It was the middle of winter and my battery was dead. So were the heating booths on the platform, and hell if we were waiting for the bus. We watched the radiator steam, and waited for it to break.
Carlos was going through this Miami Vice kick. He’d brought the VHS tapes his cousin recorded in Mexico. I had no idea what they were saying. Watching all the pastel and light puke colors was like taking Adderall with nothing to do. I wanted to target something and pursue it until it bled.
Carlos already bought a pink blazer on eBay. “Gotta look good when you’re gonna be genius,” Carlos said. He still thought that word was synonymous with something it wasn’t.
“Whatever,” I said. “All the good geniuses die poor as shit.”
Carlos thought about that for fifteen minutes, staring at the television. He waited for the theme song to end before speaking.
“Wrong,” he said. “You’re wrong.” He snapped his fingers into pistols. “Al Pacino. Still alive.”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “It’s like, what about that guy who wrote Moby-Dick?”
“Who?” Carlos said.
“I don’t know his name,” I said.
