by Jeff Gomez
“Fine? We were fine, Mark? Wow, that’s a real relief to know because it certainly didn’t feel fine when you went missing just as we were trying to finish the record. It also didn’t feel fine when we were scheduled to make a video and no one knew where you were. And how fine were we when the record company put Steve and me on the hook for completing the tour that you’d agreed to? Does any of that sound fine to you?”
If Gary says the word “fine” one more time, Mark’s going to scream.
“Do you know I called your parents? I called that girl you lived with when we were in LA, Corinne. I even called Laura.”
That name again.
“Yeah?” Mark sneers. “And what did Laura say?”
“She didn’t say anything. She hadn’t heard from you, either. She said she wrote you a letter, while we were recording the album, but you never wrote her back.”
“Gary, that was a long time ago. Let’s drop it. You’re lucky I came back to town at all. So don’t piss me off by bringing stuff up from the past, okay?”
“I am going to keep bringing it up, Mark, because you ruined my life.”
Mark turns to look at him. Gary’s tearing up.
“I didn’t ruin your life, Gary. At least,” his voice falters. “I didn’t mean to. I just—look, I’m sorry. Is that what you want me to say?”
“For starters, yes.”
“Then I’m sorry. I truly am. But the fact is—” Mark notices the guitar in his hand is shaking. “The fact is, we—I—can’t go back. Things can’t be changed. Where we are in our lives is where we are. What happened to us is just … I don’t know … what was supposed to happen.”
Gary laughs and shakes his head.
“God, what a crock of shit. A total crock of shit. Maybe you’re fine with your life not amounting to much, but I’m not.” He leans in and puts his cigarette so close to Mark’s face he can feel its heat. “Look at you. Hiding in New York. Hiding from life. At least I’m out there. At least I’m still trying.”
“What? With cassettes? You’re practically middle-aged. You should be married and have kids. Own a house.”
Gary sneers.
“What, like you?”
The comment sinks in. Neither of them speak. Outside, a car missing its muffler drives by.
“Gary, face it. It’s gone. We had our chance.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“You’re wrong. You fucked it up for all of us and now …”
Gary stops. He looks up at the ceiling, then down at the ground. Anywhere but at Mark.
“What?”
Gary just shakes his head. He says, “And now … forget it. Let’s just worry about this week, okay?”
“Okay.”
They each strum their guitars a few times, hitting various strings and finishing their tuning up. Gary finally says, “Ready?”
Mark steadies the guitar and says, “Ready.”
Something’s happening at Seatr. No one’s wearing headphones and no one’s really talking. Normally there are a dozen conversations occurring around the room, bits of words and dialogue you can’t escape from without putting on the headphones that no one’s currently wearing. The only noise is the hollow tock, tock, tock of a Ping-Pong game in the conference room, a beat so steady it sounds like the second hand of some gigantic clock. James has been mowing down people all day, yet Craig’s never seen the office so crowded. He looks around and sees coders, interns, even board members. Craig also spots people he doesn’t recognize. There are three of them, standing with Josh, huddled in the corner. They’re young and dressed like Seatr employees. Jeans, T-shirts, sneakers. Every once in a while one of them looks around the room, points, and then types something on an iPad. Then another nods, points, types, and the cycle repeats itself.
Craig tries to concentrate on his work, but finds it difficult. He’s been out of sorts since the weekend, since his lunch with Ashley. As soon as he got home on Saturday he texted her, asking to meet again. He knew it was too soon and that he should have played it cool—especially since she was reticent about giving him her number—but Craig couldn’t help it. She surprised him by texting right back, saying it was great to see him and that she was thinking of him, too. All Sunday and Monday he texted and sent flirtatious emails. She flirted right back. Craig even began including sentiments like Thinking of you and adding Kisses, while she began to pepper her messages with a string of Xs and Os.
He gets out his phone and texts her again.
Darling. I need to see you. A dinner, a drink. ANYTHING.
She writes back a few moments later.
Maybe, dear. Maybe. But when?
