, I've got you covered, don't worry about it. You in?”
George drummed his fingers on his thigh. ”Yeah, sure.”
Nick smiled and pulled out his phone. ”Excellent. I'll lock things down with her right now.”
”Hey,” called a man. He stood by one of the cars Nick's Beemer was blocking. ”D'you mind moving?”
Nick gave the man a quick wave and opened his door. ”Talk more later,” he said to George. ”You want to meet up tomorrow night? Grab a drink or three?”
”Maybe.” His Nextel chirped and he pulled it off his belt. He and Nick saluted each other with their phones.
The Nextel chirped again. ”You there, George?”
George waved good-bye and the Beemer pulled out of the lot. ”Yeah, what's up, Jarvis?”
”You need any help with that couch?”
”Nah, no problem.”
”Get yourself back here, then. I need you to sign your timecard.”
George checked the time on the phone. Half an hour until quitting time, and if Jarvis was calling him back to the office there wasn't anything left to do. Nothing that could be done in half an hour, anyway.
As he walked across campus he debated telling Jarvis about the falling gla.s.s. He didn't want to lose a day with an unnecessary doctor's visit. On the other hand, he knew a couple of people who'd held off mentioning injuries they thought were minor only to get a ha.s.sle from workers' comp later when they turned out to be serious.
Of course, as far as he could tell, the big blade of gla.s.s hadn't left any injuries, minor or otherwise.
George slipped past two families chattering away about cla.s.ses and dorm life. Someone was already blasting music out of a window. A young man whipped past him on a bicycle.
He'd have to mention the s.h.i.+rtsleeve. It was too slashed up for a quick fix. He'd have to replace it. That would give him a chance to get the incident on record without actively claiming an injury.
A crowd of people approached. At least two or three families. They had the absent, flitting expressions of people trying to take in a lot of details while not really paying attention.
George stepped off the concrete path to go around them. If he picked up the pace he could be back in the office in under ten minutes. There was a slim chance Jarvis would even let him punch out early.
<script>