The Empty Ones Read Online Free PDF Page A

dorky little streamers twisting about a bit harder), but by the time I got up to speed there was a corner, or a pedestrian, or a roundabout full of psychotic cabdrivers weaving in and out of lanes like Ali dodging punches—and I was back on the brakes again. Luckily, the bus was making regular stops. Unluckily, since I was tailing it, I had to ride right past the disembarking passengers. I kept thinking one of those oblivious, probably drunk, and certainly deranged London cabbies was going to run me over before I’d catch the damn thing.…
    But no such luck. I just kept right on puttering by, wholly intact, while people pointed and laughed.
    Let’s make something clear: I don’t give a lackluster fuck what people think about me driving a girly scooter. I’d put on a dress and pretty bows just to spite the people who’d laugh at an ugly mug like me dolled up in a dress and pretty bows. But these goddamned bumper stickers were killing me.
    PUNK AS FUCK , one read.
    PUNK OR BUST , said another.
    PUNK ROCK FOREVER , one insisted; POP MUSIC NEVER.
    I knew the girl who owned this scooter. Or girls like her. They went to maybe one show a month, but drew Xs on the backs of their hands with markers to make it look like they went every night. They collected empty beer cans after parties and put them in their bedrooms for their parents to find. They practiced flipping people off in the mirror. For them, punk rock was an easy way to fake a temporary personality. Which is fine.
    Normally.
    Normally you listen to how much they hate their dad, maybe slip them a Schlitz or two, and they might show you their tits later. That’s the way the drunken punk rock economy works.
    But there’s nothing saying I have to ride their poser scooters around in public and like it.
    Luckily, salvation was at hand: The bus stopped at the next corner, letting an old man with a cane and a buzz I could smell from a block away wobble off it. I hit the brakes, but the scooter took that to be a friendly suggestion and chose to ignore it.
    Fuck it. Not like I was setting any land speed records anyway.
    I put both hands on the seat and reverse-leapfrogged right off the moving bike.
    I did not plan this well.
    Neither one of my worn-smooth ancient Chucks found purchase on the slick asphalt. I started to slide, fell over, slid some more, then managed to get my feet, only to find I was still sliding, and finally had the good fortune to slam headfirst into a mailbox. I stood, feeling about as wobbly as the old guy a few feet away looked, and stumbled up beside him. Shoulder to shoulder, we watched my riderless scooter disappear into the night.
    â€œGodspeed,” I said, and gave it a mocking salute.
    After a short, confused moment, the old guy raised a hesitant hand and saluted with me.
    I was still laughing as the bus pulled away.
    I plunked fistfuls of those silly British coins into the slot until the driver finally nodded at me to stop, then headed down the aisle. I only made it a few steps before he buried a foot in the gas pedal, sending me stumbling sidelong into one passenger, then rebounding into another. I pinballed my way down the bus until I found my prey: Chubby English Girl.
    She was staring out the window in an aggressively apathetic way. I could hear her thoughts, and they were all screaming: “Please don’t sit next to me, please don’t sit next to me, there are like twenty open seats why are you sitting next to me oh god .”
    I gave her my widest, most obnoxious smile, then flopped wetly onto the seat beside her.
    â€œHi!” I waved. “I’m Carey. I’m drunk and American. Let’s have a long and detailed conversation!”
    She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out over a span of about two minutes.
    â€œNot in a place tonight, yeah?” she finally said, when it became apparent that her prolonged groan wouldn’t actually make me magically wither and