For Sage by Tara Keezer

Kowalski is a pig. He is, and I can take the pictures to prove it, but that's the kind of statement that would earn me a smack on the head if Ma were still talking to me, which she's not.

Damn it.

Maybe one of these days, she'll get over it, but in the meantime, I'm stuck at Kowalski's place right along with his allergy to anything having to do with tidiness. It wouldn't be so bad if his ma were still around, but she and Mr. Kowalski took off about three days before the first snowfall, and they won't be back until spring at the earliest or whenever Arizona gets to be too hot. God, I envy them. Arizona is fantastic in the winter, and if it weren't for all the inconvenient daylight, I'd be right there with them myself.

Instead, I'm stuck in Chicago with a slob who has the balls to get bitchy when I don't rinse out my mug. Him? He'll leave a coffee cup on the counter for three months before I threaten to call the EPA to get rid of it. I leave my mug sit for more than five seconds, and he's on me like a goddamn yippy dog.

I'd stay somewhere else if I could -- God, would I ever -- but it's not like I can get a normal job anymore. Chicago PD took one look at my lifestyle and said thanks, but no thanks, we don't hire your kind. Like I'm some kind of leper or something. I tried to get the ACLU to take my case, but they're too busy with traditional minorities to bother with me. The night I told Kowalski that, I thought he'd blow a gasket. It was obvious he was more pissed about their double standard than he was on my behalf, but it was kind of nice, having someone get angry like that because of me.

God knows Ma won't. Frannie -- I don't know about Frannie. She might, she might not. I can't tell, because every time I see her, she bursts into tears and runs away. First time it happened, I thought it was because she hated me. Took Kowalski to clue me in that it wasn't me so much as it was Ma and Father Bernard working on her. Father Bernard I could understand. The Church has rules about these things. But Ma -- Ma hurts. I keep thinking maybe if she'd just talk to me, she'd see I'm still her Raimundo, but she won't. Even Kowalski's given up on trying to get her to see my side of things. Of course, if Ma hadn't threatened to cut off his supply of lasagna, he might have held in there a little longer, but I remember her lasagna, and I honestly can't blame him for not wanting to give that up.

Maria's not so bad around me. From what I can tell, Tony pisses his pants whenever I call to talk to Maria, but hell, even before Ma kicked me out of the family, he always kept his distance. Maria says I scare him, which I can believe, because he doesn't exactly have a spine. Plus, he's got a bigger hard-on for Ma's cooking than Kowalski does. Anyway, at least Maria thinks that Ma is overreacting a little, but that don't mean she'll invite me over to her house -- she's not that brave. At least she'll meet me for coffee sometimes, let me know how Frannie and her kids are getting along.

Mostly, Frannie's scraping by okay. I'd help if I could, but I'm still trying to get my business -- R.V. Private Investigations, LLC -- up and running. I can't even afford to help Kowalski with expenses right now, but it doesn't seem to bother him too much. He just tells me I'll owe him big time down the road.

Whatever. Kowalski, as much as he pisses me off sometimes, is one of the few people who still talks to me these days. Benny talks to me, too, but he's up in the middle of the tundra most of the time, so it's not like we're all Chatty Cathy seven days a week. Neither are me and Kowalski, come to think of it, because I mostly only see him first thing in the morning, and about the best he can manage before he has his coffee and before I'm down for the day is a few grunts. Oh, and the bitching. Even without coffee, he can get downright talkative about my mug. Asshole.

But he's an asshole with a conscience, and injustice irritates the shit out of him, which, I'm pretty sure, is why I ended up getting an invitation to move in with him. That first night, when Ma turned her back on me, I didn't know which way was up. I don't know what I was thinking that made me end up at Kowalski's place, but it was there or go to The Vault, and no way in hell was I ever going down there. Even then, I knew I'd kiss sunrise before I landed there, and I think Kowalski knew that, too. He knows that now, anyway.

Or maybe he doesn't.

Kowalski's all about social justice, and he'll go fifty miles out of his way to make sure he arrests the right guy, but when it comes to what the shrinks call interpersonal relationships, I'm positive he doesn't have a clue. God. I hope he doesn't have a clue. Way I see it, if he ever figures out I got the hots for a certain part of his anatomy, I'm totally and completely screwed, because there's no way in hell he'll ever put up with that. It's one thing for him to get pissed at the ACLU for discriminating against me and my problem, but that don't mean he wouldn't turn on me without a second thought if he ever caught onto it.

The thought is enough to give me nightmares, and it's more than enough for me to keep my eyes on my mug in the morning. It's disgusting and gross, especially with Kowalski standing there all warm and relaxed and smelling really tasty after a good night's sleep, but as nasty as it is, cow's blood is safe. Cow's blood means I get to keep my home, even if it is a pigsty. Cow's blood means Kowalski will keep grunting at me and bitching me out over my sticky mugs.

Latching onto Kowalski's neck, on the other hand -- nah. Doesn't matter how good he smells. I'm not ever going there.