by Claire Adams
“Who did?” I ask.
“One of the workers,” Linda says, “but he wasn’t trying to steal anything, he was just trying to let us in so we could open up and they could get to work.”
“And he thought that breaking in was going to be the smart way of going about that?” I ask. “I told you that I’m on my way. The store doesn’t open unless I’m in it. Who was it?”
“Jessica, just take a breath. Nothing’s broken, everything’s all right. The guy just—”
“You’re right,” I tell her. “It doesn’t really matter who it was. I’m going to have to have a little talk with Eric when I get there.”
“He had nothing to do with it,” Linda says. “In fact, when he found out what was going on, he tried to stop—”
“Are the police there yet?” I interrupt.
“No,” she says.
I pull onto the shoulder and put the gas pedal to the floor. Yeah, I’m breaking the law, but some construction guy breaking into my store, the place I’ve sunk so much time and money into, is about the last thing I need right now, and I want to make sure to tell whoever it is that he’s fired before the cops have a chance to arrest him.
If Eric won’t get rid of the culprit voluntarily, I’ll just fire all of them and go with the slob from IRP.
I don’t fucking like people in my store when I’m not there. It’s bad enough when I leave my own staff in there when I’m going out to lunch.
I take the first exit, which means I have to go through a bit more of the city, but at least the traffic’s not as bad here. Still, it takes me almost half an hour to get from the exit to the lot around the block from the store.
When I come around that corner, the police are already gone. Meanwhile, Eric and a couple of guys from his crew, as well as Linda, Ivanna, and Cheryl from my staff are just standing around talking in front of the store.
It’s not clear who the culprit was, but I know who’s responsible for him, so I walk through everyone else and stick my finger in Eric’s face.
“I don’t know what stupid shit you and your guys are trying to pull, but if you don’t fire whoever broke in, I’m going to fire all of you and tell everyone I know in the business community what happened. Hell, I’ll put out an ad, hold a press conference. Do you understand me? Now, who was it?” I yell.
“Jessica—”
“Miss Davis,” I correct.
“Miss Davis,” Eric says. “It was really just a stupid mistake. Nobody was trying to hurt anything. My guy just got a little ahead of himself and thought he was doing everyone a favor by letting us in so your people could open up and my guys could get to work.”
“He broke into my store,” I fume. “I don’t think that classifies as just a ‘stupid mistake.’ I’d say that classifies as a misdemeanor, maybe a felony.”
“Jessica,” Linda says, trying to butt into my bitch-out session, “it really was totally innocent.”
“You’ve got three seconds to fire whoever it was or you’re out on your ass,” I hiss at Eric.
“Just let me explain,” he says.
“Three,” I start.
“I’m not firing my man for just trying to get to work!”
“Two.”
“It was me,” the stupid-looking one with the goatee says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm, but I did it. When they found out what was going on, they tried to stop me. They told me to get out of there. You can’t fire them, and I don’t think you should put Eric through firing me. We’ve been working together for years. That said, I know I screwed up and I don’t want to cause any more trouble here than I already have, so boss,” he says, “I quit.”
“Alec, what are you doing?” Eric asks.
“I don’t know how you didn’t get arrested, but if you’re not out of my sight in the next 10 seconds, I’m pressing charges.”
This time I don’t have to count. The man Eric called Alec turns and walks away.
“What the hell was that?!” Eric shouts. “I get that a mistake was made here, and I know that it was my team that was at fault, but that man has a family. You owe him an apology!”
“I don’t know where you get off, but that man broke into my store—”
“No, he didn’t!” Eric shouts. “He just took the fall so you wouldn’t end up firing the rest of us from what, I’ll be honest, has been one of the most aggravating jobs I’ve ever had the misfortune to work on!”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so aggravating if you could get your people to stop screwing around and finish the job!” I retort.
“Maybe if you didn’t change the definition of what the job is twice a day, then that might be possible. In the future, figure out what the fuck you want before you hire a crew to work on it, because you’ve been forcing us to spin our wheels for weeks!” he comes back.
“You know what? Everyone go home. We’re closed today. In fact, we’re closed until further notice. And you,” I put my finger back in Eric’s face, “you’d better figure out some way to convince me that you and team are worth a shit or else I’m going to make sure neither you nor any one of your people works in this town again. You got me? You’ll be shoveling asphalt in Kennebunkport—”
“Really?” Eric interrupts, “That’s your go-to ‘terrible place?’ I’ll let you know it’s gorgeous up there in the fall!”
The sharp left turn has everyone else laughing, but it only serves to piss me off more.
“You can take your jokes and shove them up your ass for all I care! Get the fuck out of my way.”
I push through everyone and try to outpace Linda as she follows me down the block, but she’s persistent.
“Jessica,” she says, “I don’t want to get in the middle of all this—”
“That’s smart,” I snap.
