The Fifteenth of June

by Brent Jones

  “You even kept it a secret on Facebook.” Drew was referencing Logan’s relationship status. It was unlike him to omit any shred of his success online.

  “It isn’t a secret, Andrew. People only keep secrets if they think they’ve done something wrong. We just don’t draw attention to our relationship. That’s all.”

  Drew shook his head. “I’m sorry, Logan.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Drew strained to feel empathy or compassion for his brother—a normal human response—but at best, he was only able to muster a faint sense of discomfort in the pit of his stomach. “But here’s what I don’t get. Why are you here? If Dad turned his back on you all those years ago, why do you care what happens to him now?”

  “Because Russell’s my father, whether I like it or not.”

  It occurred to Drew that his father wasn’t a wealthy man, and that he hadn’t seen a bill from the hospital. “Wait, are you paying for Dad’s stay here?”

  Logan nodded halfheartedly, changing the subject with haste. “I know you and Russell have always been close, Andrew. But have you considered how much he influences you? How passive he is about everything—as if nothing good ever comes from trying?”

  Even if Drew agreed, he felt uncomfortable speaking ill of their father—especially since he was mere inches from them on his deathbed. “Maybe.”

  “Give it some thought. Your life doesn’t have go like his.”

  “Like his how, exactly?”

  “Come on. I can smell weed on your clothes and booze on your breath.”

  Guilty as charged.

  “Andrew. Jesus. Look, it’s your life, and you can live it however you want. But Russell lived as a prisoner of his own design. You don’t have to do the same thing. You still have time to change if you want to.”

  Drew was agitated, unable to process Logan’s cautionary tale.

  “I’m not trying to preach,” Logan said. “I know I’m not perfect. But I want you to be happy, and—”

  “I’m not sure I would know what happiness looks like even if I woke up one day and found it staring me in the face.”

  Sure, getting high with Kara pleased him, at least for a few minutes. The thought of her body excited him, too. Even having a job that he could do drunk seemed worthy of celebration. But these were arbitrary moments in time, not permanent solutions. Are fleeting moments of pleasure the same thing as happiness?

  Drew had a lot to think about—with any luck, a lot to accept. But he felt unsure of himself at that moment, insecure, as though he were seeing his father in a new light. A light that changed everything it touched. He had come to think of his father as a safety net of sorts. Someone who allowed him to be his true self. The one person who had no expectations for him. But now it seemed that being himself was only good enough if he promised never to change.

  Logan laid a hand on Drew’s shoulder. His unexpected contact caused Drew to flinch. “I’d still be happy to have lunch with you one day.”

  “Sure. I’ll text you.”

  Logan acknowledged his response with a bow of his head.

  Drew stepped into the hallway.

  Heather was approaching from a short distance. “I wondered if I might find you here,” she said.

  “Did you know Logan’s gay?”

  Heather seemed to contemplate his question. “I had my suspicions. Why? He just told you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Disappointed.”

  “How come?”

  “Because he didn’t tell me before now.”

  Heather pursed her lips, as though she were holding something back. “To be fair, it’s not like you ever made an effort to get to know him.”

  “I know. But maybe it isn’t too late.”

  “Maybe.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Have you been doing okay otherwise?”

  “Just peachy.”

  “Good. How’s the new job going?”

  “Yeah, listen, Heather—I’ve got to get going.”

  She winced, put off by his abrupt response. “All right, take care then.”

  “You too.”

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  The morning sun was rising over Northwood Park, illuminating the horizon with golden hues, extinguishing darkness from the lush landscape.

  Drew awoke on a bench to the sound of birds chirping. He sat upright, clutching a brown paper bag in his hand, his body aching, his head pounding, his mouth dry. The sunlight in the distance burned his bloodshot eyes.

  Before him was an elaborate paved trail, occupied by joggers, cyclists, and dog walkers—all performing their morning routines, paying Drew no mind. He was just another homeless drunk by the looks of it. The trail followed the edge of an expansive and tranquil pond, its cobalt surface still, disturbed only by the gentle ripples of ducks and geese.

  He glanced at his phone. In less than two hours, he was due to arrive at work. But the thought of moving seemed intolerable. Returning to the hospital for his car, driving home to Palmer Heights to shower and change, and then getting to Transtel—he’d barely have time.

  He sent a text message to Kara.

  Drew: Not going to make it in today. Feeling sick

  The clear morning sky stretched high above his head, promising the arrival of a perfect summer day—but all Drew could think about was sleeping off the compulsion to vomit. He leaned back, hoping for his stomach to settle and his head to stop spinning. At least I found out how much I have to drink to achieve a hangover. He took in the sounds of all the active people around him. Fucking try-hards.

  “Dude, you’re sleeping on my bench,” said a stern female voice.

  Drew reacted in slow motion, opening his eyes grievously, getting his bearings with pronounced difficulty. Before him stood a tall blonde woman with her hair in a ponytail. She was trim, obviously fit, in her late twenties, decked out in a track jacket and yoga pants worth more than his car. She looked serious—a hand on her hip, her mouth curled in a display of dissatisfaction. He met her stoic gaze. “Didn’t know it was yours.”