He knows he should take things slow, suggesting drinks or another lunch, but he can’t help himself.
My apartment. During the day. Tomorrow or Thursday. Please.
He sends the text, hoping that Ashley sees what he’s really trying to suggest.
This time there’s not an immediate response. He sits there. Minutes go by.
“Craig, my man.”
He looks up and sees Josh. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says HTTPSTER. Craig puts down his phone.
“Hey, Josh. I—how’s it going?”
“Not bad, not bad. Can we talk?”
“Of course.”
Josh turns and begins to walk to the Ping-Pong room which is now unoccupied, James has taken a quick breather before moving on to his next victim. Josh enters the room, waits for Craig to walk in, and then closes the door. A flat screen TV mounted to the wall, which they used to use for presentations when this was still a conference room, now shows the leaderboard for the Seatr Open. James is listed at the top. Craig scans for his own name and doesn’t see it.
“What’s up, Josh?”
“Bit of news, my man. Bit of news.”
“Great. Is it about the TSA? Because if we’re still hoping to jump on any sort of marketing for summer travel, we’d better get going.”
Josh shakes his head.
“Change of plans. It looks like we’re going to pivot.”
“Fall travel?”
“The board decided that our niche is too marginal. They’re pulling the plug and we’re being merged with another company. I just cancelled our lease, we’re going to sell the computers, and the website will be offline by the end of the week.”
“What? But I thought—why?”
“We just weren’t gaining traction fast enough. I kept telling you, we needed users.”
“And I kept telling you we needed the site to actually function.”
Josh shrugs.
Craig says, “Okay, but what does this actually mean? Who are we being merged with?”
Josh picks up a Ping-Pong paddle from the table and runs his fingers over the red rubber padding.
“Pillw. It’s another startup based here in the building. Half our board is also on their board. We’ll be moving into their offices next week.”
“But who are they? What do they do?”
“It’s a subscription pillow service.”
“What?”
“Once a month, they send you a pillow.”
“That sounds ridiculous.” Craig’s voice begins to rise. “Why would anybody want that?”
“Craig, don’t overthink it. The board is behind this, you keep your job, and Pillw’s got at least another six months of funding. At my last company we pivoted twice before we were successful. Besides, don’t complain, you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“Lucky meaning what?”
“Not everyone’s being brought over to Pillw. There’ll be some redundancies. But don’t worry.” Josh puts down the paddle and puts a hand on each of Craig’s shoulders. “You’re going to be fine. Trust me.”
Craig’s trying to process all of this when the monitor on the wall begins flashing NEXT MATCH in white against a red background.
Josh says, “I wonder who James’s next victim is.”
Craig suddenly reme
mbers being challenged last week and accepting.
It can’t be. It just can’t. For the love of God.
The door flies opens, slamming against the wall. James enters, holding his special paddle. He has a grin on his face. Half the office follows James into the room. As the Seatr staffers line the walls, even Josh drifts backward and joins the crowd.
“You ready?”
James’s voice is low and scratchy. Craig gulps and picks up the paddle that Josh had been holding just a few moments before.
“Uh, yeah—sure.”
Craig scampers into place.
One of the coders—Craig’s not sure which one—looks at him and says, “Heads or tails?”
“Pardon?”
Josh leans forward. “Craig, it’s to see who serves first.”
“Oh, right. Right.” Craig breathes in deep and, trying to sound as tough as possible, growls, “Heads.”
The coder flings the quarter into the air with his thumb. It goes impossibly high, almost reaching the exposed heating ducts hanging from the rafters. Everyone in the room seems to breathe in when it rises and exhale when it falls. The coder catches it, gives it a look, and says with a smirk, “Tails.”
James grabs a ball from the bottom of the table, gives Craig an intense stare, and serves in a quick, fluid motion. The ball whizzes past Craig, hitting the wall.
Someone says, “Point.”
James serves again. This time Craig manages to return the serve, only to see James fire back the ball so hard it’s nothing more than a white blur. When Craig picks up the ball from the ground, it’s warm.
