Losing Our Edge

by Jeff Gomez

  “That fucking cunt? We fired her, too.”

  “What? Why?”

  Tom laughs. This is so simple for him, why isn’t it for Charles?

  “She was an accomplice in the whole situation, Charles. She should have stepped forward. Should have told someone what was happening. Instead, she kept her goddamn mouth shut. Not to mention fucking him at the sales conference. That was just beyond the pale.”

  Charles just sits there. He doesn’t know what to say.

  “Listen, I know this is a lot to take in right now. It’s been a big week for you. But I need to know I can count on you.” Tom looks at Charles and speaks slowly. It only adds to Charles’s impression that this is all a dream. “Do you understand? I need to know that you can handle this.”

  Seconds go by. Charles realizes he’s not saying anything, and that he probably should.

  “I can,” he finally says. “I can handle. This.”

  Tom breaks his stare, goes back to speaking in his normal voice.

  “Good, I’m glad to hear that. Anyway, I just thought you’d want to hear the good news.”

  “Thanks, Tom. I appreciate it.”

  “No worries, Charles. Thank you.”

  Charles gets up, and so does Tom. Tom offers his hand and Charles makes sure his grip feels like steel. Their hands interlock. Charles’s grip is firm. Tom’s hand feels like stone. All is right with the world.

  5: HERE’S WHERE THE STORY ENDS

  REQUIEM FOR A SCENE

  Mark’s on his bed reading the article Seth, the writer he talked to last week, wrote about tonight’s show. It’s a big story with lots of photos from back in the day. Press shots of Bottlecap, the Deer Park, and the Disappointed cover two interior pages of the Weekend section. Dave gets a picture, too—a recent one from inside his house. Stuff’s everywhere and his belly’s sticking out from an old Violent Revolution T-shirt that’s too tight. There’s even a tease for the story on the front page, right below the fold. Rock-and-roll nostalgia hits Kitty. As soon as Dave texted saying it was on the newsstand, Mark’s dad went out and bought every copy. People have been calling all day.

  When Mark woke up this morning, he wasn’t even sure there was going to be a show. After storming off from Dave’s yesterday he got onto I-95 and drove until he cooled off enough to go home. It took about a hundred miles. Finally, realizing he couldn’t do that—not to his parents, not to their friends, not even to Gary and Dave—he turned around and headed back. He may have let everyone down once, but he wasn’t going to do it again.

  Now he’s sitting on his bed, the show’s just a couple of hours away, and he’s reading about himself in the Times-Dispatch. Even though Mark finds parts of the story hard to read—there’s six paragraphs about him walking out on the band in LA, Bottlecap’s ensuing success, and Mark’s ensuing silence—it’s all handled in a fair way. It’s his past. It’s his life. There’s nothing he can do about his history now.

  More interesting is the write-up on the guys from the other bands. The ones who haven’t lived in Kitty for years are flying in from all over to play the show, and Seth seems to have talked to them all. Most of them are married; some even have kids old enough to come to the show. The drummer for The Deer Park, who everyone used to call Stoner for obvious reasons, is now an entrepreneur in Boston. He got rich on Internet stocks in the late nineties. He’s flying down in his private plane. None of them make music anymore, not even as a hobby. One guy sold all his guitars and had to teach himself how to play again. Another’s married with four kids, and no one in his family—not even his wife—knew he’d been in a band. And then there’s Gary, still trying to cash in on the rock-and-roll dream. Mark doesn’t know whether to feel sorry for him, or envious. Who knows? Maybe it’ll work. Maybe they’ll be some sort of stars (Bottlecap 2.0). Stranger things have happened.

  “Son? Look what I found.”

  Mark puts down the paper and looks up. He sees his dad standing in the doorway. He’s wearing clunky black shoes, gray slacks, blue short-sleeve buttoned-up shirt and a wide tie covered in purple chevrons.

