Maggie stood silently by the stove a moment, as the pot boiled burbulla burb pop. Charlie apologized, said he hadn’t meant to upset her, at which point she shook her head.
“Well, it’s your turn now.” She pointed playfully at Charlie. “I told you my story about Mike — now you tell me.”
“Hmmm.” Charlie leaned back into his chair and tilted his head backwards, his baseball cap nearly falling off his head overgrown with hair, and mentally sorted through the stories his late friend had told him. Burbulla pop. He lowered his bearded chin. “How ’bout the story of the Sleeping Jaywalker?”
Maggie lifted her left eyebrow. “Sleeping Jaywalker? Sounds dangerous.” She twisted, turned off the burner under the boiling pot.
“‘sit’s about this guy — don’ think Mike gave ‘im a name — wakes up one day, an’ his doorbell rings. He opens the door — ”
“He live in an apartment, or a house?” Maggie poured the contents into a colander she had placed in the sink of Charlie’s trailer.
“I dunno. Guess it makes more sense if he’s in an apartment. Anyway, there’s this woman at his door, asks him what he was doing last night. Nuthin’, he says, I jus’ stayed here and watched TV. Old woman looks at him, says, You don’t ‘member walkin’ outside in your pajamas?”
“Guy wears pajamas to bed?” She lifted the colander, shook water out of the bottom. “What is he, like sixty years old?”
“I dunno. Mike never said. But the pajamas, they become important later in the story.”
The Diligent Dilettante 