"Smirk," I said to the bartender, "I've taken up a bad habit."
"The smoking, the drinking, the cussing, or the unemployment?" asked Smirk.
His name was Smirch, Bud Smirch, but we regulars called him Smirk, a nickname that carried multitudes he didn't deserve. I stubbed out my cigarette. The mirror behind the bar suggested I'd already put in a full night of drinking, even though I'd just sat down to my first.
"I'm punching things," I told him. "Not people, not animals, just things."
Like the other day, I'd hit the side of a bus, and a loose plank at the construction site near Ocean Heights Harbour, and my refrigerator door. Yesterday I took a shot at the new hardcover book I got from the Mystery Guild, my shower curtain, and the coffee table in my living room. All unprovoked.
"Are you punching them hard?" he asked.
"No, just hard enough to feel the ache."
Music blared, something popular, unsubtle, loud and obnoxious. Mostly loud. Smirk cleaned a couple of glasses in the sink. He was a plump guy with a lot of curlycues on his face that couldn't quite pass for a beard. He had soft, fat arms, and fingernails that were cut a bit too long.
"I got news for you, Andy," he said at last, wiping his hands with a worn dishtowel. "You're not the only one hitting things. I saw Tim Spelling hit a trash can the other day. Funny thing is, he could have kicked it. I mean, it would have been easier for him to kick the damn thing, but he didn't. He popped it with his fist."
I leaned forward. "Did he look angry when he hit it?"
)