  “The tie, son. The tie.” He looks down, grabs where it forms an angle at the tip, holds it close to his eyes. “Was in the very back of my closet—haven’t worn it in years. But I knew I still had it. Don’t you remember?”

  “Remember what?”

  “You gave it to me. The first Father’s Day you spent your own money. You were ten. You even wrapped it yourself. I’d never been more proud.”

  “Wow.” Mark laughs. The tie’s pretty hideous. “I had bad taste as a kid.”

  “It’s for your concert. We’re coming to see you, son.” His dad continues to fiddle with the tie as he speaks—adjusting it, turning it over, rolling it up. “Never managed to see you back in the day. Thought I’d missed my chance.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Mark looks down at the paper. His younger face stares back at him. “I just hope you—I just hope it’s what you always thought it’d be.”

  His dad looks up, smiling. Mark can’t remember him ever looking so happy.

  “How can we not like it? It’s you, Mark.”

  When he turns back to the paper, to finish the story, his old digital clock across the room catches Mark’s attention. 6:34.

  “Shit, I didn’t know it was so late.” He grabs his wallet and the keys to the rental car. “Dad, look, I’ll see you guys there, okay? I need to make a quick stop on my way to the show.”

  Mark passes his dad on the way out of the room. When he does, he smells aftershave. Bay Rum.

  “Okay, son. Okay. Good luck and—well, I’m proud of you.”

  By the time he says this, Mark’s already at the bottom of the stairs.

  Ashley’s standing at the top of the stairs. She thinks Andrew’s home, but isn’t sure. It’s Saturday, so he can’t be teaching. But he might be at the library. He might be in the living room, reading a book. She doesn’t know. Ashley slept most of the day, getting out of bed once to pee and then, an hour ago, to shower and get dressed for the party at Craig’s office. And now she’s standing at the top of the stairs.

  As she starts to walk—lightly, trying not to make noise—she notices the wall lining the staircase is bare. This is where families put pictures—portraits, school photos, holiday snapshots. But she and Andrew have put up nothing.

  We’ve been places. Hawaii. Paris. The Caribbean. Those were good times. Where’s the record of that?

  She walks down the hallway, her high heels making noise she wishes they wouldn’t. She considered wearing ballet flats, but when she tried them on she thought they looked too young, too hip. Two things she knows she’s not. Peering into the kitchen, she looks for evidence of a meal being prepared, or one already consumed. But there’s nothing.

  It isn’t until she enters the kitchen that she finally hears something. A computer. Typing. Andrew’s home, in his office, working on his novel.

  “There you are, sleeping beauty.”

  She must have made noise, or Andrew spotted her, or both. Ashley walks towards Andrew’s office.

  He says, “Did you have a good rest?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve been asleep all day.”

  “Oh, that.” Ashley tries to fake a laugh, but nothing comes. Instead, she pats her bag and says, “I—I’m going to the office.”

  “You’re going to the office? But it’s Saturday.” He looks back to his laptop, checking the time. “And it’s six o’clock.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know it’s Saturday. Night. I didn’t mean for work—like, to do work.”

  Ashley begins to panic. She didn’t think he was going to question her. She thought he’d just tell her to have a good time and that’d be it. She didn’t even know he was home.

  “Then why are you going?”

  “What? Oh, they—they’re having a dinner. For Jenna. At the office.”

  “The office? Why not at a restaurant? This is—what—a going-away party? Because of her pregna
ncy?”

  Ashley winces when he says the word. But she fights it. Keeps going.

  “Yes, it’s a going-away party. For her, because of the—you know. And it’s at the office because there’s going to be games. Cake. All kinds of stuff.”

  “I thought they already had a shower for her.”

  “They did. Last week. This is different. This is—dinner.”

  “Where are they going to get the food? Or are you all just going to raid the refrigerator in the break room for leftovers?”

  “It’s a potluck, Andrew, okay? Everyone’s bringing something.”

  “What are you bringing?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You wouldn’t want to arrive empty-handed.”

  She’s kicking herself for not thinking this out more clearly.

