He makes a facial expression that has to be his version of getting angry, because he looks like I just shot him with a water gun filled with piss right before he takes a prom picture. “I don’t get it.”
“What?” I say.
“It makes no sense that you hate this place so much. It’s a job. Some people—”
“I know. I don’t want to hear that shit again. You say that at least once a day. Yes, this is a job. But so is doing a five-times-a-day donkey show in Guatemala. And I don’t want to do that either. This place drains me to no end. To the point I have nothing to give in the other parts of my life,” I say.
“‘Other parts of your life’?”
“Yes, stuff I like to do when I leave here.”
“And you don’t feel like you owe STD your one hundred percent effort, because this company does pay and provide you certain things to be a productive member of society?”
This kid has not been listening to me. “No, get the fuck outta here with that bullshit. My loyalty to this place runs about as deep as a puddle of urine in a rest-stop bathroom. I don’t owe them shit. In fact, they owe me.”
“STD pays you. And you only actually work about three hours for each eight hours you get paid for,” he says.
“And I do that because they won’t pay me for eight hours if I only do two hours of work.”
He laughs, but it’s a laugh of disappointment. I know he thinks he’s better than me, but he has no clue what the real world is like. He’s new to all of this. Give it a while and he’ll find out exactly what it’s like to work for a living. The endless giving of yourself for someone else’s cause in the pursuit of what? More money? More possessions that require more money in order to maintain? It’s a rat race. They call it that because we’re basically vermin trying to get the scraps from the higher-ups. As we scramble around trying to get those scraps, the higher-ups are trying to get the scraps that fall off the plates of those that are above them. It’s basically one big clusterfuck, and I want as many scraps as I can get while giving minimum effort. Maximum effort gets you the same shit, and it’s not worth it in the long run. I can’t tell him that, because he wouldn’t understand.
“I’ve been giving some thought to something else you were saying yesterday,” he says.
I wonder what this could be.
“You know, how I should learn to live a little,” he continues.
“Ah . . . okay. Admitting that I’m right. You don’t have to do that. I’m your mentor. I’m being paid to be right.”
“No, you’re not,” he replies.
“Yeah, I’m not getting paid extra to be your mentor.”
“No, not that. You weren’t right yesterday. And you still aren’t right,” he says. “I’m living my life the way I see fit, by setting myself up in order to reach my goals. What are you doing with yourself? Where will you be in three years? Five years? Hell, one year?”
I struggle to come up with a response.
“To me, it sounds like you’re the one that’s confused,” he continues.
“I got goals. My promotion. You forgot?”
“It’s a promotion for a job that, from everything you’ve said and showed, you don’t really want. You don’t even have a valid reason for wanting the promotion.”
“So I can move on with my life. Grow and prosper. Have a family. All of that stuff.”
“You don’t need a promotion to do all of that. You’re using the promotion as a crutch. You’re the one who needs to go out and live. Not me.”
He picks up his files and heads toward the file vault, leaving me with my mouth agape. I’m sure I was going to say a good rebuttal eventually.
Dolores peeps over her cubicle wall. “Damn, he sure told you.”
Where the fuck did that come from? Shit, is he right? I’m letting this job run my life and hold me hostage. I’ve been sitting and reacting all of this time, and not doing what I want to do. I grab my jacket and log off my computer. I need to go handle my business. I tell Dolores, “If anyone asks for me, I had to leave early because I’m not feeling too well.”
“No one is gonna ask for you,” she says as I walk out.
Chapter Seven
I’ve never actually thought about eating at La Dolce Vita, an upscale restaurant in the city. Alexis and I have driven by it a number of times. We’ve even stopped and looked at the menu. And she’d always mention how nice it would be to try it out. Of course, every time I would agree convincingly enough so she believed me. I just didn’t have the money to go in. Or if I had the money, I didn’t want to waste it on a fancy meal in which the portions are too small. And then I’d need to go grab a cheesesteak after we leave, because I’m still hungry. Special occasions have passed, such as Valentine’s Day and birthdays, when I had to lie to her and say they were all booked up. And I honestly felt bad about that. Well, I didn’t feel much remorse at the time, but now that I think about it, I do.
But this evening is different. For the first time I actually made a reservation at a restaurant. It’s a special day. Probably the biggest day in my life. Bigger than any promotion could possibly be.
The restaurant is completely tranquil. Much different than Red Lobster. Sounds like people are having important conversations, not raucous shouting competitions. As I sit here ready to take a huge step, I can’t stop sweating like a Vietnam vet who’s come home and can’t kick his heroin addiction. I’m about to sweat right through this rented shirt, which brings up more anxiety, because I’m thinking I might have overdone it with the black tuxedo, patent-leather shoes, and top hat. I bet I look like the Planters peanut. Where’s she at? It’s not like her to not be on time. Let me ask the waiter how I look, since we’ve become well acquainted now that he’s pouring my third glass of water.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
I’m not positive that was his honest response or if he felt some sense of obligation. I went with it anyway.
“Do I look overdressed to you?”
He looks me up and down. “Hmm . . . are you in some sort of play?”
