WEIGHT: A Novel?

Wrote 1,100 words the other night on a whim.
Re-read it just now and wondered… should I continue this?
 
 
WEIGHT
 
 
1
 
The alarm goes off at 8 in the morning. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except it’s Saturday. The girlfriend next to Tommy Brown, 32, moans.
“Turn it off.”
His one eye open stares at the clock.
His hand hits the dial.
He catches his breath.
Prepares himself for a very long day.
He’s 6’2”, lean, ripped.
Greek, but New York before that.
Black hair. Dark white skin.
Takes a blast of cocaine left on the nightstand from hours before, and is on the floor doing pushups in black spandex boxer shorts while his girlfriend tries to sleep.
She doesn’t.
“What are you doing?” Shauna says.
“Go back to bed.”
“You woke me up.”
Tommy is into it now. On the 30threp. Knuckles. “Long day, today. Go back to bed.”
He jumps up.
Drops down. Halfway through his first squat, when he locks eyes with her.
Stares at her black bra and black panties covered body. It’s ripe.
Supple.
She squints her eyes. Gives him her best Portuguese fuck-me look.
“Come here,” she says.
Tommy smirks. “Go back to bed.”
Before she has time to get mad Tommy is doing crunches on the floor, then pull-ups in the doorframe.
Tommy Brown is focused.
Always has been.
Wouldn’t be where he was if he wasn’t. Or where he planned to be in the next 36 hours.
He drops down from the pull up bar.
Turns around.
To see Shauna walking towards the bathroom. “The fuck you going?” he says.
She stops in her tracks. Turns her head to him. Then turns back towards the bathroom door. “To feel like a whore,” she says.
Tommy comes up behind her.
The bathroom door is closed; he has her pressed up against it. His member pressed against her rear. “You think I don’t love you?”
They’re in the bed.
She’s on her stomach.
Her face is in the pillow.
He takes her from behind.
Just the way they both like it.
The love each other, but staring into the same set of eyes can get boring after eight years straight.
Tommy knows how to compensate.
 
 
2
  
The kitchen. Black and grey marble counter tops. They match the bedroom. The whole apartment.
It’s Tommy’s style.
He like the pizzazz, but the life has made him morose– In a fun way.
“What time you seeing the lawyer?” Shauna says.
“An hour from now,” Tommy says back, downing her fruit smoothie.
Blueberries, blackberries, all kinds of healthy shit in there. He loves it.
“Make sure you give him my regards,” Shauna says.
“Shauna,” Tommy says. “Do you really think he cares?”
“I care.”
“Okay. Then I’ll tell him.”
It’s worth fucking her, not fighting her, Tommy thinks.
As he gets up to walk out the door, in a fresh dark blue track suit, she comes up to him. She pulls him close. In his t-shirt, and her panties.
“Look, Tommy.”
He eyes her up in down. In total respect of the woman he’s scored.
“I’m looking,” he says.
She smiles. “Be careful.”
He smiles back: “Be ready.”
 
3
Tommy walks through the underground parking garage. He sees old Tony Musto, probably 80 if Tommy had to guess, walking towards him.
Tony is long retired, but as spry as ever.
“My man,” Tommy smiles.
“My kid,” Tony replies.
Tony’s a made guy with the Gambinos, just enjoying his golden years while he’s got them. It’s the summer now so he’s not in Florida with the rest of the gang.
They exchange pleasantries.
Tommy cruises out the parking garage and through Astoria, his stomping grounds, in his midnight blue BMW coupe. 6-series.
Two years old, it still looks brand new.
Tommy moves down the boulevard in pride. He grew up in the slums of Astoria’s finest housing project, now he lives in its finest doorman apartment building, his pad currently on the market for 1.5 million.
Currently entertaining an offer for 1.2.
He’ll take it; he just doesn’t want the buyer to know.
He pulls up to the Neptune Diner.
Inside he sits in the corner booth with his lawyer, John Peters. Now in his 60s.
Peters has been representing the finest crooks in Queens for a while now.
In the booth across the dining room from them sit a pair of undercover cops.
Frustrated.
Tommy beat them and he knows it.
The 2.5 years he did on Rikers when he was 21 were a breeze. The 8 months he spent in the Feds when he was 29 were even easier.
And: more beneficial.
Tommy eats his western omelet; Peters is both happy and sad.
Sad that he’s losing an income stream yet happy to see Tommy make a break from the fast life.
“So where you gonna spend your twilight years?” Peters says.
“When I get settled, I’ll send you a postcard.”
A few people close to him might know Tommy’s stepping aside—but that’s only because not saying goodbye could be perceived the wrong way.
Other than that, the details are unnecessary. Can’t trust nobody these days, Tommy thinks. Couldn’t trust ‘em in the old days, either.
They finish up, and Peters motions for the check.
Tommy snatches it from the waitress’ hand. When he does she sees the $50k Rolex on his wrist.
So does Peters.
Tommy didn’t mean for that.
As she walks away, Tommy curses himself.
“What’s that puss for?” Peters says.
Tommy looks at him: “Now I gotta leave a bigger tip.”
Before he does, he takes the watch off his hand and gives it to his lawyer.
Peters says he can’t accept it.
Tommy brushes him off. Reminds his counselor that Peters accepted him when he got out of juvenile jail, at 16, homeless, with no relatives or any close friends to come home to. Peters helped get him sprung, and Tommy always remembered it.
“You’re uncle, your father, they were always good to me,” Peters says. “I couldn’t turn my back on their kin.”
“I just wanted you to know,” Tommy says. “Token of appreciation.”
Peters looks at it up and down. The back is engraved: Self-Defense.
Peters shakes his head. Tommy always had a strange sense of humor.
The cops eye their table with jealousy.
Not only is Tommy flaunting it, he also beat that double murder charge.
And then the other murder charge.
Self-defense is John Peters’ favorite words in the English language.
“I wore it just this once,” Tommy says. “This morning.”
“Why?” Peters says.
Tommy smirks: “Because I like to tell time better than them.”
They hear him.

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