  “I was planning—I’ll stop at the Food Lion and get some potato salad or something. A pie, maybe.”

  “And that’s what you’re wearing?”

  Ashley looks down. She has on a black cocktail dress she hasn’t worn since a New Year’s Eve party four years ago.

  “Well—it’s Jenna. She is having a, you know, baby.”

  Andrew closes his eyes and raises his hands.

  “Please, stop. Your boss called. I know about the other day.”

  Ashley leans against the doorway for support.

  “She wanted to see how you were doing. She was concerned. When I asked what she was talking about, she told me what happened.”

  “What, exactly—what did she say?”

  “She said you walked out of some meeting on Tuesday and haven’t been back since. She said that every morning you’ve left her a voicemail saying you’re not feeling well and that you also haven’t returned any of her calls. She says she doesn’t know what’s going on with you, but she’s worried.”

  When Ashley speaks, her voice is barely a whisper.

  “It wasn’t a meeting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It wasn’t a meeting, Andrew. Okay?”

  “Then what was it? What happened?”

  “I just needed a break. That’s all.”

  “But then what have you been doing all week? Where have you been?”

  “Been?”

  “Yes. Every morning you got up, got dressed, and left the house. I thought you were going to work, but I guess not.” Andrew shakes his head again and laughs. “And at night, when I asked you about your day, you told me things that happened at the office. You told me about the work you were doing. You were specific. You mentioned details. You told me about people. Conversations. What was all that?”

  “Those were lies, Andrew. Don’t you know when I’m lying to you?”

  “I guess not.” He hangs his head. “Marriage does that. Trust builds up, whether or not you even want it to. Like plaque on teeth.”

  The phone in her purse buzzes. Andrew notices.

  “Is that him?”

  “Who, him?”

  “I don’t know. But if you’ve been lying about going to work, who knows what else you’ve been lying about.”

  “Do you think—” Ashley can barely play this game. “Do you think I could lie about something like that?”

  “I don’t know anymore.” He says this more to himself than to her. “I guess I really don’t know anything.”

  “Andrew, please—you’ve been good to me.” She picks at a patch of white paint in the doorjamb. It chips off, falling to the floor like snowflakes. “I know I wasn’t what you wanted, either.”

  “You were, Ashley. That’s what’s so sad. You are what I want, for as long as I’ve known you. And I just don’t understand why you can’t get past—”

  “Andrew, drop it. Don’t you dare bring that up. Not now.”

  “Ashley, why are you still hanging on to that? Can’t you see it’s getting in the way of everything?”

  Ashley doesn’t answer. She just picks at the wall. The ground at Ashley’s feet is now littered with little bits of paint. Trying to change the subject, she says, “Your book, Andrew. Your novel.”

  “What about it?”

  “I never asked. Does it have a happy ending?”

  “Of course it does, Ashley. It’s fiction.”

  When she turns to leave, he doesn’t stop her.

  As she walks toward the front door, the sound of her heels on the hardwood floors echoes throughout the quiet house. She gets into her Prius and looks into her purse. She grabs the amber bottle of Protraxanon and empties it into her left hand. There’s just one pill left. She never called the doctor back from last week. So, after this pill, she’s on her own. In the twilight coming through the windshield, the pill seems to glow. She pops it into her mouth.

  The party at Seatr’s in full swing. Food and drinks are everywhere, Tequila bottles, six-packs of beer, margarita mix. Bags of chips, pretzels, open boxes of pizza. A bunch of kids stand around, all wearing sneakers and jeans and drinking out of red plastic cups. Craig floats through the crowd, but doesn’t see anyone he knows, not even Josh. Above the music—something electronic, nothing he recognizes—he hears a familiar rhythmic tap tap tap. Craig shudders: Ping-Pong.

  He grabs a beer from the kitchen. For twenty minutes he nurses his drink while pretending to read email on his phone. As he’s getting a second beer, Josh approaches from behind.

  “Craig, dude. How are you?”

