Iko Iko [part iv - fin]

Continued from part iii.

I grabbed the bag and ran down the stairs, then along the hallway to the front entrance. The elevator in my building is notoriously slow; I thought I'd be able to catch him before he was even out the gate, but I was wrong. Out on South Street there was no Kapp in sight.

I ran down the block to Park Street. The intersection is smack dab in the middle of the two bus stops; I wasn't sure which one Kapp would have gone to, so I mentally flipped a coin and headed south. The gang-bangers were beginning to swarm, so I couldn't see the stop until I was nearly at it. He wasn't there, so I turned around and walked up to the next stop. I didn't see a bus, and I didn't see Kapp, so I assumed he'd gotten onto it, and I hoped his keys weren't in his bag.

He's a guy. They usually keep those things in their pockets, right?

No big deal, I figured. I'd bring the bag to the library the next day, maybe tease him about how I'd rifled through it and checked out his portable porn stash. I walked back to the front gates of my apartment building, entered the code, and pressed the elevator button.

When the doors opened, there was Kapp, leaning against the wall, waiting for me.

I burst into laughter.

"I didn't even make it out the gate," he explained. "As soon as the elevator door opened on the street, I realized I'd forgotten my bag, so I came back up."

"Then how... oh; I went down the stairs. We crossed paths."

"Your door was unlocked. I looked in, saw the bag wasn't there, and immediately knew what had happened."

"I figured your keys probably weren't in it, but I'd try to catch you just in case."

"My keys are in it."

"This is like something out of a Marx Brothers movie, don't you think?"

"Who's on first?"

"Well, we've got an hour to kill and no beer, which, under normal circumstances would be a sad situation. Luckily, I have a couple of bottles named Glen I'd be happy to introduce you to."

"Glen?"

"Fiddich, for one. You'll see."

A little while later we were sitting on my new orange sofa, drinking Scotch, and listening to The Tragically Hip. Kapp is a music guy, so I had to introduce him to Canada's best-kept secret.

"So, the old forgot my bag trick, eh?" I said, slyly. "Is that like the old high school ploy of running out of gas?"

"Well, I don't have a car, you know," Kapp replied. He's quick with the comebacks, I'll give him that.

"So, are you one of those people who, under the right circumstances, smokes after all?" I asked, lighting up a cigarette in my livingroom. Something I don't usually do, but this was not a usual evening.

"It depends what you mean."

"I mean, would you like one?"

"I meant, what type of cigarette?"

"Ah! Well, I only have these."

"Are you... amenable to other kinds?"

"Why, you got?"

By way of answer, he pulled out a baggie.

"I'm not sure I have any rolling papers," I said.

"It's OK, I do," replied Kapp.

"What were you, a Boy Scout or something?"

"Not exactly."

I haven't been stoned since The Sex Pistols concert at Ontario Place two years ago, and I'm pretty sure this was my first time in America.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass takes her California driving test.