James says, “That’s two. Your serve.”
When Craig hits the ball, it seems to move in slow motion. James grins as he swings. The ball hits Craig in the hand before he has a chance to move. He looks down and sees a red circle where the ball hit him.
“Point.”
Craig begins to breathe heavily. As he keeps trying to score a point, but never managing it, he gets hot. In no time sweat begins falling onto the table like raindrops.
I’m an adult. I’m a grown man. And here I am getting slaughtered in Ping-Pong by some young punk in a Linux T-shirt.
“Craig.” Josh steps away from the wall. “If you need to take a few minutes.”
Craig, now panting, waves him away. The coders begin to snicker. Craig hears someone take a photo but, by the time he looks and tries to see who it was, he knows it’s too late. It’s already on the web. There’s probably even footage of this on YouTube that has fifty thousand views. By the end of the day, his heavy breathing will be autotuned.
As he keeps playing, and James keeps winning, all Craig can think of is Ashley. How he wants to be with her again. How badly he fucked up all those years ago. How maybe he can change the past and fix things.
Ashley. Ashley. Ashley.
Finally, it’s over. James raises his hands in the air while everyone in the room—even Josh—cheers wildly. Craig just stands there, his chest heaving. The monitor on the wall lights up. WINNER: JAMES. LOSER: CRAIG.
The pill breaks in two in her hands. She found it at the bottom of her bag, loose, not even in the prescription bottle. Instead, the pink diamond was just sitting there—stuck, actually—in the crease of the purple patterned satin amid sticks of gum, three Q-Tips, and a pair of earplugs. It’s the only pill she could find. But before she could put it in her mouth, it broke in two. She pops the pill—pills—into her mouth anyway. The broken end is jagged and tastes sour on her tongue.
After swallowing, her phone buzzes. A text. Since Saturday Craig’s been emailing and texting almost every hour. It started innocently enough with a quick message about their lunch. He thanked her for seeing him again and asked if they might do it again sometime. As the weekend progressed, Craig kept sending messages and Ashley kept responding. Every once in a while she even threw in a word like “dear” or a phrase like XOXO, just for the hell of it.
She glances down at his latest text.
Ashley, I can’t stop thinking about you.
Without giving it any thought, she types a quick response.
I know. It’s the same for me.
Seconds later, Craig texts again.
So then can we get together at my apartment? I’m begging you.
There’s still a part of her, no matter how much she tries to numb herself, that finds it flattering. She knows it’s wrong, but she can’t help it. It’s wiring that’s existed for so long, even the Protraxanon finds it difficult to bypass. But whenever she connects the flattery to Craig, and then connects him to her past, the words immediately mean nothing.
The phone in her office rings, but she lets it go to voicemail. A minute later it rings again, and again she doesn’t answer it. She sees an email come in from her boss, but Ashley doesn’t bother to read it.
A few minutes later, her boss appears in the doorway.
“Oh, Ashley. There you are.”
“Yes, Deborah.” Ashley sighs. “Here I am.”
“I called you and you didn’t pick up. And yet I just saw you in the staff meeting, so I knew you were here.” Even though her boss says all this in a light tone, Ashley can tell she’s annoyed. “Can we chat for a second?”
Ashley gets up and follows Deborah down the hall. In her mouth, where the broken end of the Protraxanon touched her tongue, it still tastes bad.
“Would you mind closing the door?”
Deborah sits down behind her desk. Ashley closes the door and sits down across from her boss. There are photos lining the credenza that stare at Ashley. Deborah with her husband, with her kids, her kids on Halloween. One’s dressed as a robot, the other’s a pirate.
“So, what are we here to talk about?”
Ashley tries to sound enthusiastic, but it’s not terribly convincing.
“I called you in here to talk about Jenna. As you know, she’s going to be out for maternity leave starting in a few weeks.”
“Yes, and I’m so excited for her. Such a joyous event, isn’t it? Hated to miss the shower the other day. But it’s such a blessing. So, so blessed.”
