Peeko Pacifiko by Ken O'Steen

  Accidentally as always, afternoon tea convened in the bar in order for the members of our loose society of hotel neighbors to lick their respective wounds received in the heat of what battles they’d enlisted in the night before…or before that, if the wound was of sufficient severity. Penelope was the only one who ever drank tea, doing so to soothe her voice, as singers commonly do. There was the mournfulness in the room that often accompanies the metamorphosis from evening bon vivant to morning fool. In the case of afternoon recoveries, the extra time isn’t kind to the day’s perception of the evening’s achievements in idiocy.

  Penelope was at the bar, waiting for the Professor to finish boiling the water for her tea. Andrew and I already were in the booth. I was sipping on a large Diet Coke, which studies at the National Institute for Health have determined is the preferred treatment for the discomforts of anything and everything. Andrew was pushing egg rolls incessantly through a plate of plum sauce before finally putting the besotted items in his mouth. Penelope wheezed, and then was bent over hard by spasms of an ugly hacking cough. She could be overheard telling Andrew, “I need a highball to go with that. No, make it a shot of Jack, with water back.” He poured the Jack into the glass and handed it to her, telling her to go on over to the table and take care of herself, and he’d bring the tea over to her when it was ready.

  “Have you ever seen Penelope perform?” Andrew asked me, while Penelope knocked the shot back, and doused it with water before joining us in the booth.

  “I never have. Meant to I don’t know how many times.”

  “I think she writes about three quarters of the material herself. She’s good. I saw her once solo, and another time with a band. I believe she mostly performs with the band. Maybe it's not officially a band...drummer and bass.”

  “Where was it you saw her?”

  “A hole in the wall coffee shop up on Sunset. She was solo for that. I saw her one other time, with her band at Johnny Reb’s.”

  Penelope slid into the booth beside Andrew, in the process pushing out another stream of wretched hacks.

  “That’s a vicious cough,” Andrew told her.

  “No shit. I'm not crazy about the chills and fever that go along with it.”

  The Professor made it to the table with the tea, setting it down before he sat himself. Penelope took up the cup immediately, and after her sip, said, “Ummmmm…that helps.” Ten seconds after she said it, she erupted with another torrent of sneezing and coughing that finally began to sound as if she was strangling to death, then ended with an eerie rattle.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Fuck, does that sound all right?” the Professor said. “It sounds serious enough to be looked at by a doctor.”

  “When those things get settled deep into your lungs, they can turn dangerous before you know it,” I told her.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” answered the Professor. “Have you thought about going to the emergency room...at least to get a prescription for some antibiotics?”

  “Or the Emergi-Care,” Andrew added.

  “Yeah, right. How much are they? Seventy-five, eighty bucks? I'll live.”

  “You should keep an eye on it though,” I told her. “I've seen these things turn really ugly before. Life threatening ugly.”

  “We’re gonna keep an eye on you,” the Professor told her.

  Penelope took another small slurp of hot tea. “That really helps the throat.”

  “Worried about your voice?” the Professor asked.

  “I have a job tomorrow night. And I'm also worried about the pain. I'd as soon not have my throat hurt.”

  “Where’s the job?”

  “Tackyderm’s. Since that’s your night off from the ringmaster job here why don't you come and see us?” Turning to Andrew and me, she added, “You guys too...you might enjoy yourselves. Afterwards we can go across the street to Oscar's.”

  “I might,” said the Professor. “I don’t know about the two specimens of Drunkus Sedentarius sitting next to us.”

  “Pity the man who has to work in the place where Drunkus Sedantarius get their juice,” Andrew said.

  “I like that,” I told the Professor. “Personally, I’ll feel less embarrassed about coming in here if you can come up with a good one like that every once in a while.”

  “You embarrassed...there’s a concept.”

  “Okay, this specimen might tag along with the Professor,” Andrew said.

  “Great. What about you slick?” Penelope asked me.

  “Slick, the Drunkus Sedentarius. Maybe. Probably. It’s kind of pricey for the likes of us, though.”

  “Two at the most there,” Andrew said.

  “No kidding,” Penelope concurred. “You think I’m in any better financial shape than you?” Again, the end of a sentence segued into a succession of coughs.

  “You going to be able to perform in that condition?” the Professor asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. I'm planning to get a lot of rest between now and then.”

  “I hope you survive,” I said, “now I’m starting to look forward to seeing the show.”

  “I’m inspired,” she said with a weary smirk.

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