Dear Life

by Meghan Quinn

  Until life kicked me on the tip of my dick, laughed, and then walloped me in the balls just to make sure I was paying attention to my misfortune, filling me with so much goddamn anger, I can barely breathe.

  “Any day now would be great, Carter,” Hollyn speaks over the warming lamps.

  And if my misfortune wasn’t bad enough, now for some reason, my uncle thought it would be a good idea to pair Hollyn and me on some of our shifts. My guess, because we’re taking the same shitty, my-life-sucks-so-help-me program. As if spending an unnecessary amount of time sitting in a circle, holding hands, and talking about our problems wasn’t enough time with the woman, yes, let’s add some shifts as well.

  Picking up the steak with my tongs, I plop it on its original plate and say, “There, the moo-er should be dead now. If they send it back again, I’m pube-ing the shit out of the thing.”

  “Mature,” Hollyn scoffs at me, flipping her hair and walking away, plate held high.

  God, I can’t stand her.

  “You two seem to get along,” Marcus, my fellow line cook, says as he flips a few steaks on the stained grill. Can you guess what the special was for tonight? Steak. Uncle Chuck got a deal on some steaks, decided to pair it with mashed potatoes and broccoli . . . at an Italian restaurant. There is nothing Italian about that. Might as well go to Red Lobster and order chicken.

  Not even bothering to look over at Marcus, I say, “Can’t stand her.”

  “Because she made you go to that weird program?”

  Of course Marcus would find out. Nothing is a secret around here.

  “Who did you hear that from?”

  “Hollyn. She was telling everyone about how you were sulking the whole time at the meeting.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, my anger starting to boil over. The faint sound of my teeth grinding together fills my ears, drowning out any sense of reasoning.

  “Yeah. Seems like you’re really getting a chance to reach deep down and express your feelings.” The laugh that follows his statement ticks off any last hold I have on reining myself in.

  Getting in his face, I ask, “What’s wrong with a man expressing his feelings? I bet a sensitive man gets way more pussy than some closed-off, video-game-playing deadbeat like you.”

  “Get the fuck out of my face,” Marcus replies, shoving me with his meaty hand.

  “Make me.” Pushing my luck, I bump him with my chest, egging the fucker on, begging and praying for a brawl. I would give anything to lay this dickhead out, anything to ease the tension coiling rapidly inside me. But before Marcus can reciprocate, Uncle Chuck rips me back by the shoulder, sending me into the counter behind me.

  With a beet-red face, he snaps at me, “Office, now.”

  “Not unless you make her go too,” I say, my uncle knowing exactly who I’m talking about. This isn’t just my battle, it’s Hollyn’s too.

  Looking me in the eyes, he says, “Ashley, cover for Hollyn for a few minutes and send her back to my office, now.” Raising a brown eyebrow at me, he says, “Move.”

  Even though Uncle Chuck doesn’t particularly scare me, I move toward his office, flipping my tongs onto the counter because his face looks almost purple from anger, and I don’t want to be the reason he has a heart attack.

  The walk from the kitchen to his office is short, just down a narrow corridor with walls stained by spaghetti sauce and dirt. The restaurant is disgusting, barely passing health inspections with its dirty walls, sticky floors, and out-of-date machinery. It’s a less than desirable kitchen to work in.

  I barely have enough time to take a seat when Hollyn comes barreling into the office as well, her eyes a little wild with concern. From behind us, Uncle Chuck shuts the door and then takes his seat behind the metal desk covered in spreadsheets and order forms. How the hell does he get any work done in this mess?

  “Care to explain what that was back there in the kitchen?” Uncle Chuck asks me with his arms crossed over his chest.

  Turning to Hollyn, I say, “I don’t know. Hollyn, care to take a stab at the reason why you’re ignoring the NDA you signed at the Dear Life program and telling everyone we work with about how I interacted at our first meeting?”

  The girl may think she’s snarky and clever but at this moment, she knows I caught her and I caught her good.

  Searching my eyes, cluing in to her mistake, she says, “Uh, I . . .”

