Taking Stock (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

After a few weeks of barely concealed ridicule, Randy quits Spend Easy, and I ask Donovan if he’s pleased with this outcome.

“Well, it’s too bad he felt the need to quit. But lots of people suffer, you know. He should count himself lucky, if a little gossip is the worst he ever has to deal with.”

I wonder if Frank knows his son quit for the same reason he quit his last job. Maybe he even senses Gilbert’s role in it. There’s nothing he can do, of course. He has to tread softly, since pissing off Gilbert could mean everything he knows falling apart. He built his family on an illusion, and it’s his bad luck that Gilbert possesses the means to shatter it.

I feel bad for Randy, but there’s nothing I can do either. To tell a secret once is to tell it a hundred times. You can’t stuff it back in the box.

Tonight, Gilbert and I are driving around town in the Hummer. It’s raining heavily, which suits me. “I hear you managed to break up Sean and Cassandra,” he says.

I stare out the window.

“So, is this your opportunity?” he says. “Is this Sheldon Mason’s big chance to make it with her?”

I shake my head. “You were right—she’s not interested in me.”

“Well, it’s probably for the best. How do you feel?”

“Pretty shitty, actually.”

“Wanna smoke a joint?”

The rain is beating against the windshield. I sigh. “Fuck it. Break it out.”

“That’s the spirit!” He fishes it out of a cup holder, puts it in his mouth, lights it. “You’re not writing about this, are you?”

“About what?”

“This whole thing with Cassandra.”

“No.”

“Are you writing anything right now?”

“Just another short story.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a sequel to the last one. The King—”

“Jesus Christ. You got a real knack for turning a good thing into a bad, you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you plan to let anyone read it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably submit it somewhere.”

“I’m telling you. Stop writing.”

We pull onto the highway. A red car speeds past us, and Gilbert steps on the gas, laughing. “I love it when Toyota Tercels think they can outstrip a Hummer.”

He drifts into the passing lane, a sheet of water spraying up from the Hummer’s tires.

The speedometer climbs, and Gilbert soon closes the gap. Once he passes, he changes lanes again and starts slowing down. The driver of the Tercel beeps.

“His horn is pathetic,” I say.

Gilbert blasts his.

The Tercel switches lanes, passes, and switches back. Gilbert does the same. The driver glares as we overtake him. Gilbert flips him off. When the Tercel tries to pass again we stay abreast of it, and Gilbert continues to look over with his finger up. “He’s maxed out, for sure,” he says.

The driver takes the next exit, and Gilbert follows him. It’s late, and there aren’t many cars on the roads. The Tercel continues to go almost as fast as it did on the highway. Gilbert continues harassing him.

Finally we see his left flicker go on, and Gilbert turns his on, too. We turn into a parking lot.

“Shit,” I say. “This is a hospital. I don’t think he was trying to race us.”

The other car parks near the front doors. Gilbert keeps his distance. We watch the driver get out and help a woman out of the passenger seat. She’s holding her belly, which is big and round.

“They weren’t joyriding,” I say.

“No,” Gilbert says. “They weren’t.”

“What if we—”

“She’s fine, Sheldon. Okay? Nothing happened.”

*

Wednesday night I’m on with Tommy, and since there’s no other work that needs doing, we front.

I sigh, and he glances at me. “Everything all right, Sheldon? You seem bummed tonight.”

“I’m fine. My heart’s a bit freezer burnt. That’s all.”

“Pop it in the microwave on defrost for 30 seconds.”

“Yeah. Um, do you know if Ralph’s emailed the schedule yet?”

“He hadn’t, last time I checked.”

I go to the warehouse and call him.

“Bit late with it this week,” Ralph says. “Putting it together now, actually. I have your hours, though—got a pen?”

“I’ll remember.”

“Okay. Hold on.” He pauses. “Oh, boy. You’re not going to like me.”

“All right.”

“You’re working Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

He was right. I abhor him. I hope he chokes on his own vomit.

“That sounds fine,” I say.

“Great. Knew I could count on you.”

I hang up and call Gilbert. “Ralph just scheduled me for every day this weekend.”

“That’s what you get for being Spend Easy’s finest. Guess you won’t be coming downtown with us Friday, then.”

“Who’s going?”

“Bunch of us. We’re drinking at Donovan’s first.”

“Screw it. I’m coming.”

On Friday I bring a change of clothes to work, and after I go straight to Donovan’s. It takes me almost an hour to walk, and I buy a half-case of beer on the way.

Hardly anyone’s at the party when I get there—just Donovan, Lesley-Jo, a couple people I don’t know, and a new Grocery hire named Trent. They’re watching
Jeopardy!

Donovan gets up and walks over. “Hey Sheldon. What did you get me?”

“Get you?”

“It’s my birthday, man.”

“I didn’t know.”

“So, you didn’t get me anything. Wow. Now I don’t feel bad about inviting Cassandra for the sole purpose of watching you be awkward.”

“Is she coming?”

“Nah. Too preggers, I guess. When’s your birthday? So I can remember it, and make you feel bad about missing mine.”

“It’s pretty soon. June 18th.”

“Man, there it is again. That number.”

“What number?”

“18. I see it everywhere.”

“Oh. I see 37, a lot.”

“Really? 37? Did you know there are 37 miracles in the Bible?”

“No, I didn’t.” I’m actually feeling pretty dumb about the whole thing, right now. The idea that Donovan has a similar number thing going doesn’t sit too well.

“This calls for a birthday joint.” He takes a case from his pocket, and opens it. “Behold.”

“That’s a big one.”

“Duh. It’s a birthday joint.”

