Authors: Alan Conway
“How long is
this
gonna last? Two weeks?” he asks.
“Nah, I'll stick it through this time.”
“That's what you said last time. Pretty nice place?”
“Yeah, it's clean. The staff is friendly and–”
“Hot chicks or a bunch of dicks?”
“Couldn't say. The owner was the only one there after five o'clock.”
“Gotcha. I might go over there tomorrow and check it out. Maybe we could get a routine going. Workout together when you get off work.”
“Definitely,” I say, nodding. “What's on your mind?”
Damon takes a deep breath. I'm glad I didn't blow off into my speech earlier and unload all those feelings when he obviously has a hell of a lot on his mind right now.
Then again, so do I.
“Brian, I need to move away from Larry. And he knows about your sexual preferences and you know how he feels about me being around you.”
I nod. There's a story about that, but it's for another time.
“He's getting worse. I'm worried that one night I'll be sleeping and he'll just come in with a shotgun and blow me away.”
“I don't think he would do that.”
“You don't know him like I do. He was mean before Mom passed away, but now, he's dangerous, Brian. And I'm scared. And Mom – Christ, man, she didn't know. I wanted to tell her, but she'd been sick for so long and worried about everything else, I didn't want to burden her with my problems.”
He stands up and goes to the window, splitting the blinds with his finger. “He doesn't know where you live, but he might see my car,” he says.
“Sit down and relax, will you?”
“Sorry.” He sits beside me on the couch.
Thanks, Damon.
Now
I
need to relax. “Want to get drunk?”
“You want to escape an abusive alcoholic by getting drunk? Is that irony?”
“How the fuck should I know? You're the writer,” he says, laughing, easing me a bit.
I should mention I have a very low tolerance to alcohol. It hasn't gotten me into trouble in the past because I'm an uptight square, but given
my
current situation, an uninhibited Brian Jamison might make things worse.
Or would it?
Damon
Brian and I hit up Duncan's Liquor on the parkway. We come back with whiskey, vodka (his choice, not mine), and a case of lite beer. I don't think I've ever seen Brian drink alcohol before. This should be interesting.
I'm about halfway through the beer while Brian's mixing another whiskey and Coke. This is his second, and he's already red-faced and grinning like an idiot and it's fucking hilarious. He's fun, he's funny, but he's just so damn uptight sometimes. I'll have to help him work on that.
We drink and laugh and chitchat all through the evening and into the night. I browse his CD collection and find two mixes I gave him for Christmas back in high school. They're scratched all to hell (they were that way when I gave them to him), but Brian tells me they still play. I don't believe him so I pop one in the CD player.
“Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now” starts playing. Wow, this takes me back. We use to listen to this all the time while we cruised the strip back in River City. Those were good times.
We sing along, badly. But we don't care. We're having fun, too much fun for me to think about Larry and my meaningless life. I hear the ice chatter in Brian's glass as he gulps down his drink. All gone.
Congratulations, Brian. You're at your limit. Weak. How about another?
I offer to pour him one but he waves his hand.
“I'm so glad,” he says. “So glad you're here.”
“Me, too,” I say, slapping his knee. His eyes get big in his head then he staggers to his feet.
“I think I will have another,” he says, then freezes. I watch him wobble like he's navigating a tight rope. I snicker to myself. I've got a good buzz going on and I'm enjoying the hell out of it.
“Having a fight with gravity?” I ask.
“Yeah, and I'm losing,” Brian says. “Uh-oh.”
He falls against the pantry door and slides down to the carpet.
“You all right?”
“Never better.”
Brian
I'm so drunk. Haven't been this drunk in a while. I open my eyes and see the ceiling stretching, contorting above me. I shut them tight and breathe. I doze. The music playing in the background begins to fade in and out against the sound of my lungs expanding and contracting.
I must be hammered because I feel like I'm being carried. I crack an eye and see I'm inches from dark brown curls. My dead weight collapses on the soft pillow-top of my mattress. I hear my shoes hit the floor and the covers magically draw up to my chin.
