Shooting Stars Read Online Free PDF Page A

resulting in a valid reason to stay home for the day. But it always starts, no matter how much I hope. Every morning I fiddle with the radio for anywhere from thirty seconds to a minute, which also serves as the time I allow the car to heat up. My mechanic, Darius, tells me I should let the car run a little bit longer, especially in the winter, but I always think, what’s the worst that can happen? The car breaks down. That’s well worth it, in my mind. The radio stations vary from day to day, and the satellite radio gives me a nice variety of options. Some mornings I like alternative-rock hits from the nineties, and other days it’s sports talk when I’m feeling particularly jock-like. But since I don’t really watch sports, much of the conversation goes over my head. I do get to pick up key topics so I can nod my head if a sports conversation ever comes up at work, which is the same reason I watch SportsCenter . The people who call into sports radio shows are more entertaining than the radio personalities. There’s nothing like an overweight forty-year-old who wants to shout his perspective as to why a highly conditioned quarterback sucks when he hasn’t done as much as a jumping jack since sophomore phys ed.
    As I settle for the alternative rock from the early 2000s (yep, that’s a station), a scraggily voice comes from the back of the car. “Put it on the eighties R&B station.” Now, a strange voice from the back seat a car would definitely startle most people, but I don’t even have to turn around to match a face to the voice.
    “Couldn’t get into the shelter last night?” I say.
    Robbie Brown, a black man about fortyish (his age always changes when I ask, so I stopped asking), with bushy facial hair and an eighties old-school geometric Gumby haircut. He’s wearing multiple layers of clothing, a variety of colors: a light blue jacket, a purple hoodie over the jacket, an orange bulky vest over the hoodie, yellow Fila headband, maroon neckerchief, and jeans underneath a pair of brown cutoff sweatpants. He looks kind of like a black Ken doll whose owner put all the doll clothes she had on it.
    “Got there too late,” he says. “Had a gig that ran over. Fucking encore. The natural entertainer in me always pleases the crowd, so I stayed for three more songs.”
    “They allow encores at the bus station?” I say.
    “How many times do I have to tell you? I get actual gigs. But thanks for leaving the car unlocked. I still don’t know why you won’t let me sleep on your couch.”
    He can’t be serious. “We’re cool and all, but why in the world would I let a homeless Bobby Brown impersonator sleep in my apartment?”
    Robbie looks at me as if I just spat in his face. “How many times do I have to tell you? He’s impersonating me ! I’m an entertainer, goddamn it! Lyrics, mine. Songs, mine too. Those dance moves, mine. This haircut was mine—”
    “No, that was Gumby’s, actually.”
    “He jacked my complete style, and that motherfucker used it to catapult himself to stardom. Even married Whitney Houston. So, in fact, I should’ve been married to Whitney Houston.”
    He pulls out a picture of Whitney that he ripped out of an old issue of Essence and starts singing to it. “And I . . . will always love you.”
    I don’t have time for his bullshit, and it’s too early for his yelling, singing, and carrying-on. I know he’s harmless for the most part, but he’s making me uncomfortable. I do what I always do when it’s time for me to go to work, unless it’s one of the days when I’m generous and let him borrow my car; I point for him to get out.
    But he doesn’t leave.
    “Can you do me a solid?” he says. I hate when he uses that term, solid ; that always means he’s gonna inconvenience me. I keep pointing for him to get out.
    Robbie lowers his voice. “Okay, this morning we got off on the wrong foot. And I’m sorry for that. I haven’t had my coffee and stale donuts from the soup