  “Don’t answer that question,” Uncle Chuck cuts in and then looks at me. “I don’t care about Hollyn’s discussion of the program, I care about your piss-poor attitude toward other coworkers.”

  Oh come the fuck on. Is he delusional? I’ve always been a miserable ass to work with. This is old news.

  Letting the anger take over, I say, “It’s bad enough I have to do this program, I don’t need her telling everyone about my personal life.”

  Uncle Chuck plays with a pencil on his desk, a knowing smile on his face. “Don’t worry, boy, everyone here knows about your desperate life. Keep picking fights and it’s never going to change.”

  “What is your dire need to keep me by your side?” I seethe. Sitting in the crossfire, Hollyn stays silent, leaning back in her chair with one leg crossed over the other. “Are you trying to make me as miserable as possible?”

  “You’re doing that on your own. I’m just taking what I deserve.”

  “What you deserve?” A sardonic laugh escapes me. “What exactly do you deserve?”

  The weight of his body causes his chair to squeak as he leans back, testing the hinges stability. “More than what you can offer. I took you in, I sheltered you, fed you, and helped put you through school. I’m just cashing in on all the IOUs you tossed in my direction.”

  Fucking prick.

  “Funny, I never remember setting up any IOUs. When my parents died, you became my legal guardian. If I had any say in it, I would have gone into foster care. At least I’d be free now instead of paying back some old debt you insist upon me owing you.”

  Anger beseeches him. “If you went to foster care, you would never be the man you are today.”

  “You’re right,” I shoot back. “I would be a better man because I would have made a life for myself instead of living the life you want me to. You want me here in the restaurant, cooking your tasteless, generic food because you’re too lazy to get behind the grill anymore. You need me and you’re holding my future, corked up in a fucking bottle because you’re too much of a selfish asshole to let me go on my own.”

  “You ungrateful little shit. I’ve given you everything—”

  “You’ve given me nothing!” I shout, startling Hollyn next to me. I speak through a curtain of anger and pain. “If you were half the man you wished you were, I wouldn’t be living in a drafty converted warehouse, living on one, maybe two meals a day, saving every fucking penny of mine so I can finally repay you and leave this hellhole.”

  “The man I wished I was? You have no idea the struggle and sacrifice I’ve made to get to where I am today: a proprietor, a man with a successful business.”

  A dark laugh escapes me. “A proprietor? You’re delusional. You’re serving up tasteless recipes created by a mediocre, bitter man with no heart, no compassion for a boy who was scared from losing both his parents. You did nothing to make life better for me and you continue to do the same, repressing me because you’re too depressed about the turnout of your empty and lonely life.”

  A slight gasp escapes Hollyn but I couldn’t care less. I want her to see the kind of man my uncle is. Everyone in the restaurant thinks he’s a cool guy who pals around with his employees, but really he’s a sadistic man with a vendetta against me because my father was his brother, the brother he despised, the brother who overdosed one fateful afternoon, leaving him with a nephew he never wanted.

  Cheeks puffed in rage, mouth clamping together, his eyes blazing with disdain in my direction, he slowly says, “I suggest you get the fuck out of my sight before I double your debt. And if I hear you picking fights with anyo
ne else in this restaurant, I will pull you from the program, make you pay the fine, and then triple the money you owe me. Don’t fuck with me, boy.”

  Not even acknowledging his threat, I stand and storm out of his office, slamming the door shut, not caring if it flies into Hollyn. A good bitch slap from my uncle’s office door might do her some good. Hell, she’s the reason I lost it. She’s the reason I had my future threatened once again.

  Every little nuisance, inconvenience, unwelcomed interaction piles onto the already billowing and bustling indignation building inside of me, and there is only so much I can take before I crumble, breaking in half. I’m fucking teetering on the edge, my sanity in the balance.

  Blocking out the rest of the world, I get back to work, searing steak after steak on the grill, thinking back to my first class at Dear Life.

  Grieve.

