Pictures 3

He was a patient man, but after twelve years Arlo’d had enough. The shamelessness. And the chronic lateness. And the bailing. He’d had to train himself not to consider their plans confirmed until she was present and in his sights. So it was with great aggravation that he found himself sitting at the diner. Waiting for Casey. Again.

Thirty-seven minutes later, she exploded through the door of the diner. She was a bundle of bags (hand-, shopping, and messenger) and incognito accessories (headscarf, oversized sunglasses). After making her way over, she thomped into the brown vinyl booth and grabbed hold of her waiting, sweaty water glass. As Arlo watched the slivers of melting ice slosh at its surface, she caught her breath. In that last moment of quiet, Arlo tried to recall why they were friends in the first place. Failing that, he resigned to hoping the meeting would be brief. Soon, though, it was clear that instead of getting his (a) keys and (b) money back, he’d only receive a litany of excuses. Again.

“I know I’m late. It’s been a shitty week,” she began. “I really hoped not to have to get into it. And I totally have money for you.” Casey’s excuses were predictable and Arlo knew a “but” loomed. “But,” she delivered. “I was just getting cash. That shady ATM on Waverly? It kept saying, ‘Cannot complete transaction,’ or whatever. And, I don’t know, I guess I tried too many times and it wouldn’t spit out my card. And the bodega guys were not helpful.”

Bold, thought Arlo. A combination excuse, both portions of which were recent repeats. Her expressive, manipulating eyes searched for understanding, but fanned Arlo’s irritation instead. He looked down at his lukewarm coffee and stirred. “You really have uncanny bank luck,” he said flatly. Unmoved by — or impervious to — the passive aggression, she went on.

“Seriously. Now I have to wait, like, seven business days for a replacement. It’s so… inconvenient. And I feel awful, of course, because, I mean, I did have money for you. Do, I mean. Do have money.”

“It’s fine. Do you have the key? I want the neighbors to have it. For emergencies, you know. Making copies is weirdly expensive.” Arlo tried to move things along.

“Totally.” Casey dug into her cavernous bag, creating junk heaps on the table as she searched. Receipts, gum wrappers, a rumpled cardigan, wadded plastic bags, the cellophane-string-rectangle unmistakably torn from a pack of cigarettes, a worn copy of “The Alchemist” likely adopted from the street. “Got it.”

When she handed over the key with its now-dingy “Aloha from Maui” rainbow fob, Arlo knew he held in his hand all that he’d come for. He knew, and didn’t care, that he wouldn’t see the money again. Three hundred dollars was a fair price for this being their final interaction. Sure, twelve years of history was a lot to walk away from, but he was tired of the chore. And he already felt lighter at not letting guilt or obligation get the best of him. Not again, anyway.