Outside In (23 page)

“At least I’m off the hook.”

“And that will piss her off even more.”

The conversation, the good night’s sleep, and seeing Birch all serve as additional building blocks in my reconstruction. By tomorrow it will all be behind me. I don’t know if it’s the
entertainment cycle with the bands or the Friday, Saturday, Sunday routine, but I too am living in three-day segments. Tomorrow ends another cycle, and I’ll be ready to begin again.

In the afternoon, Dawn strolls into the Round House. Her smile wider than usual and her head held higher, she is ready to spar. Even if Cinch hadn’t told me what happened the night before, her added confidence gives it away.

“Surprise,” she says. “Sorry I didn’t call, but I didn’t want you to feel like you had to entertain me. We’re just having fun, remember?”

I say, “I wouldn’t be surprised by anyone who shows up here on one of the busiest weekends of the year. Not to mention that I saw Brooke this morning in the barn.”

“I was going to come over with her, but I didn’t want to intrude. So why weren’t you out last night? The island starting to take its toll?”

Cinch’s advice for her to give me space is transparent in her words. Equally as clear is her peacock-like strutting. I keep reminding myself that I don’t care, but her smug attitude erodes my veil of indifference.

I answer her questions and continue our conversation for the better part of an hour, successfully evading each of her attempts to lead me into asking what she did last night. I talk to her about her work, life in Detroit, my trip to Cleveland, anything to deny her the satisfaction of implying that something might have happened. But she counters each escape with another assault. The final blow in the attack communicates just how far in advance she prepared for this battle. Appearing just as puffed up as his partner, Mize walks through the front door to meet her here for a drink,
probably by her invitation, during his break from the Beer Barrel. How pathetic. Each of them so happy to use the other for entertainment and redemption.

I walk over to Cinch. “Can you believe this? She really thinks she’s getting back at me. How far will she go to get even for being blown off?”

“Who cares? If you’re lucky, maybe she really likes him.”

Even though I try not to watch them, my eyes continually drift in their direction. I recognize my jealousy, but it’s not because I care about her. I don’t want to be with her, but I don’t want anyone else to have her, either. I like thinking she’s there for me, but I don’t want to be there for her. I want her away from me, but not so far away that I can’t pull her back when it’s convenient.

Eventually the two of them walk out together. Dawn gives a casual glance over her shoulder as she steps onto the porch. But there isn’t anything casual intended by her gesture—instead, it’s as if to say, “You want space? I’ll give you space, so much that you’ll wonder not only what, but
who
I’m doing.”

Over the next few days, not only are Cinch and I unable to make a trip to the Boardwalk in order to refuel, but the increased traffic also stymies our delivery business. People have to come to us.

To fill orders, we keep everything in my locker at the Round House. All the packages are pre-weighed: grams, sixteenths, and eight balls. The grams are in a Salem box, the sixteenths in a Marlboro Light pack, the balls in a Camel box. One of us takes the order, grabs the package out of my locker, and returns to the bar or patio to finish the transaction.

At the end of the shift we empty our pockets and sift through the remnants in the red barn, counting the wads of fifties, twenties,
tens, and fives as we pass around a plate, each night increasing our level of indulgence.

After work I try to hook up with Birch or Haley, someone outside the crew, but either my buzz or my preoccupation with making another sale always lures me away. I can no longer deny it: we’re drug dealers. Between the stuff we move at work, at late-night bars, and after hours, we have become quite prosperous. Word has traveled quickly that just because you’re on an island doesn’t mean you have to be stranded—as long as you have cash.

All of it only encourages us to party more, mainly so we don’t have to think about how lucrative our partnership has become, but also because we can.

In St. Louis, my life changed suddenly, completely out of my control. In contrast, my metamorphosis here has been full of warning signs, ones I have ignored while convincing myself that I can always change and that tomorrow will be the day when the change occurs. Will enough ever be enough?

Just before sunrise, Cinch slides the plate toward me. “What do you say? One more to knock us out, then we call it a night?”

