by Zach Wyner
“Olympia sounds cool.”
“Olympia’s a shithole,” said Amare.
“Really?”
“It rained for ninety-three straight days my sophomore year. Don’t get me wrong, if black mold, 6:00 a.m. happy hours, and chronic bronchitis are qualities you’re looking for in a city, it could be the place for you.”
You and June laughed. You stepped out of the car and tossed the keys onto the driver’s seat. “In case you want the radio,” you said.
“You’ve gotta get satellite radio,” said Amare. “They were playing Mitch Hedberg on the comedy station a few weeks ago. Mitch Hedberg.”
“Awesome,” you said.
“It’s like ten bucks a month.”
“Okay.”
“You live in Los Angeles! You drive everywhere! This is a good investment! For ten bucks a month you could dramatically improve your life!”
“I said I’ll think about it! Jesus!” Amare shrugged. You closed the car door and headed toward the entrance, where Bill was shuffling his feet, adrift amongst the summer flower bouquets.
“Do I look like a thief?” he said.
“What?”
He motioned toward an employee, engaged in the act of sweeping. “I swear this guy over here thinks I’m trying to steal something. He asked me if I needed any help twice already and now he’s sweeping an area that we can all plainly see is spotless. Watch him for two seconds; tell me if I’m nuts.”
“I don’t have to wait two seconds to tell you that.”
“There!” he said. “You see that?”
“That guy can suck a bag of dicks.” You put your arm around his shoulders and led him through the sliding doors. Bill glanced back, and as you entered the market, he nearly tripped over a toddler clinging to her mother’s hand.
“Oh shit,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shit,” said the little blonde girl with shiny red butterfly bonnets in her hair. “Oh shit, oh shit.”
The mother’s face contorted into an ugly frown. “Great,” she said. “That’s just wonderful.”
“I said I was sorry,” said Bill.
She tugged her daughter towards the parking lot.
“Oh shit!” called the little girl.
“Shake it off, big guy,” you said. “I think I just spotted our girl.”
Bill faced the interior of the market and froze. He scanned from left to right, taking in the deli counter and its neighboring olive bar, the racks of premium wine, two aisles devoted entirely to herbal supplements and homeopathic remedies, a towering display of puffed corn and rice snacks, and off to the right, heaps of fresh produce, glistening beneath a shower of mist.
“I’m still adjusting to this city,” he said. “So much of it looks like a movie set.”
“I know what you mean,” you said. “But Whole Foods is Whole Foods. Go into a Whole Foods in Bumfuck, Idaho, and I imagine it would look exactly like this.”
“You’ve clearly never been to Idaho”
You shrugged. “Why do you say that?”
Bill nodded towards a tall brunette wearing black tights and a pink form-fitting sweatshirt. “Because no one who looks like that lives there.”
You found your girl in the produce section, doing some kind of inventory of the softball-sized yellow onions.
“Sadie,” you said.
She looked at you and her eyes widened in immediate recognition. “Josh!” she said as she moved in and hugged you. She stepped back, her fingertips still touching your elbows. “Holy shit, dude! What’s up?”
She’d put on a few pounds but they were the good kind, the kind of pounds that implied health and happiness. You were deeply embarrassed, and not because you’d invaded her privacy or altered a perception of a memory that somehow gave your life a narrative; you were embarrassed by the fact that you’d ever gone out of your way to avoid such a kindhearted person. While real human warmth and contact were being replaced by an exploding digital ethos, here was Sadie, hugging and kissing you.
“It’s great to see you too,” you said. “You look fantastic.”
She rolled her eyes. “Shit. I’ve been up since five this morning. I’m totally fried.” She spied Bill hovering behind your shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”
“Bill, meet Sadie. Sadie, Bill.”
“Great to meet you,” said Bill, emerging from behind you with excellent posture, taking her hand in his, shaking it firmly and carefully maintaining eye contact.
“You from LA?” she said.
“Nope. Only been here a few weeks.” Bill stuffed his hands in his pockets but managed to avoid looking at the ground. He’d been struck by the slightly dumb smile that you’d always worn in the presence of Sadie—the easy, relieved smile of a person liberated from the fear of making a poor impression, a smile that accompanies the hunch that just about anything you say will be responded to with sincere interest.
“I went to college in Washington State. I never thought I’d end up in LA, but I knew a few people down here who were all super cool so…”
“Might as well give the sunshine a chance, right?”
“That’s about the size of it, yeah.”
Sadie rubbed her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I had a friend who went to school in Olympia, Washington. A little hippie school called Evergreen where no one got grades and you designed your own major.”
“That’s my school!” said Bill. “That’s where I went!”
“Awesome!” said Sadie. “I loved Olympia! I loved the rain and the bars and the music and the coffee shops. And Mount Rainier! What’s more beautiful than Mount Rainier?”
Bill smiled. “It’s true,” he said to you.
You laughed. “I’ve seen it.”
Sadie said, “I loved that no matter where I was in the city, when I looked out the window, there it was.”
“Yeah,” said Bill. “You know…I loved that too.”