  Josh is wearing cargo shorts and a baby blue T-shirt that features a cloud with a postage stamp on it. In his hand is a red plastic cup.

  “Josh, hey.”

  “Great party, huh?”

  Craig surveys the room.

  “I guess. It’s just, who are all these people?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t see any of the coders.” Craig tries to remember a few of their names, but the only thing that comes to him is brands of headphones.

  “Oh, them.” Josh sighs. “We had to let them go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Since the Pillw code’s already in place, they weren’t needed anymore.”

  “But there were, like, a dozen of them.”

  “I told them they could all reapply to Pillw, but, quite frankly, it’s a long shot since most of those guys were front end and OS developers, which we don’t really need anymore. All that work’s already been done by the guys at Pillw. Speaking of which, there’s one of them I want you to meet.”

  Josh calls out across the room.

  “Nathan, my man, come here. This is the guy.”

  A skinny kid wearing jeans and Converse sneakers is having a conversation with a skinny kid wearing jeans and flip-flops. The kid in the flip-flops nods and approaches.

  “Hey.”

  “Nathan, this is Craig, the guy I was telling you about.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Craig’s an awesome marketer. Did one hell of a job at Seatr. He can’t wait to get started with you on Pillw. Isn’t that right, Craig?”

  “Yup. Can’t wait.”

  “I took a look at a lot of the work you did,” Nathan says. “A bit rough, but some good potential. I’m not sure it’s entirely scalable, but I think there’s enough there to get started.”

  Someone from across the room catches Nathan’s eye. He gives a wave and then turns back to Josh and Craig.

  “More on this next week. Take care.”

  As Nathan walks away, Craig says, “Seems like a nice kid.”

  “I’m glad you think that. You’re now reporting to him.”

  “What?”

  Josh’s eyes are closed as he shakes his head back and forth.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Craig.”

  “Really? What am I going to say, Josh?”

  Josh’s eyes open.

  “Well, then, I guess I don’t know what you’re going to say. Maybe something about his age?”

  “It’s not that.” Craig sighs. “I used to report to you, but you were at least the CEO. You’ve already built a com
pany. The coders all respected you, I get that. But who’s this guy? What’s his title?”

  “Come on, Craig. You know I’m not into titles.”

  “I know that, Josh. But what’s he going to do? Certainly you’re into him doing something.”

  “He’s going to be in charge of the site. You’re running marketing. It just makes sense to have you report to him, okay?”

  “So, he’s in charge of the site, and I’m in charge of marketing? That means we’re equals.”

  Josh squints.

  “Not exactly. You’re running marketing, but he’s in charge of the entire site so, essentially, you’re marketing his site. Ergo …”

  “What is this, rock, paper, scissors?”

  “Craig, it’s decided.”

  “He’s my boss. That’s what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Anyway, I don’t see what you’re so down about. I have to report to Alex now. You think that makes me happy?”

  “Alex? Who’s Alex?”

  Josh motions across the room to where a young woman with tattoos up and down both arms is standing with a can of beer in one hand and an iPhone in the other.

  “I told you about her. We slept together last week. And now she’s my boss. You don’t think that stings?”

  In the background, above the music, Craig hears another Ping-Pong game getting started.

  “What about James?”

  “Huh?”

  “James. What about him? Was he fired?”

  “Are you kidding? No way James is leaving. He’s a rock star. The board’s made him a director.”

  “Director? So much for not being into titles.”

  Josh ignores him. As Craig’s shaking his head and looking for Ashley—she should be there by now—Josh snaps his fingers.

  “I almost forgot. Stay here.”

  Josh disappears for a second, returning with something big and black and covered in a plastic bag. He hands it to Craig, who fumbles with the plastic, trying to find an opening. He finally just rips it open, pulling out whatever’s inside. He feels canvas, sees straps. He’s still not sure what it is.

  “Backpacks,” Josh says. “Cool, huh?”

  Craig turns it over and, underneath the Patagonia logo, PILLW is stitched in baby blue letters.