A shadow hovers above me for a while then it disappears. Weight shifting beside me. My heartbeat pounds heavily in my ears. My vision shudders with every thud.
I hear a long sigh, but I'm not sure if it comes out of me, and before I have a chance to over-analyze, I'm out.
The sun is irritatingly bright, blasting through the blinds in marvelous shafts of gold. I'm barely even conscious. My eyes, still heavy, keep rolling back into my head. That's when I see the body lying next to me. It lies twisted in the sheets with an outstretched hand folded back against the headboard.
It can't be.
I could recognize the arm in a lineup – I've seen it enough times. The chest expands. Breath escapes quietly.
Nervous, I draw back the sheets very carefully.
Oh please, it can't be. Is this really happening? Am I still asleep?
But I'm far from dreamland. The back of my fingers brush against thick dark hair. And the smell–
(oh my God I know it's him it has to be)
brings up gooseflesh on my arms and neck. I lie there looking at the closed eyes just inches from my own wide open gaze.
There he is.
Hold the phone, stop the clock, what the hell is going on here?
I start to shake. The sight, the smell, the sounds...
This is no dream and I know it, but somehow the reality of the situation eludes me. Before I realize what's happening, the arm drapes across my back and grips me with delightful comfort.
And fear. The eyes open.
“Whoa, I'm sorry, dude,” Damon says, drawing back his arm. “It got cold in here and I didn't know how to operate the thermostat.”
“It's broken,” I lie. “The manager says–”
“And you were pretty out of it last night, so I thought I should keep a close eye on you.”
I mentally check myself without moving. I'm fully dressed, thank God. That would have been embarrassing. I see he is, too. And he seems chipper so I guess I didn't try to–
Damon draws a breath, smiles, and asks, “Are you cold?”
I'm practically vibrating, but I'm quite warm. Much too warm for my own good.
“A little bit.” It's all I can say, and I barely manage that much.
“What've you got going on today?” Damon asks.
What day is it? What planet am I on?
“Nothing.”
“Me either,” he says, looking up at the ceiling. “Wanna watch a movie?”
I try to say yes, but my lips can't even form this single word.
“You all right? Hung over?” The breath on my neck is warm, and the smell of his skin–
(oh my God that smell)
is like heaven's garden.
“Let me get a shower and we'll go get something to eat, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, sitting up, avoiding the sunlight. “There are towels in the closet.”
Before I know it, my head is being pulled towards that smile, a smile that has haunted me for so many years now. He presses his lips against my temple and says, “Get your ass up and make some coffee or something. I know you still drink that nasty shit.”
As if I need coffee after that.
After he leaps out of bed and leaves the room, I'm sure I'm dead, and whether this is heaven or hell, I'm glad to be here.
Lauren
I haven't heard from the boys in a few days. I guess no news is good news.
I clean my apartment and have lunch with my sister, Jessica. She's sixteen and boy crazy and feels like her life is in shambles. I listen but I also tell her she doesn't know anything about life yet. She tells me I'm wrong and I just don't understand her, just like our parents. I give up. She'll find out one day.
I punch in at one o'clock, log on to my computer, and prepare to be gloriously cheerful the rest of the day because corporate is dropping by later, even though it's Sunday. Brody comes over and sits on the edge of my desk. He's been trying to get with me since he hired me and I might have considered letting him try until I found out he's married.
“Hiya Lauren,” he says, beaming at me. “How's it going?”
“Fine. Yourself?”
“Super.” He flashes his winning smile. A born salesman. “Don't be nervous. You've been here a long time, and despite what you've heard, there's not going to be any downsizing at our location.”
I shake my head slowly, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Um, well,” he fumbles. “There have been rumors going around the office that corporate is coming in to review our numbers, and the employee with the least sales will be let go. They will be reviewing the sales figures, but the bit about firing is just gossip. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Can I get that in writing?” I joke. Any sliver of appeal I once had for him is shattered because the troll is lying through his teeth.