  What exactly am I supposed to grieve here? The loss of my money, of my girlfriend, or the fact that every day, my lifelong goal seems farther and farther away?

  I used to think one day, I would have my own place, my own kitchen with a sous-chef and a dining room filled to taste my concoctions, but now, all I can envision is a crummy life behind this grill, porking out like my uncle, and not caring an ounce about balding.

  Apart from my tattoo-decorated arms, I’d be an exact replica of my uncle.

  Fuck me.

  Thanks, Life. You’re a real peach. Once again, note the sarcasm.

  DAISY

  “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m fine, stop fussing and come sit down.”

  Grams pats the seat next to her on the couch beneath the window in her room. The Colorado sun beams through the soft, gauzy drapes, bringing in warmth on the chilly, wintery day. Winter in Colorado is tolerable, beautiful actually. Snowcapped mountains, brisk air awakens your senses, and the sun lights up the bright blue sky, a complete contrast to the dreary winters you see in movies.

  “Are you sure there is nothing I can get you?” I ask, taking a seat next to her.

  “No, I’m fine, dearie. Now,” she crosses her hands on her lap and assesses me, “tell me about this marvelous vest you’re wearing.”

  With pride, I smooth down the creation I just finished making before I came to visit Grams. “It’s an ode to your favorite quilt vest,” I say with pride. “I’ve always admired your blue, yellow, and white quilted vest with the flower fabric and decided to make myself one. It didn’t take me long. Did I do a good job?” Even though I’m considered an adult, I still look for my gram’s approval.

  “It’s lovely. The mauve and dirty-blue tones you used are quite fetching.”

  “I thought so as well. It matches my slacks perfectly.” Before I left Amanda’s townhouse, I donned one of my best outfits since I’ll be attending a Dear Life meeting tonight. Wanting to impress, I put on my Alfred Dunner blue slacks, cream turtleneck, and my newly finished quilt vest. I looked in the mirror before I left and I had to admit, the colors faired very well together.

  “You’re stitching has really improved over the years. I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks, Grams.” I glance around her room, taking in the subtle touches she’s made to it with some of her decorations, pictures, and afghans. “The place is looking really nice. Are you liking it here?”

  “I am. I wish I had a bigger room, but this will do. The women here are quite lovely. Very progressive.”

  “Progressive? Really? In what way?”

  “I don’t know if it’s appropriate to talk about.” Her cheeks blush ever so slightly.

  “Come on, Grams, you can tell me anything. Don’t hold back now.”

  Sighing, she leans forward, glances at her door for anyone who might come through and then says, “I’ve fallen to peer pressure.”

  A giggle escapes me. What kind of peer pressure could there be in a senior living community? Crazy puzzling? Wheelchair Olympics? Eating with no dentures? Look out!

  Holding back my smile, I ask, “What kind of peer pressure?”

  “Well, there is a book club here and every two weeks, we discuss the selected book.”

  “That seems like fun.”

  “That’s what I thought, until they gave me my first book to read.” Blushing some more, she says, “It was Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  Not really aware of any kind of pop-culture. I ask, “What’s that? A fabric book? If it is, I would like to get my hands on it. I’ve had some trouble finding the perfect grey for this quilt I’ve been working on. The patterns I keep finding aren’t mixing well with my other choices so if this book has any suggestions, that would be awesome.”

  Shaking her head, Grams leans forward some more and whispers, “It’s erotic romance.”

  Eyebrows shooting straight to my hairline, my cheeks blush and I say on a squeak, “Erotic romance? Like . . . sex?”

  Nodding with her eyes wide she confirms. “Yes, sex. And oh boy, there’s a lot.”

  “Grams.” I blush some more, unable to form words, my hands on my cheeks.

  “I know. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I thought it was a book about a nice college girl interviewing a businessman until contracts start to be talked of and kisses happen in elevators. Then before you know it,” Grams wings her hands in the air freely, “penises are flying about and tampons are being pulled out.” Fanning herself, she continues, “I’ve been quite educated.”

