Faking Life Read Online Free PDF

man and lop his ponytail off at the scalp. These men John had learned to tolerate, every night thrusting twenty dollars bills in his face like feed at a petting zoo. He was used to being treated like shit for the sake of making an impression.
    “Ten piece wings, fuckin' ready,” a raspy voice called out. That voice was the one thing John couldn't get used to: the new short order cook. Sal Marvio had been working at Slappy's for three weeks, the longest tenure of any chef since Seamus Hallahan. Artie had fired four others—each in under a week—for infractions that ran from drinking on the job to picking their nose with a turkey baster. Sal Marvio had been an assistant chef at a Chili's branch and walked bowlegged like he'd been riding a horse bareback for a month straight. Yet despite the man's rancid language—last Thursday he'd told a naval officer to stick his stars and stripes up his mother's ass—his buffalo wings were the only ones that held a candle to Seamus's. Seamus. He couldn't get the man out of his mind. What a fucking horrible way to go. That was the thought running nonstop like a stock ticker.
    He could still smell the sweet odor. He'd mistaken it for burnt chicken. Until he saw Artie sprinting panicked from the kitchen, calling 911. John had stumbled over, seen Seamus's body prone on the floor. The smell was Artie's hand. He's tried to break the fall, instead burning it on the hot stove. The skin was fraying, pink muscle exposed underneath. The EMT—some kid who looked fifteen—puked as they loaded Seamus into the ambulance. Seamus. That's why he needed things to change. John saw himself forty years from now, dying behind the bar serving a mimosa to some smarmy broker. Enjoying none of it. Leaving no legacy. It wasn't until Seamus died he even thought about any of it.
    John had worked at Slappy's Slop House for nearly seven years, almost from the day he finished college. A lack of funds—and no job prospects to bolster them—had led him to Artie Graves, the owner. A small, porcine man who wore his hair in shiny ponytail, Artie spent half his time outside admiring the long lines snaking outside the bar. John could understand Artie's fascination, though. Ever since Travis Barker had his picture snapped with his hand on that girl's ass, Slappy's was a veritable hotbed of New York's finest drunkards.
    He took a cloth, ran it under the tap, and wiped down the bar. Not much to clean this early, but something about the glare of the track lighting reflected in the glistening wood conjured images of sunlight glinting off of a clear blue ocean. If he squinted at just the right angle, John had to shield his eyes. He loved that, his mind creating an artificial sense of beauty in a setting where most of the grace was manufactured.
    “Hey, lighten up John. You look ready to jump off a building.”
    John snapped to attention.
    “Oh, hi Stace. No, I'm just thinking is all.”
    “Well think happier thoughts, will you? I'm getting depressed just being around you.” John gave her a big, toothy grin.
    “That better?”
    “Much. Now I can sleep tonight.”
    Stacy Tompkins was the evening waitress and sometime bartender. An attractive redhead, Stacy had unfortunately taken a liking to John at the precise moment he'd finished sowing his wild oats. Her phone number was printed in eyeliner on a cocktail napkin that lay forgotten in a drawer at John's house. Her gaze fixated on him, she drummed her fingers against the bar.
    “So what's new?” she said. John shrugged.
    Stacy frowned and tapped her fingers louder. When he didn't respond, she sighed and picked up a steaming tray of wings, carrying it to a pair of customers at the bar. They tore into the meat and ordered another pitcher.
    Though his trusty Seiko was John's most constant companion during the early evening hours, the relative silence gave him more time to think. More time to reflect. And over the last few months, that seemed like all he'd been doing. Like