“I’m in a giving mood,” says Kennedy, who is always in a giving mood. He’s been chopping and re-chopping the same lines for a good fifteen minutes now, smearing white residue across a borrowed bathroom mirror balanced on his lap.
And sure, maybe he’s heard this whole shtick a million times before. Maybe he’s pulled that whole shtick a million times before. I’m like, totally good for it. I’ll get you back. Give me a day. Give me a week. But Kennedy’s a glass-half-full guy swigging from the bottle, and he’ll roll with it, hook, line, and sinker, because he’s nice like that. The mirror is handed off to Remi with a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. Vernon’s storky legs splay far enough that their knees practically touch. The ottoman grunts when he shifts on it.
“Buon appetito, amigo. Just ‘cuz it’s you. Have at it.”
He’s all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but that’s because Remi doesn’t know how he ended up here and can’t see the coke-sweat stains masked by the loud print of his shirt, something going on with stalking tigers in marshmallow pink bamboo groves, the rayon sticking to the small of his back. Remi also can’t see his bank balance.
“Forget about it,” he says. It’s almost one of those wiseguy fuhgeddaboudits, but the campy wave that follows kinda throws it off a little. “I don’t care. We’re all friends here.”
Predictably, he wipes his sniffing nose on the back of his hand.
“Speaking of chardonnay, there any booze left up here, cowboy? I gotta re-balance the groove scales before I start playing golf inside again or something.”
“You’re a good fuckin’ man Kennedy, a real good man, stand up shit-- that sorta let ya’ borrow your ladder kinda guy, that--” a pause in the compliments for a sick, thick SNIFF along the tray. Their knees are definitely touching now, Remi’s using Vernon’s thigh to hold up the elbow just doing the best it can to hold him up -- “That sorta’ fuckin’ ; pick ya up from the airport with’a flask, clean out the gutta’ your mind’s in, ya feel? yea. Givin’ Mood, Papa fuckin’ Theresa, you are.”
At least now he has to shut the fuck up, as he hands off the mirror to a peachy-pink nightstand and rather unceremoniously tosses himself back against the couch. Just a moment. Akin to a car getting it’s first solid jump after it’d revved on out-- the boy executes a barrel roll that’s all flinging limbs and possibly a rip of those sorry, hole-y jeans. To the floor he goes before SPRINGING right on up like a top, eyes wide and determined about the room.
“Chardonnay, yee-haw, Sherriff--” it’s somewhere. It’s gotta be. They couldn’t have killed it all. Where’d it go? Remi turns his back to Vernon now, using a foot to shift open the little mini bar they’d efficiently broken the glass front of last night... perhaps they hadn’t needed to bust the lock as well, but here we are, and the lad monkey-handles some little clear bottle of something orange between his toes. HOP! HOP! HOP! on one foot during retrieval, but he underhand’s the schnapps right towards the other in offering.
“Gotta take’a taste ‘fore you scratch the real itch? Keep it groovy, groovy--”
There’s only so many places. The motel room’s only so big. This couldn’t be so difficult.
Yet, Remi spins about chasing his own damn tail longer than we’d really like to address...
“You have’a bunny in your hat for this’n or are we about to go disappoint a water hole?
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