The front door opens behind me, and Casey comes in, with a guy I don’t know. Lesley-Jo gets up and kisses Casey. “Hey, babe,” he says.

“Um,” I say, and they both look at me. “Are you guys…?”

“Together?” he says. “Yeah, for a couple weeks now. Is there enough for me, there, Donovan?”

“It’s a birthday joint. There’s enough for everyone.” He passes it to Casey.

“You smoke weed now, too?”

Casey nods. “Gilbert suggested it. He figured it would help me relax. He was right.” He grins, holding up the joint. “Much better than coffee. Haven’t knocked over any old ladies in a month.”

Donovan turns on Street Fighter, and Casey goes over and challenges him to a match. I didn’t know he was a gamer.

More people show up during the next hour. A couple people ask when Gilbert’s coming, but no one knows.  “The clubs all close at three, don’t they?” I say. “If we’re going, we should go soon.”

Donovan starts counting people, to figure out how many cabs we need. Trent, the new Grocery hire, speaks up. He says he’s never had a drink in his life, so he’s available to drive a vanload down. I’m out of beer, and while rides are being figured out I hunt in Donovan’s kitchen for something else to drink.  Casey’s there, with the guy he came in with. “Hey, Sheldon, have you met Francis? He’s my roommate.”

“Hey, dude,” Francis says.

This must be the guy who refused to drive Casey to the hospital.

“Francis is a douchebag name,” I say.

Taxis start arriving, and Gilbert pulls up in his Hummer as the last one is driving away. I’m getting into Trent’s van along with Donovan, Casey, and Lesley-Jo. Gilbert gets out and walks toward us, carrying a brown bag. “Shit—are you guys going downtown already?”

“It’s almost one o’clock,” Donovan says.

“Damn it.” Gilbert takes a twenty-sixer of Jack Daniel’s out of the bag, unscrews the top, and chugs half of it. He screws the top back on and tosses the rest back in the Hummer.

Donovan takes shotgun, and Casey and Lesley-Jo sit behind him, in the middle. Gilbert and I sit in back.

“So, Sheldon,” Donovan says. “I hear you’re writing something new.”

“You hear true.”

“Can I read it, when you’re done?”

“Sure, man.”

“Nobody reads it before I do,” Gilbert says. “After that, we’ll decide whether we want to release to the general public.”

“What are you, his agent?” Donovan says.

“More like life coach wannabe,” I say.

We arrive downtown, and everyone who isn’t Trent piles out of the van.

“Where did everyone say they were going?” Lesley-Jo says once we’re gathered on the sidewalk.

“Who cares?” Gilbert says. “I need drinks.”

We all head for the nearest bar and order shots of whatever. While we’re waiting, Brent appears next to us—Brent, of Spend Easy ancient history. A casualty of the new cameras.

“Hey,” he says.

“Buy me this shot,” Gilbert says.

Brent nods. He seems pretty drunk. “Okay. Sure, Gilbert. What have you been up to lately, anyway, bro?”

“Nothing.”

“I hear you’re still running Frank over at Spend Easy. I was talking to Claude the other day. Nicely done, man.”

“Thanks.”

The bartender brings us the shots. Gilbert downs his and walks away without saying anything. Brent takes a 20 out of his wallet, watching him go. “Me and Gilbert, man,” he says to me. “We used to be tight. We got high together so many times.”

“Yeah,” I say, “because friendships are measured in joints, right?”

I turn to follow Gilbert.

“Hey,” Brent says, grabbing my arm. “How many times have you smoked him up? You fucking pansy.”

I pull away. “Piss off, man. You’re acting like his ex-girlfriend.”

I see his fist go back, but I guess I’m skeptical, because I just stand there. He hits me in the eye. I stagger back, covering it with my right hand. A few people standing nearby make protracted vowel sounds. Brent steps forward, the intention of further violence written across his face. I put up my left hand. The space around us is clearing.

Gilbert steps up, catches Brent’s hand midflight, and pulls it forward, tripping him with his foot. Brent goes sprawling onto the floor. Bouncers come over, pick him up, and drag him to the exit.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I have a brown belt in karate. I’d have my black, but that comes with legal complications.”

We rejoin Donovan and the rest at a couple of stand-up tables on the other side of the bar. “You guys see that?” I say.

“See what?” Casey says.

“Never mind,” Gilbert says. “Hey, Sheldon. Check out that blonde on the dance floor. Red skirt.”

I look over. “She’s hot.”

Lesley-Jo rolls her eyes. “Must you constantly objectify women, Gilbert?”

“I’m not objectifying her. I recognize she’s a unique, beautifully complex individual who’s constantly blossoming into someone new. All I’m saying is she’s hot, and I wanna bang her.”

He approaches, and within short order they’re groping each other on the dance floor. I glance at Donovan. “He moves fast.”

“He’s a charmer, all right.” He holds up his glass, which is empty, and clicks it against mine—also empty. “You should get the next round.”

“All right.”

As I approach the bar, the bartender flicks an ice cube into the air with a metal scoop and tries to catch it in a glass. It ricochets off the rim and onto the floor, but the people on the other side of the bar clap anyway. I guess it looked like he caught it, from their angle.

That’s the definition of success. As long as other people are impressed, it doesn’t matter if you secretly screw up. The important thing is to look good doing whatever you’re doing.

10 minutes later, I still don’t have my drinks. It seems like the bartender’s serving every new person who approaches the bar before me. I take out a 20 and lean on the bar, holding the bill in plain view.

The guy standing next to me smirks, and reaches into his pocket. He takes out a 100, which he holds next to my 20. He glances from his bill, to my bill, to me. He raises his eyebrows.

I look back at him and raise mine.

The bartender comes over and asks him what he’d like.