“Ha, cute. Remember: big smile, big sales! They're going to love you!” He throws up two thumbs that I want to rip off and shove down his neck.
I stretch a smile until he goes away to unlock the doors. A chilly breeze chases around my ankles. This damn Tennessee weather. Autumn will be here soon – the great season of change. I sense there are a lot of changes about to happen. It might even be time to consider a career change. Maybe even a change of scenery…
A customer wanders in, a bald man in a sport jacket. Behind him is Heather Meeks.
Brody gives me another double thumbs up from across the store. He doesn't know that Richard Garcia who works dayshift has a friend in corporate who says without a doubt someone would be let go. Someone with the lowest sales.
And right now, that someone is me.
Mr. Meeks isn't smiling when he walks over to me. His arm is wrapped around his sweet, innocent daughter whose eyes are telling me my ass is grass.
“I want to speak to your manager right now, miss,” Mr. Meeks says loud enough for Brody to hear.
Brody spins around and trots over with his forehead wrinkled. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“Yes, there is. This girl refused to sell my daughter a car charger for her mobile telephone.”
Brody looks at me in horror. “Is this true, Lauren?”
I throw up my hands. “I told her that–”
“
She
said they were on backorder and she'd let me know when they came in, then she changed her story after she found out who I was.”
“And who are you, miss?” Brody asks delicately.
“I used to date a friend of hers and she's mad at me because he wanted me and not her.”
“That is
not
true, Brody. I–”
“What kind of phone do you have?” Brody asks Heather. She shows it to him. He looks at me and says, “But we have lots of those. Tons in the back.”
I won't win this. Not today. But she'll get hers. Oh yes, she'll get hers.
Brody disappears and comes back with a charger in hand. He gives it to her and says, “No charge. I'm very sorry for your troubles.”
“Damn right!” Mr. Meeks says, giving me a cold eye. “Come on, Heather. We're finished here.”
Heather follows her father out, but manages to stick her tongue out at me before disappearing around the corner.
That bitch.
“
So am I, Brody.” I rip off my name tag and shove it between the keys on my keyboard.
“Excuse me?”
“I'm finished here, too.” I feel an overwhelming sense of freedom take me over as I walk out without saying another word. I shoot Brody two dirty birdies through the window and drive off.
On the way home, I sing and cheer as I take out my phone, ready to share the good news. I dial Brian's number first and hope he's not at work.
I need to know what he's paying down there at Redwood Commons, because I'm getting the hell out of here.
Brian
The gym is packed with people who are already in excellent shape, which makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing here. I did some shopping before I got here – I got a gym bag, some clothes to workout in, and even a water bottle that I probably won't use since fountains are on every wall of the place.
I go into the locker room which reeks of sweat and soap. It's a pretty big room with lockers all around the outside walls with two stacks of lockers in the center. It appears as though I have the place to myself. I put my cap and shoes in an empty locker and jerk the tags off my new shorts and T-shirt.
Then I heard a locker slam on the other side. I can't see who it is, but I'm hoping it's not so hairy old man who wants to talk about football.
I dress and casually walk over beside the entrance to the showers and I see Damon standing there where I heard the locker slam. He beat me here. I see the pink contract on bench next to his gym bag.
“Boo,” I say. He jerks his head toward me. I try not to stare at him at this stage of undress, but my right eye starts to twitch.
“Hey, man,” Damon says, pulling a shirt over his head. “Guess I beat you here after all. Surprised?”
“Yep. Surprised you didn't sleep till three in the afternoon,” I say.
“Well, I went home to get my stuff after breakfast, argued with Larry some. Talked to Lauren before I came.”
“Oh, yeah? How's she doing?”
“Good,” he says, putting on a pair of blue gym shorts. “Says she tried to get a hold of you. Quit her job. Can you believe it?”
“Not really,” I say. “She hated that place. I can't believe those boxers you're wearing.” I point at the cartoons printed on them. “I wouldn't think a womanizer like you would subject yourself to that kind of ridicule.”