“So,” the burly pizza maker said, nodding towards a black door on the back wall of his makeshift kitchen. “You are going to go through that door, there is a garage behind that. I’ve unlocked the small hatch on the garage door for you. You are going to go through the garage and get your ass out of here for sure. And, if you’re smart, you’ll get the hell out of this city. Hear me?”
“Thanks for this,” he said smart-assedly, placing the cold red meat onto the edge of a stainless steel work table. “Don’t serve this, okay?”
The chef smiled a warm smile. Kirk opened the black door and stepped into the cold, cluttered garage.
“Hey,” the chef snapped, “I’ve left you a cold can of Blatz on the shelf. Do NOT even think of touching any of these peoples other beer in there or I’ll make sure my plate breaks when it hits your face. Entiendes?” Kirk had lived in this town long enough to understand. Hell, he’d lived here long enough to have become half Hispanic by osmosis.
The cold can of beer tasted good to him as he flipped his hoody up and stepped out of the garage hatch into the night. “Of course I got myself into a mess,” he thought as he shook his head. There’s no reason for me to stick around in this god-forsaken city…never has been he told himself. Tommy Kirk headed down the back alley going nowhere in particular but for certain he was getting the hell out of town.
A younger man leaned against the back of the neighboring building smoking a cigarette. His hat was pulled down almost over his eyes. “Hey pal,” Kirk said, “can I bum a smoke?” The young man lifted his head and pulled his hat off. “Sure,” he said.
Tommy Kirk was speechless. As if twenty-some odd years had been erased, he found himself looking dead on into a mirror. “Here you go dad,” the youthful doppelgänger said, “you smoke menthols too?”