  She unzipped her pocket and pulled out a Ziploc bag containing two slices of bread. “I feed the ducks on this bench every morning.”

  Drew turned to the center of the bench, pointing to a commemorative plaque. In Memory Of Angela Thomson, it read. “Looks like it belonged to my family first.”

  She gave the plaque a quick read. “Who’s Angela Thomson?”

  “My mom. Died twenty years ago in this exact spot.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You didn’t know. It’s fine.”

  “I’ve never noticed that before, and I sit here almost every morning when I’m done jogging.” She said it as though it was unlike her to ever miss a detail, no matter how minute. “I guess I’ve always been absorbed by the view.”

  This view was probably the last thing Mom ever saw.

  Drew was unsure what to say, and striking up a conversation with a stranger was about the last thing he wanted to do.

  She glanced at the paper bag in his hand. “Do you often get drunk on your mom’s bench at six in the morning?”

  “There’s a first time for everything.” He held out the brown paper bag. “Why? You want a sip?”

  She sat beside Drew, resting herself on the edge of the bench, her long legs stretched outward, the perspiration glistening on her skin. “No, thanks. I don’t drink.”

  Barrel of fucking laughs, she is.

  She looked beyond the pond at a row of trees in the distance. “I lost my mom, too. Almost fifteen years ago now.”

  Why do people share their stories with me? Isn’t it obvious I don’t give a shit? “That’s too bad.”

  “I’ve come to terms with it.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sierra Emery, by the way.”

  Drew ignored the gesture and chose not to reply.

  “Should I just guess your name then?”

  He sighed.
“Go for it.”

  “Rumpelstiltskin? Rumpelstiltskin . . . Thomson?”

  Is this bitch retarded? “It’s Drew.”

  “Nice to meet you, Drew.” Sierra opened her bag of bread and began tearing off pieces, tossing them in front of her feet, luring ducks and geese onto the path. The birds waddled to her, obstructing the trail for joggers and cyclists alike.

  “You’re gonna get one of those ducks squashed by a bike,” Drew said.

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, they’re crossing the path to come eat.”

  “Hasn’t happened yet, not in all the years I’ve been coming here.”

  “You’ve been coming here for years?”

  Sierra gave him her version of a smile, making her look something like a lanky department store mannequin modeling athletic attire. “Something about this spot. I’ve been coming here every morning almost ever since I moved into this neighborhood.”

  “You must be my guardian angel.”

  Sierra snorted. “Hardly.”

  Drew lowered his eyes to the ground. “Believe it or not, this is actually the first time I’ve visited this bench since, well, since I was a kid, I guess.”

  “Oh. What brought you here today?” She appeared genuinely interested.

  Assuming a spot on this bench had seemed like a great idea the night before, even if Drew couldn’t explain why. It was as though this spot had called to him, drawing him in like a magnet. As if he were meant to be there. Although drinking himself into oblivion was his own idea—no divine intervention there. Still, he had expected to be left to his own devices—alone, in quiet, drunken isolation. Yet here he was, being interrogated by a complete stranger. A chance encounter he hadn’t predicted and didn’t appreciate. He would have preferred to start his day with a silent recovery period, an opportunity to allow his head to cease its violent spinning. To regain some semblance of balance and return home to his bare mattress, which, in comparison to the bench, sounded luxurious.

  Sierra was still fixated on Drew, awaiting his response.

  “Dad is in the hospital next door.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Yeah, he’s going to die soon.”

  “Oh.”

  “I, uh, learned something new about him last night.”

  “Was it something important?”

  “I guess so. Something I couldn’t believe, really. The only way I could think to make sense of it was to come here and clear my head.”

  Sierra tossed her remaining crumbs to the birds. “But you didn’t clear your head.” She gestured toward the concealed bottle in his hand.

  “This is how I clear my head.”

  Sierra looked doubtful. “Or maybe it’s how you avoid confronting what’s really going on in here.” She tapped a finger on his chest.

  “Are you a fucking Sadness Doctor or something?”

  That’s the first time I’ve ever said Sadness Doctor out loud and it sounds ridiculous.

  “A sadness doctor?” Sierra scratched her head. “I’m not sure what that is, dude. I’m an accountant, actually.”

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work then?”

  “I have the morning off.”

  Must be my lucky day.

  “How about you?” she asked.

  Drew replied, making no effort to hide his exasperation with her never-ending questions. “Yeah, same. I’m taking the morning off. The whole day, in fact.”

  “And what is it that you do?”

  “Nothing interesting. I spent most of my twenties in sales, but now I work at a call center.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you see exactly?” he demanded.

  “I see that you’re in a lot of pain. You’re lost and hurting and confused. Not that I’m judging you—we’ve all been there.”