I laugh at the contradiction in his question. Sleep is no longer a realistic option. “I’m done,” I say. “I need to wind down until I have to meet Bob.”

He offers to help, but why should both of us suffer? I should just go lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until it’s time to go.

Cinch does not give up. He says, “If both of us go, Bob might actually get his money’s worth. Besides, look at the bright side: at least the Fourth is over. We’re halfway through the season.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Even though technically Labor Day is still two months away, the Fourth of July is considered halfway because it’s the second of the three big holidays. But the milestone means nothing to me. I don’t know if one-half, one-third, or one-sixth of my season is over because I have no idea what I’m doing at the end of the summer.

Cinch says, “Don’t forget what we agreed to last night when we were leaving work.”

“Refresh me. I don’t even remember leaving.”

“We’re supposed to meet at the winery at five o’clock.”

“No recollection. At this point, the entire weekend is running together.”

Five hours of sleep pass quickly after being up for thirty-six. My alarm sounds, but it’s still not enough to wake me from my dream, in which I’m running through a forest. Branches and twigs break under my feet. The ocean calls in the distance. I accelerate, but the sounds of the sea drift farther and farther away. Dew dropping from the leaves chills my skin. My breathing becomes heavier as my pace quickens. My heart is about to burst through my chest, but I’m still not getting closer to the water. The snapping of wood and the faint call of waves are the only audible sounds.

Birch shakes my leg. “Dude, you okay? You’re soaking wet, your alarm’s going off, and you didn’t even bother to take off your shoes.”

I sit up and run my fingers through my hair, down around my neck, and together in front of my face, holding them as if I’m praying. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“Five o’clock. We got to get to the winery.”

“Is Cinch up?” I go to Cinch’s room and fling my wet T-shirt at his heaving stomach. “Hey, we gotsta go, bro. It’s five. I’ll shower. You chop ’em and be ready when I get out.”

At the winery, we gather in the back around the same table as before. Haley is inside with some other islanders. Griffin must’ve
come straight after work. He and Stein have already finished one bottle and are two-thirds of the way through another.

Griffin says, “Where the hell have you guys been? We had to start without you.”

Cinch says, “Why didn’t you come upstairs and get us, you selfish bastard? Try thinking about others for a change.”

Griffin slumps forward like a scolded puppy.

Birch says, “The way you two were going at it, I didn’t see much left for anyone else. Come on, let’s get the game started. I have to work tonight.” Birch looks directly at me. “Antonio Montana to you.”

The game moves rapidly. Maybe because we’ve all played before, maybe because we’re relatively sober. Regardless, the names spring easily and the wine goes down slowly. Tom Cruise—Cameron Diaz—Derek Jeter—Jessica Biel—Bill Gates—George Clooney—Chris Matthews—Michael Jackson—Jessica Simpson.

We are all down to a half cup of wine when Griffin pulls a reversal on Cinch with Shel Silverstein.

Cinch holds up his cup. “Socrates. Who’s getting more wine? More importantly, who’s doing the honors in the restroom?”

Birch collects the empties. “I’ll get the wine while you guys do your thing.”

Stein and Griffin go take care of business in the restroom. I turn to Cinch. “Have you noticed Birch acting differently today? Maybe we revealed too much over the past few days.”

Cinch raises an eyebrow. “Should we rub him out?”

“No, I’m serious. Like his crack about Scarface when we started the game, and his little dig when you were busting on Griffin.”

Cinch offers his typical response. “Who cares? Come on, it’s our turn.”

When we return, the empty wine bottles have been replaced with full ones, but Birch is gone. I ask what happened to him.

“Up front,” Griffin says. “We’re supposed to play without him. He has to head back shortly.”

Stein says, “Screw him. Who’s going to start?”

“I’m done playing,” I say. “Maybe we should go hang out with the others.”

Griffin says, “You go ahead. I’m way too amped to be around those folks. I might as well tattoo a big red C on the end of my nose.”

“They’re all pretty juiced,” Cinch says. “They can hardly see past the end of their own noses, let alone worry about yours.”