Sadie sighed and stared off behind us like Mount Rainer was there in plain sight, clear as day. Then something or someone intercepted her vision and suddenly she was back.
“David!” she called out. “Hey guys, it’s been really nice seeing and meeting you, but I gotta get back to work. We should totally hang out though!” she said, squeezing your wrist.
“I’d love to,” you and Bill said simultaneously.
Sadie beamed. You couldn’t believe that you’d ever gone out of your way to avoid seeing this person. What a fool.
“Come here,” she said, and gave each of you a parting hug.
You and Bill floated towards the exits and were just passing the registers when it struck both of you that you’d forgotten what you’d come for. Bill doubled back, assuring you he’d be fine and returned a minute later with an application.
“Got it!” he said, holding it up like a golden ticket. “She said they’re interviewing a whole slew of applicants in a week!”
“Terrific,” you said.
“I can’t believe my luck!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you said.
“What? You think I won’t get it?”
“I think you’ve got as good a shot as anyone else.”
“I’ve got Sadie on my side,” he said. “She winked at me when she told me about the opening.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not sure the decision is hers, is all.”
Bill’s face fell. He looked down at the single sheet of paper, so flimsy and yet so imbued with possibility.
“Fuck,” you said. You put your hand on his shoulder. “I don’t mean to discourage you. I’m sure having Sadie on your side can’t hurt your chances.”
“She’s like the nicest person I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah,” you said. “That’s about the size of it.”
*
Ha
ving foregone the Whole Foods salad bar, the boys went for chili burgers at Jack’s. With the apartment quiet and a free hour before you had to leave for work, you pulled Ray Carver’s Where I’m Calling From off the shelf and opened it to one of a hundred or so dog-eared pages. The idea of starting something new, like the idea of going to gym when you were out of shape, made you weary. You needed something you could slip into with ease, a voice to which your ear was already attuned.
A few pages in, you heard a sigh and the moan of mattress springs, as June made her way to the bathroom and switched on the ceiling fan. Bathroom door ajar, the faucet ran in the shower/tub, water tumbling down the drain. You tried to focus, to stay with the story—a favorite of yours about a father and son and the protective violence that lurks beneath love’s surface—but the sound of June’s brush, working out the knots in her hair in preparation for a shower, severed your connection to the words. While June had been sleeping in your bed for a couple of weeks now, there’d been no sex. The temptation had caused some restless nights, but her precarious emotional state, coupled with Bill and Amare’s presence on the other side of a curtain, had stopped you from acting out your carnal impulses.
You closed Carver and walked to the kitchen table to retrieve your cigarettes, planning to wait out her shower on the balcony, but your head turned just long enough to glimpse her reflection in the mirror—naked, her dark brown hair hanging down just past her waist. She caught you looking, bumped the door with her hip, but when it didn’t close all the way, she made no further effort to shut it. You returned to the couch and tried to dive back into your reading but it was too late. You chain-locked the front door and stood outside the bathroom, breathing heavily. You knocked; she opened the door wide, leaving nothing to the imagination. And then it happened, up against the slick bathroom wall with your pants around your ankles, steam curling around your writhing bodies like a snake.
Afterward, sharing a shower like the old days, you said, “I’m gonna be out late tonight. Grabbing a drink with Harrison after work.”
She stopped rinsing conditioner from her hair to adjust the shower head setting. “The fuck is with your water pressure?”
“What do you mean? It was a total selling point when I rented this place.”
“I’m spoiled I guess,” she said. “Dean’s shower was crazy. It had two shower heads and each one had six settings.”
“That’s spectacular,” you said, stepping out, sopping wet, onto the bathmat.
She continued to rinse her hair long after the last soap sparkle had dissolved. She was still in the bathroom when, a short while later, you left for work.
*
Another Adrienne-less evening passed at The Homework Club after which you pointed your car in the direction of The Burrow. It was Thursday night; with the Homework Club closed for business on Fridays, the first night of your weekend. You’d expected to hear from Harrison days ago—it had been over a week since he took the LSATs—but until this morning, he’d joined Adrienne on the AWOL list. Apparently, he’d stayed on at the motel. Your curiosity was piqued. Once that test was out of the way, you’d expected the kind of celebration that would prevent you from being able to drive home, require you to sleep it off at the motel rather than risk a DUI. But on the phone, Harrison’s voice sounded raspy and weak, as if he hadn’t used his vocal chords for days. Absent was the timbre of the recently liberated.
As you neared Los Feliz, you succumbed to guilt and duty, took the off ramp at Cahuenga Boulevard and made a detour toward your parents’ house. You’d gotten off work early and you stank neither of cigarette smoke nor torpidity, so this seemed like as good a time as any to make an appearance. If you were going to continue concealing June’s presence at your apartment, it was best to show up when you’d been physically separated for a few hours, when the weight of her world wasn’t placed quite so squarely on your shoulders. By this point in time, your folks had developed a sixth sense; to them, the particular brand of melancholia with which she infected you was as apparent as a head cold.
