But I think I'm lactose intolerant. I'm pretty sure actually. I just haven't had it confirmed. Pizza without the cheese...I dunno.
"There's no food."
Mongo popped his head up from the behind the fridge door and swung it closed. He scratched his beard and then cleaned his Buddy Holly glasses with his t-shirt. I was sprawled out on the carpet.
"I have no cash until Monday," I said.
"What day is it now?"
"Friday."
"TGIF!"
"Yeah, Mongo. Totally."
Mongo Jones moved in with me after he'd went to Burning Man that year. He said he didn't feel like going back to Texas and wanted to give the west coast a try. I'd only been in Portland about five months and was living in a 200 sq ft studio. It had an awesome obscured view of a brick wall. Our friend mutual friend Dwight had given Mongo my number and he called about a week before showing up.
He'd brought some spacey, curly haired chick with him who only stuck around for a few days. She was headed for Seattle. I think her name was Denora or some shit like that. I didn't like her. My co-worker at Biggbucks had offered her a free cup of coffee and she asked if it was fair trade. Free is pretty fucking fair wouldn't you say? I could tell Mongo was ready to be rid of her. He said the worst thing about a crazy young girl is that she's crazy. Makes sense.
I slept on a twin mattress that fit in the closet area and we scored an old army cot for Mongo about a week after he showed up. Aside from our beds, we had a table, a chair, and an old solid state stereo with computer speakers I purchased at goodwill. We stuck it on top of the fridge and plugged my discman into it. It was like living in a dorm room but not as fancy.
Before this visit the only real time I'd spent with Mongo was getting drunk with him and Dwight back in Austin. I once saw him punch a hole through a big wooden For Lease sign. I think he ended up having to get surgery. I was happy to have him.
Mongo took a step to the door, "have you checked the free table today?"
I hadn't. In the laundry room there was a table next to the soda machine. You could usually find books you had no desire to read, cooking untesils that should have been thrown out, and every once in a while something useful like a 70's hanging lamp or an army cot.
I got up to go with but we stopped when we heard yelling. It was some chick berating her boyfriend. They were going back in forth in French. Mongo put his ear against the door.
"What are they saying?"
"Something about him being a piece of asshole," I took French.
"What?"
"She doesn't know why they are her and she wants to go back to New York."
"I'll go with her," Mongo pulled out his flask and took a tug. He offered.
"I'm good."
After about a minute we decided to venture down the hall to the check out the free table. We found a bag of clothes. There were a bunch of 80s style men's short sleeve casual shirts, pastels with elastic waist bands, and some jeans. All the shit was too small for either me or Mongo.
"Do you think this is somebody's laundry," I asked.
"It's on the free table, man-- fair game."
We took the bag to Threadfellows and got about forty bucks for all the stuff.
We bought food and a cheap bottle of bourbon with the money.