“No,” I say.
“A dramatic reenactment of a seventeenth-century magic show?”
“No.”
“Well, I would lose the top hat. You’re coming off a little Ben Vereen–ish.”
I tuck the top hat underneath the table, and at that moment here she is, looking as beautiful as ever, walking up to the hostess, who points to my table. My nerves lead me to waving her over, as if she couldn’t find me sitting there all by myself. I get up and pull her chair out. She looks surprised by my good manners, but I normally treat her well. It’s not like I don’t open doors for her sometimes or shit like that.
“Beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” I joke.
“Sorry, ran a little late. Some things came up last minute,” she says.
“With work?”
“Sure.” She looks at my outfit. “Why are you dressed like the Planters peanut?” The waiter nods as he pours her water.
I laugh uncontrollably. We’re so in sync. I’m definitely making the right decision.
“Why are we here? Are you cheating on me?” she says.
“No, baby. What? No. I only wanted to do something nice.”
She keeps looking around, as if she’s more nervous than I am. She picks up her menu. “Do you already know what you want to order?”
I grab the menu from her. “Before we order, I have something important to tell you. And I’d rather get it out of the way, because I really won’t be able to eat if I wait till the end.”
She’s speechless.
“You picked a real grade-A classy place for dinner, Kev. They weren’t even gonna let me in without shoes,” says Robbie, who’s now standing at our table, wearing lime-green flip-flops.
“What are you doing—”
“Do you mind? I saw him on my way here. So I invited him. He looked really hungry,” Alexis interrupts.
“Oh, okay
. . . whatever,” I reply. This really throws me off. It’s a public restaurant, but I didn’t think I’d have an audience that included Robbie. I’m gonna have to get through this anyway. Stick to my plan.
“Can you give us a moment?” she asks Robbie. She must sense my uneasiness.
“Sure, but is that a top hat underneath the table?” he says.
“Please,” I say. He walks away. I look around and know it’s time for me to say what I need to. “Now that we’re alone.” I get out of my head and make a move to get down on one knee. My back cracks. I really need to work out more. As I lower myself, it feels like everyone in the restaurant stops what they’re doing to fix their eyes on me. Alexis’s gasp can be heard throughout the silent room.
She looks so beautiful, like a young Halle Berry, sitting there with her caramel complexion, getting flush as she realizes what I’m doing. “Oh my goodness!” she says.
I continue through the embarrassment caused from the audience. “I know I haven’t been the model boyfriend in the past, but I’ve been trying to improve. And I’ve made strides . . . huge strides.” I pause for her to agree. Her face is still blank. “I love you very much. You inspire me to be a better person. And not to let people rent DVDs using my membership card. You make me want to try a little bit harder. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Alexis Martin.”
I reach into my jacket pocket and take out a ring box. “Will you make me whole?” That really was the least corny thing I could think of between the time I bought the ring this morning and now.
Her eyes light up as she looks at the ring. Her mouth’s wide-open momentarily, until she finds enough air in her lungs to shout, “Yes! Yes! Oh yes!”
The waiters, hostess, busboys, diners, and even cooks applaud. I think a few dishwashers came from the kitchen to clap as well. I smile from ear to ear. This is the best moment of my life. It went even better than I envisioned. Robbie comes back to the table and notices the commotion.
“What’s going on? Did you . . .” says Robbie, with a confused look on his face.
“We’re getting married, man. She said yes,” I shout at Robbie, as I place both of my hands on his shoulders and shake him.
“Really?” he replies. Then, he glares at Alexis.
“Oh, shoot, I forgot. I have something to tell you,” she says.
I’m not really paying attention to her. In my head I’m thinking my heart is fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings after it accidentally drank nectar laced with cocaine. I’m still caught up in the excitement and can’t believe she said yes. How could she possibly say no, right? What woman wouldn’t want this elaborate, romantic proposal?
“Robbie and I . . . well, me and Robbie . . . have been seeing each other. I came tonight to break up with you,” she says.
I witness her mouth move, but I didn’t hear the words she communicates. Or my brain didn’t allow me to process them at regular speed. Eventually I utter a “what?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she says.
“What?” I know, but that’s the only word that’s running through my head. “How?”
Alexis looks at Robbie and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. I think it’s been about three months,” she says.
“No, he’s not asking how long. He’s asking how do we have sex,” Robbie says.
“Three months? Right under my nose?” I say.
“Okay, you were right, my tender roni,” Robbie says.
“It’s been a great three months,” she says as the backstabbers share a warm glance.
“But I’m ready to commit,” I say.
“That’s fantastic and all, but I don’t want you,” she says.
“Oh shit,” I hear a random man in the background shout.
“Damn, she ain’t have to say it like that,” a female diner says.
“Robbie, though?” I say, as I get up and point to him. I can’t believe she’s been cheating on me. And with my friend. How cliché. Should I be fuming angry and punch him in the face? I’m unclear on the protocol with this. “You know, he probably peed in the bathroom sink when he went in there, right?”
She gets up and grabs his hand. “You’re not for me.” And just like that they both walk out of the restaurant. Everyone who was once cheering for me waits to see how I react.