“Listen,” she says. “I know you’re upset, but this isn’t you. You never talk to people like that. I’ve seen you pissed off before, but you always manage to keep your head. What’s going on?”
“I told you already,” I seethe. “Now leave me alone.”
“You told me that someone in your family’s sick. It’s none of my business if you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Leave me alone.”
“All right,” Linda says. “But before you fire a crew that’s really been working hard for you, just take some time to think it over, will you?”
I know she’s trying to reach out, but this is not the time.
She stops following me as I round the corner.
* * *
When I get back to my apartment, I’m still furious. I get that the employee didn’t break in to do damage or steal anything, but breaking in is breaking in, and I hardly see how that’s acceptable.
Not knowing what else to do with myself, I just sit down on my couch, break down, and cry.
This is a shit day after a shit week, and there are no signs that things are going to get better anytime soon.
So, I cry for a while, letting out my anger, frustration, fear, and sadness, and when I’m done, I just sit for a while, contemplating the world around me and what the hell I’m supposed to do with it.
Then my phone rings.
I take a moment to collect myself and I answer.
“Yeah?”
“You sound like shit,” Kristin, my sister says. “Are you all right?”
“Bad day,” I tell her. “What’s up?”
“You didn’t call back,” she says. “Are you at work?”
“No,” I answer. “I closed up for the day. I’d really rather not get into it.”
“So you’re home?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“I’m coming over.”
She hangs up before I can tell her that I’m not really in the mood for company, and I’m certainly not in the mood to hear her go on about how fucking great Jed is supposed to be. Never mind the fact that I know better, I’m sick of her rubbing in the fact that she has someone to go hom
e to, something I haven’t even considered a possibility in years.
Still, I don’t call her back to tell her not to come by.
Whatever the reason, part of me wants someone close by to tell me all kinds of wondrous lies like, “It’s going to be okay,” and “Things will get better.”
The doorbell rings about half an hour after the phone call, and as soon as I open the door and see my sister standing there, I start crying again.
She comes in and gives me a hug, telling me, “It sounds like we need to go out and get drunk.”
“No,” I tell her. “I haven’t been drunk in years, and I’m not about to fall into that now.”
“Well, I know you’ve always got a bottle on hand,” she says, knowing me well enough to know that my gripe isn’t with throwing back a few drinks, but with going out in public when I’m feeling like this. “Why don’t we crack it open and—”
I’m already on my way to the kitchen.
So, we drink and we talk. We talk about our mom mostly, but as the alcohol starts to set in, the conversation shifts.
“You know, Jed and I were talking,” she says.
“Oh God, here it comes.”
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “What were you and Jed talking about?”
“Well, we were talking about you, actually, and how much I want to see you find someone that can be there for you when you come home and when things start going to shit. Did you ever send a message to that guy I was telling you about?”
“I hate being set up,” I tell her. “It’s never worked out for me. The last time someone talked me into meeting someone, I ended up watching a movie, sitting on his futon and neither of us said one damn word to each other after the first five minutes I was there.”
“Yeah, that sounds pretty bleak,” Kristin says.
Now she’s going to try to convince me that all of my problems can be solved by finding Mr. Right Dick.
“I think the only reason I’ve been able to hold it together is because I have Jed to lean on right now.”
“You should really think before you speak,” I tell her, and take another shot.
I’m still just scratching the surface of buzzed, but that’s the way I like to keep it. Getting drunk is annoying.
Maybe I’m in the minority on that one.
“Send him a message,” she says. “If nothing else, he’ll be someone you can talk to. Even if you don’t ever decide to meet him, at least you two can talk. Sometimes getting to know someone, hearing a new perspective on things is just what you need to get through a hard time.”
“Nope,” I tell her. “I’m way too busy to start something, and I’m really not looking for a casual relationship with someone, either. What I want is…”
I don’t know what I want.
“Mind if I use your bathroom?” she asks.
“Go ahead,” I tell her. “You know where it is.”
“Thanks,” she says, and gets up.
It should be some kind of signal that she’s asking me if she can use my bathroom, as she hasn’t done that since I moved into my first apartment, but it doesn’t hit me until it’s too late and she’s already running to the back with my phone in her hand.
I chase her, but she locks the bathroom door before I’m even close.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m helping you make that first step,” she answers through the door.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop,” I tell her. “I don’t want to talk to some stranger about the inner workings of my psyche and all the ways in which my life isn’t what I want it to be.”
There’s silence for a minute. The door opens.
“Is that how you really feel?” she asks. “That your life isn’t what you want it to be?”
“Right now, kind of, yeah,” I tell her. “I don’t always feel like this, but you’ve got to admit things are pretty messed up right now and not just for me. Anyway, thanks for not sending him a message.”
“Oh, I sent the message,” she says. “Why do you think I opened the door?”
I glare at her.