Dusk fell as you navigated your car up the serpentine circulatory system of the Hollywood Hills, centrifugal force careening your basketball around the trunk. At a stop sign, a skunk tumbled out of the ivy carpet that ran alongside the road and sniffed around in the gutter. Its black eyes glinted in your headlights and it raised its tail but the threat proved to be empty, as the critter assessed your car’s bulk and retreated back into the tangled thicket from whence it came.
The brand new net on the basketball hoop in your parent’s driveway gleamed in the motion-sensor lights triggered by your arrival. You texted Harrison, saying you’d be another hour, got out of the car and put one foot in front of the other. The front door opened and there was your mom, smiling hugely at her grown boy. Her hair was shorter than the last time you’d seen her and possibly a different color, more auburn than brown; you could see in her face that she’d dropped a few pounds.
“Josh!” She stepped through the threshold and hugged you. Her hand went to the small of your back, guided you through the doorway, and she called down the hall. “Ed! Josh is here!”
“You look good, Mom.”
She rubbed your back and smiled. “Thank you!” She touched your chin and examined your face. “You look tired.”
“Sorry to show up like this without calling. I just got off work.”
“What time is it?” She leaned back and peered through squinted eyes at the living room clock. “Oh my, is it after eight already?” She frowned. You followed her into the kitchen. “There’s leftover chicken piccata,” she said, removing a Tupperware container from the fridge. “I can make a salad.”
You got in between her and the fridge, retrieved a bag of romaine lettuce from the crisper. “I can do it.”
“How about a glass of wine?”
You emptied the contents of the bag into the salad spinner. “No, thank you,” you said. “Water’s fine.”
“Hey!” your dad appeared in the kitchen wearing a white tee shirt and pleated khakis, a folded Sports Illustrated tucked in his armpit. He tossed the magazine onto the counter, waited for you to finish rinsing the lettuce and gave you a hug. He patted your cheek with an open palm. “Good to see you, sweetheart.”
“Dad,” you grumbled.
He raised his palms. “Sorry, sorry.”
“I’m in my mid-twenties. I’m going bald for chrissakes.”
“Nonsense. Your hair looks great. That Propecia is really working.” His eyebrows climbed his forehead. “You see what Pedro did tonight?”
“I just got off work.”
“Eight innings, two hits, ten Ks. They all say Halladay’s gonna win the Cy Young because of the complete games, but give me a healthy Pedro any day.”
Your mom covered a plate of chicken with a sheet of wax paper and stuck it in the microwave. “How’s your week going?”
You shrugged. “My favorite student hasn’t been around lately. I miss her.”
“Is this the one you told me about? With the green hair?”
“Adrienne, yeah.” You pulled the chord on the salad spinner a few times and let it whirl. “I feel a little unnecessary when she’s not there. Like my particular skill set isn’t doing anyone any good.”
“Nonsense,” said Dad, as he sat down at the table. “They’d be lost without you.”
You snorted. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I know how smart you are and I know how good you are with kids. What else do I need to know?”
You swallowed your objections and tore lettuce leaves into edible pieces. The microwave hummed. “Mom,” you said. “You shouldn’t stand so close.”
“Oh.” She stepped away. “I should watch that, shouldn’t I?” She opened the cupboard and began setting the table for one.
Your dad cleared some phlegm from his throat. “And how are your…your buddies bac
k there?”
He couldn’t be faulted for having failed to commit Bill and Amare’s names to memory. While your folks had known of them for a while, they’d never actually met. As you searched for an answer, a vision of the scene at the apartment popped into your head: Bill sprawled across whatever floor space availed itself, nagging Amare to change the channel to the MLB Network so he could get a Red Sox score, his blank Whole Foods application sitting on the counter, waiting to be completed or lost; Amare lounging on the couch, hunting for news—any news would do—that would support his worldview; June hunched before the computer, scouring the internet for jobs that she’d never apply for and pick-picking away at those nails of hers—the three of them waiting around for the pizza delivery guy or the apocalypse, whichever should happen to arrive first.
“Bill’s applying for a job.”
Your mom sighed. “I still can’t believe that that tiny room can sleep all three of you.”
You sat down at the table with your salad. “It’s not so tiny.”
She shrugged. “Not for one person maybe.”
You spoke through a mouthful of lettuce. “It’s temporary.”
The phone rang. Your dad kept talking as he wandered off down the hall to answer it. “You should have ’em over here for dinner. I’ve got more steaks in the freezer than I’ll ever eat.”
“I thought you were off red meat for awhile,” you yelled. You looked at mom. “The IBS getting better?”
She rolled her eyes. “There was a sale at Gelson’s. He couldn’t help himself.”
Dad walked back into the kitchen, clutching the cordless phone like a baseball that had just crashed through his window. “Another one of those goddamned telemarketers. I can tell from the number.”
Mom smiled wearily. “You don’t have to answer it.”
“It’s after eight.”
“Dad,” you said. “Mom says you cleaned out Gelson’s.”
“Prime cut steaks at half price, Josh. The good stuff.” His eyes twinkled.
You laughed. “But you can’t eat them.”
“So bring the boys over for dinner. I can live vicariously.”