  “Oh goodness. That seems . . . interesting. I guess it’s not about fabric.”

  “Not unless you want to talk about the kind of silk to blindfold a submissive.”

  “Submissive?” My brow pulls together.

  Patting my lap, she says, “Don’t worry about it, dearie. But I must say, I’ve enjoyed the tales this E.L. James weaves. Makes me feel young again.”

  “Well, I guess that’s a good thing.”

  She nods with pride. “It is. And get this, there are movies that correspond with the books.”

  “Movies?” I ask incredulously. “Sex movies, like,” I bring my voice to a whisper, “like those porn videos you always warned me about?”

  “Oh no, honey. Not like those porn videos, this has a storyline. There is a big difference.”

  “But, do you see—?”

  “The sex?” she interrupts. “Well, you don’t see male genitalia if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Wait.” I hold up my hand, completely and utterly confused by the conversation I’m having with my ultra-conservative Catholic grandma who watched nothing but musicals and old videotapes of Irish dancers, and the occasional soap opera, but she always turned it off when things got heated. “Have you watched these movies?”

  “There’s only one out right now and yes, I have. It was for the experience. Remember when we were reading Pride and Prejudice together for your homeschooling and I would play pieces of the Pride and Prejudice featuring the beautiful Colin Firth for you to better understand the old language?”

  “Yeah,” I answer skeptically, unsure where she’s going with this.

  “Well, it’s kind of like that. We watched the movie to confirm what we envisioned in the book. But I must say, there was a lot missing from the movie. Oh Hollywood, always destroying the written word.”

  Nodding, very uncomfortably and starting to sweat in my cream turtleneck, I ask, “So you didn’t like it?”

  “Oh no,” she admonishes. “I enjoyed it very much. That Christian Grey, yowee, he’s a looker. And now I have this big fear looming over my head.”

  “What kind of fear?”

  “Well, the girls in the book club and I have read all the books, but the movies are taking quite some time to come out.”

  “Are you afraid they won’t finish them?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid I might die before I’m able to see Christian in action for all the movies.”

  “Grams! Don’t say things like that.”

  “I’m serious. What if I die before I get to see all the Fifty mo
vies? How unfair would that be?”

  I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. My grams, the woman who told me that showing cleavage is unladylike, that has sworn me away from anything sexual my entire life, is talking about how she’s scared she might die before seeing all of her erotic romance movies. Who is this person and what did she do with my grams?

  “Uh, I really don’t know how to respond to that.”

  “Understandable.” She pats my hand. “It’s a hard notion to comprehend. Don’t worry, I’ll hold strong for Christian.”

  Isn’t that a relief. My grams is living for this Christian fella. Here I thought she might want to keep living for me.

  “So, tell me how you’re fitting in with Amanda and her fiancé.”

  “They’re very nice. They’ve really welcomed me into their home, which I appreciate. They have a pretty big townhouse, at least big compared to our old two-bedroom apartment. I have my own room and bathroom.”

  “Oh, how nice.”

  “Yeah, and there is enough space in my bedroom for me to set up my craft table. That’s why I was able to finish my vest. They also have cable. I’ve dabbled in a few shows but nothing has really caught my interest until Amanda introduced me to the Hallmark channel. Oh Grams, you would love the delightful movies on this channel.”

  “Romance?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

  I blush. She knows I’m that girl who loves love. From the early musicals I’ve watched, to some of the I Love Lucy episodes I’ve fawned over, I’ve always enjoyed the love storylines. Girl meets boy, they fall in love, boy loses girl and then boy gets girl back with a grand gesture. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be one of those girls, to experience a man fawning over them, doing anything possible to win their heart. Would he sing me a song like Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain, would he propose to me out of the blue like in Meet Me in St. Louis, or would he get stupid drunk over my love like in There’s No Business like Show Business? Would it even happen for me?

  Answering her question, I say, “Yes, there is romance in the movies. All innocent, nothing like the books and movies you speak of.”

  “I’ll have to check out this Hallmark channel. We have cable here too.”