Deborah joins her hands and looks to the ceiling. Ashley thinks for a second that she’s going to say a prayer. “This means that we’re going to need someone to cover her duties while she’s gone. And I was hoping that person would be you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Well, for one thing, I thought the change would do you good. Your recent performance has shown that you’re in a bit of a, shall we say, holding pattern?”
“But won’t giving me Jenna’s work in addition to my own be, shall we say, even worse?”
“Now, Ashley, there’s no need to be sarcastic.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Deborah, but this isn’t fair. Why not give Jenna’s work to Sophie or Bea? They’re always just sitting around gossiping anyway.”
“Ashley, please. I don’t think I’m asking for too much. It’d only be temporary and we’re all going to pitch in. I didn’t mean to imply that you’d be handling every part of Jenna’s job.”
Ashley kicks at the desk. She’s wearing Tory Burch flats that cost $250. She thought buying the shoes would make her happy. It didn’t work.
“Now, Ashley.” Her boss’s voice is more serious than before. “I’ve been aware, for quite some time now, that you’ve been having problems.”
“Problems?” Ashley tries to smile, but can’t quite manage it.
“Give me a little credit, please. We’ve known each other a long time. And while you were never a particularly cheery person, in the last six months you’ve become positively morose.”
“Positively? Like, in a good way?”
Ashley’s phone buzzes. She doesn’t look down.
“No, Ashley. Not in a good way.” Her boss begins to run her hands over the various papers on her desk, flattening them out even though they’re already pretty flat. She’s doing her best to sound upbeat and cheery, but Ashley can tell it’s turning into a struggle. “Frankly, I’d been
reluctant to address any of this head-on because I could tell you were in some sort of pain. But now that we’re having this discussion, why don’t we tackle this? Make this a learning moment?”
Ashley jabs at her stomach, poking at the pill parts to get them to break up, to get them to work.
“In fact,” her boss is still, for some reason, talking. “I think we have an opportunity for some real growth here. Yes, I think we can both—”
Ashley hears herself say, “I need to leave.”
“What?”
“I don’t—feel well.”
She stands up. Her feet are moving her toward the door.
Her boss says, “Ashley, I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need to take a few minutes? Do you need some water?”
Instead of answering, Ashley walks out of the office. Deborah calls after her, “Ashley? Are you okay? Ashley?” Her co-workers come to their doors to see what’s happening. Sophie. Bea. Jenna with her hand on her belly. Ashley walks stiffly to her office, past them all.
She grabs her purse, picks up the laptop and drops it inside. Her phone rings. She doesn’t answer it.
She exits her office and heads for reception, making sure to not make eye contact with Sherry. Ashley makes it to her car, gets in, and checks her phone. The last text wasn’t from Craig, it was from Andrew.
Sweetheart, headed home now. Will make us dinner, so don’t get anything on the way home. See you soon. Love you
She erases the text. She reads the last one from Craig again.
So then can we get together at my apartment? I’m begging you, my dear.
She replies.
Yes. I will meet you. At your apartment. Tomorrow.
Mark drives to where DISContent used to be, only to discover that it’s now something called Gowns and Crowns. Then he remembers that Dave told him DISContent moved to another part of the mall about five years ago. Mark takes a left and then a right, driving deeper into the parking lot toward a section he never visited when he lived in Kitty.
From across the parking lot, he sees it. The DISContent logo sitting in the middle of a huge sign that says on either side: CDS & DVDs and FOR THE RECORD, YES WE CARRY VINYL. This corner of the mall, set far back from Wide Lake Avenue and hidden by the row of stores at the front, seems depressed and rundown. Aside from DISContent, which sits in the corner and takes up half a dozen windows—with merchandise even spilling onto the sidewalk—most of the other stores are small. Mark examines the various signs. GENERATIONS BAKERY & CATERING. DAZZLES PAGEANTS & PROM APPAREL. HALAL INTERNATIONAL FOOD AND HALAL MEATS.