  I doubt that. Drew had difficulty taking Sierra at face value. This persnickety upper middle class chick had appeared out of nowhere, making baseless assumptions, her commentary cloaked in passive aggressive rhetoric. As though she—the type of who never missed a day of jogging—had the necessary life experiences to offer useful insights to others. The entire interaction reeked of self-righteousness. Sierra was, if nothing else, a suitable candidate for the Indiscreet Elite. A busybody know-it-all with a God complex, shilling meaningless advice to anyone who would listen.

  “Maybe I just see some of my former self in you,” she continued. “Just thought I might be able to relate, that’s all—”

  “You can’t relate to shit. Do you make a habit of sitting down next to strangers in the park and psychoanalyzing them? Regurgitating whatever garbage you read in a Tony Robbins book?”

  She looked more amused than offended. “No need for hostility, dude. Let’s not take this out of context. I mean, do you make a habit of searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle, then passing out in public places?”

  “None of your goddamn business.”

  “It isn’t my business, I know. But you can’t blame me for reaching out to someone who might need help.”

  Drew lifted his eyes, allowing them to roam the pond. The ducks and geese had returned to their habitat, now that Sierra was out of bread, gliding with grace from one spot to the next. None of them looked concerned for the future. Whether Sierra returned with bread or not, they would find food. They had a home, companionship, and they lived for the moment, liberated from the worry of what might happen next. I should have been born a duck.

  “I’m sorry if I came on too strong,” Sierra said at last. “Would you prefer if I left you alone?”

  Drew contemplated her question. It seemed that every person in his life had a role to play, encouraging him to remain incomplete, strengthening his tendency to be complacent. Yet here was Sierra, extending her hand, offering her own unique brand of support. He decided that he had nothing to lose by hearing her out.

  “No,” he said, reluctant at first. “No, I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  Sierra looked pleased, as though she had expected a different response. “All right. How about we continue this chat over coffee?”

  “Sure. Sounds fine.”

  “I’m just going to jog home real quick, okay? I live just around the corner. I’ll change out of these sweaty clothes and meet you back here in fifteen minutes—twenty tops.”

  “I won’t move a muscle,” he said. “You can count on it.”

  Sierra stood, stretching her long limbs and then sprinting into the eastern sunrise.

  Drew stood for the first time in hours. His head screamed for mercy, thousands of invisible nails penetrating his temples. He tossed his brown paper bag in the trash next to the bench. Does this chick devote her life to helping people, or is it something about me? He sat down again and shut his eyes, awaiting Sierra’s return.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Drew walked alongside Sierra, matching her leisurely pace. She stood a couple inches taller than he did, close to six feet, mostly legs. With his head still throbbing, he appreciated the opportunity to move in smaller strides.

  “Do you always invite bums on park benches out for coffee?”

  “Only friendly looking bums.” Her attempt at humor came across condescending more than anything else.

  They arrived at her favorite café, and judging by its exterior, Drew felt certain he would stick out like a vagrant. Cool Beans was situated in a small, red brick building, its storefront signage barely visible. It was the epitome of snotty affluence. The interior of the café was aged, just old enough to be modern again—exposed brick, rustic wooden fixtures, and vintage adornments throughout. It felt cramped and chic all at once, the overhead droning of indie rock abrasive by conventional standards. Drew observed the décor and patrons alike. Young trendsetters—young even by his standards—gathered at tables, others working alone in front of MacBooks. They were oddly matched, androgynous, wearing plaid tops and distressed jeans, as though this crowd had coordinated their outfits online.


  Drew and Sierra stood in line to order. Drew’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Kara: Sorry to hear you’re sick! Maybe I gave your penis germs :)

  Drew: You gave my penis exactly what it needed

  Kara: I’m looking forward to seeing more of it

  Kara: But I guess tonight is no good? :(

  Had she asked him yesterday, when they were alone in the restroom stall, he would have said that tonight was perfect. But recovering from a debilitating hangover, he felt delaying their sex date was his only reasonable option.

  Drew: How about tomorrow?

  Kara: Tomorrow works :)

  “Is that your girlfriend you’re texting?” Sierra asked.

  “Why would you think that?”

  She shrugged. “You seem involved in the conversation, and you’re smiling for the first time since I met you. I figured it must be a girl.”

  “She’s, uh, not exactly my girlfriend.”

  “Not exactly?” She was intrigued. “But you are having sex with her, right?”

  Drew didn’t know how to take that. “No, for your information. Not yet—but soon, I hope.”

  “Uh huh.”

  They inched forward in line.

  “Do you love her?”

  “I—I don’t think so, although I’d like to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I, uh, don’t know how to love someone.”

  “Does she love you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Sierra scanned the chalkboard menu. “I’ve had a lot of sex,” she said, nonchalant.

  Drew scrambled to invent a follow-up question, but it was their turn to order. Drew stared at the barista behind the counter. He sported shaggy, jet black hair with side-swept bangs and more eyeliner than most women.

  “I’ll have a nonfat green tea latte,” Sierra said.

  “Got it,” Hipster said. He shifted his focus to Drew with a hint of disapproval. “And you?”

  “Can I just have just a regular coffee with some sugar?”