“I thought you opened the door because you gave a shit about what I was saying. It didn’t occur to me that you only came out because you’d successfully gotten away with doing exactly what I told you not to do.”
The phone beeps, and Kristin jumps excitedly.
“Ooh, he sent you a message!”
“Give me the phone,” I tell her.
“Hold on, I want to see what he said.”
“No, give me the phone,” I tell her, and try to grab it from her hand.
She pulls away, but I crowd her so she can’t pull it toward her body.
“Give me the phone,” I tell her again.
“Hold on!” she says. “I just want to see this one message, and then I’ll give it back.”
“That’s it,” I tell her, and proceed to do the one thing that I know will work: I start tickling her sides.
“Stop it!” she wheezes through her laughter, her body doubling up. “Stop it!”
“Give me the phone,” I tell her.
“Never!” she shouts.
“Give me the fucking phone!”
Finally, I manage to pry the cell phone from her fingers and I run back to the living room.
Stupid diversion or not, at least I’ve finally got a smile back on my face.
“Fine,” she says. “But I bet you’re going to tell me what he said anyway.”
“I’m not checking it,” I tell her. “I don’t even know this person.”
“Well, he’s already got your phone number, so that’s about the closest you’ve been to a real date in a few years. You’re welcome,” Kristin responds.
“How did you get to be so smug?” I ask her.
“It runs in the family,” she says.
“You know, you’re never going to believe what happened today,” I start, and proceed to tell her about the worker who broke into my store and the resulting shouting match I got into with the contractor.
“Huh,” she says. “That guy sounds like a jerk. You should have kicked him in the balls.”
That’s her answer to everything.
“You know, there are other ways to make a point,” I inform her.
“Yeah, but there’s no better way of making a point than that,” she rejoins. “Read the text.”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m serious. I don’t have time to start—”
“Oh, will you just shut up and read the stupid text? We both know it’s going to happen sooner or later, and I don’t have all day to wait around for it.”
“Actually,” I smile, “judging by the way you’re swaying back and forth just standing there, I’d say you’re going to be here for quite a while.”
“Nah,” she says, “I’ll just have Jed pick me up when I get sick of you.”
“You want another shot?” I ask.
I’m not going to have one, but seeing as I don’t want to see, talk to, or otherwise encounter Jed, I’m going to get my sister drunk enough that she’ll forget about calling her stupid boyfriend and just stay here until she’s safe to drive.
“Sure,” she says.
In our family, we all have our particular addictions, and we all have more than one. Kristin’s addictions are torrid love affairs, every one of which is with the latest “one and only;” her other addiction is alcohol. When played right, that second addiction wins out almost every time.
So, I pour my sister a shot and I pour one into the shot glass that I was using. I hold up the latter and clink glasses with her.
She immediately takes her shot, but I just set mine back down on the counter.
When she’s done with hers, she wipes her mouth and says, “You know that it’s bad luck to toast and not drink.”
“I think I’m full up on bad luck,” I tell her. “I’m not too worried about it. This one’s for you.”
I pick up the shot glass and hand it to h
er.
“All right,” she says, “but I know what you’re doing…”
She takes the shot.
“…and it’s not going to work.”
Judging by the increase in her topside lateral motion, I’d say it’s already working pretty well.
I manage to talk her into one more shot, after which, she tries to talk me into letting her have another, but I’m very familiar with her stages of drunkenness and she’s about to cross over into whiny sick girl and I just don’t have the patience for that right now.
A few minutes later, we’re on the couch with a movie on the television and she’s snoring loudly beside me. I hadn’t figured on her passing out so quickly, but those are the breaks.
As I sit here, I find myself feeling a little curious.
I fight the urge at first, but it’s not long before my inebriated state, however slight in comparison to my passed out sibling’s, manages to convince me that it’s all right if I just take a look at what he wrote.
Kristin’s message is, well, exactly what I would expect from her.
It reads, “Hey there! My beautiful, talented sister gave me your number and said we should talk. What’s up?”
All things considered, it could have been worse.
His reply says, “Not much. Having a bit of a day, but I’m glad to hear from you. Sorry I haven’t gotten in touch before now. Work’s crazy.”
Before I even think about what I’m doing, I’m typing a reply.
“I know what that’s like. What do you do?”
I send the message and force myself to watch the movie in order to distract myself from overthinking this whole thing.
My phone beeps and I check the message.
“I’d rather not talk about work right now. I hope that’s not rude of me.”
On most days, I’d find his message shallow: after all, who doesn’t like talking about work? (Okay, work is one of my addictions.)
Luckily for him, he caught me on the right day.
“I totally get that. Things are pretty messed up where I work, too. Do you live in the city?”
There is an odd thrill to being able to have a kind-of conversation with someone I’ve never met and probably never will meet. Obviously the conversation is of little substance, but it’s a nice outlet. Maybe this is why people used to go into chat rooms.