Eleven

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We were on the bench and
things were bad again. She
had her legs crossed away

from me. I’ve seen Clueless.
I know what that means. I
suppose I offended

her by suggesting she
follow my lead out of
the Moonrubles and down

to the wooden bench we
ended up sitting on,
‘cuz when I did so, she

stiffened and removed her
hand from the nook of my
arm and without so much

as a word, ducked out the
door and speed-walked to the
stupid wooden bench as

fast as her chicken legs
could carry her. “Bawk! Bawk!”
I’d hollered. It hadn’t

helped my cause, but oh well.
“Sorry I made fun of
your legs,” I said. “I think

they suit you, though. They’re nice.
I like your stems, ok?
The question is, what do

you think of my chrome dome?”
She looked at me for a
moment, and then she grinned.

“She didn’t have to say
a thing. I knew what she
was thinking,” Bob Seger

sang, from the cab of a
passing Yugo, and we
both turned to look. “That’s

Yuri,” she said. “He has
a clock radio on
his dashboard. Rich bastard.”

I grinned and tried not to
make a Borat joke. “What
did you mean, earlier?”

I asked, “When you said I
made you rich? I gave you
ten bucks. It’s no big deal.”

“Maybe not to you,” she
said. “But the exchange rate
here is so bad my own

father would kill me for
the green piece of paper
in my pocket. It’s like

a Golden Ticket from
that movie about the
sadistic candyman

and his day spent killing
and torturing children
in his factory.” “Uhhh…”

I said. “That’s not really
what that movie’s about.”
She just glared at me and

took a sip from her cup.
“Then tell me, smart guy: what’s
it about?” I rubbed my

chin and said, “I’ll have to
think about this for a
minute. It’s eleven…”

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