A waiter tells a waitress, “That was the most fucked-up shit I’ve ever seen.”
“That had to be a practical joke,” the waitress replies. “How can you shit on someone’s heart like that?”
“It’s real, look at his sorry-ass face. That’s authentic sadness right there. You only get that when your soul is burning.”
“Pitiful.”
It’s funny when someone is publicly humiliated. The audience tends to think they’re watching TV and the main character can’t hear them. It’s the total opposite. I can hear everyone’s chatter and follow each conversation. Everything they say and some stuff they don’t say.
A patron walks up to the hostess. He’s totally oblivious as to what has happened. “Pardon me, but someone has taken a shit in the sink in the men’s bathroom.”
Chapter Eight
It’s been eight days, and I still can’t believe it. Like a right to the jaw from Clubber Lang—how do you recover from that? She said no. Before I could follow up and show her I got this condo right in the building she wanted. Our building. I filled out the loan paperwork all by myself. Before I could convince her and describe how wonderful our life would be together. Our life. I wanted to show her that I was ready to be taken seriously and to settle down, and we could move on to the next chapter of our life like we intended. Seems like I’m the only one who remembered the plans. Which is weird, because when we planned she did the majority of the talking. I haven’t showered at all. Just lay in this condo. Can’t watch TV, because I was too lazy to get up when the cable guy came. Good thing I have my DVDs.
I didn’t hear them walk in, but Jake and Eddie are now standing over me as I lie on my living-room floor in my underwear, listening to a “Feel Better” playlist I made. “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M. It seems so appropriate. I look up to see how they got in and discover the door is wide-open. Then, I remember I haven’t bothered to close the door since the pizza man left last night. I have lost the capacity to complete normal, frivolous acts, such as closing and locking doors.
“What the fuck is this sad panty-fest?” Jake says.
I try to get up and gather myself. Then, straighten up the area immediately surrounding me. The pizza boxes, pictures from our relationship, cheese-doodle bags, and empty two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew are scattered all over the place. Some are half full, but that’s urine. I’ve also lost the will to get up and walk to the bathroom to take a piss. I hope Eddie doesn’t take off a bottle cap.
“Are you okay, sir?” Eddie says, as he tries to help me clean up.
Before I can reply, Jake says, “Of course he’s not. Look at this motherfucker. And what is the music you’re listening to? It’s making me grow a vagina.”
“R.E.M. Because everybody does hurt,” I reply. “Sometimes they hurt on the inside. Sometimes it’s the outside. Sometimes it’s both—”
Eddie turns off the music that’s playing on my computer.
“Thank you. First good thing you’ve done since I’ve known you,” Jake tells him. Eddie grins at the backhanded recognition.
“Sorry I couldn’t help you move,” Jake says. “I was . . . well, I just didn’t want to.”
“Appreciate the honesty,” I say.
“Where’s all of your furniture?” Eddie asks.
“She took it.”
“You let her have the new furniture you specifically bought for your dream home?” Jake says.
“She made such a compelling argument about her being the one who picked it out and how she needed it more than me. I don’t know. It was one big whirlwind.”
“Goddammit, man. Have some fucking backbone for once,” Jake says.
“I
t wouldn’t have been the same anyway. She did pick everything out. It would’ve reminded me of her too much.”
“I don’t give a fuck if she chopped down the oak tree and whittled that shit down to form a living-room set. You paid for some of it. It should be yours,” Jake says.
“Well, I paid for all of it, actually.”
“Now, you have no furniture?” Eddie says.
“Can’t afford to get new furniture either. I can’t even afford to pay this mortgage.”
“Jackass,” Jake says. I sadly look at both of them.
“Can you get out of the mortgage?” Eddie says. I shake my head.
“Surprising her with this apartment and ring was stupid. Probably the most stupid thing you’ve ever done,” Jake says. “And you’ve done some stupid-ass shit. See what happens when you don’t consult me before making a major life decision like that? They’re gonna kick you the fuck out of this place. What are you gonna do then?”
I scratch my head and come up with “Roommate?” as I look at Jake.
Which sets him off. “Get the fuck outta here,” he says as he shakes his head vehemently. “Bullshit. You know I can’t do that. I need to do me. And I can’t do me living with nobody, especially you. I’m a grown-ass man. What I look like with a roommate? You sitting around in this filthy place in your tighty-whities like you are now while I’m bringing a legion of badass bitches back home. That would creep bitches out. Shit, that’d creep me out. Come home and you making scrambled eggs at two in the morning on a Saturday, wearing a fedora or whatever strange shit that you do.”
“That only happened once,” I reply. A simple no would’ve sufficed. I turn to Eddie. “What about you?”
He didn’t think I’d ask him, I bet. He sees my request as a sign of our friendship and will jump at the opportunity.
“I’m moving in with Katie when we get married.” He begins to reach for his locket, but Jake stops that move by punching him in the arm.
“Ouch,” Eddie says. He senses we don’t want him around. “You know what, I’m gonna go and check out the rest of your new place. Looks pretty nice.”
Shooting Stars Page 14