How Not To

by Devin Sawyer

  When I pull up, there’s a crowd in front of the building and the sun is almost completely down. I spot the keg and head toward it. A red Solo cup in hand and I give the keg a few pumps and pick up the spout, but another cup thrusts beneath the spout that’s not mine. I follow the slim arm up to find Leila, one of the girls from my class that graduated with me last year. She’s smiling as innocently as a girl like her can muster.

  “Top me off?” The way she says it is dripping with dirty undertones. I fill her cup and then my own.

  “How have you been Leila?”

  She eyes me with neediness. I hooked up with Leila a few times last year. We were never serious, but she is the one girl that I had a continuous hookup with. I’m not much for repeats, but Leila also knows what to expect from me, and I’m not too concerned about hurting her feelings. She’s a tough bitch, and I mean that in a good way. She’s emotionally blunt and is more likely to break my heart than I am hers, so it works when I need a release. I already know that my night has taken an interesting turn because at least I know it won’t end alone. Ever since moving to Layton I’ve felt nothing but alone, a fish out of water. The locals can tell I don’t belong and our simple blue-collar business is nothing to their multi-million-dollar companies. Yet, their fancy cars all need to be maintained.

  By eleven the party is roaring, and we are lucky these things happen in the middle of an open field or there would be noise complaints. We have a fire going but it’s not for warmth, it’s hot as hell here, it’s used as light so we can all see each other out in the pitch black of country roads. All our trucks are backed up into a circle around the keg and everyone is sitting on the back of their tailgates. It feels strange to be back again. I see Jeff occasionally when we make plans to work on his truck or just head down to the river, but most of the people I haven’t bothered to see since high school are here and acting like I’m the best friend they never had.

  At some point, Leila had nuzzled into my side as we talk amongst a group of us and I can feel her tits pressed against me. She oozes sex appeal but she’s so desperate for the attention I can’t find myself attracted to her in any way when she’s not on her knees, but I allow her to stay because I expect the night to end with her there.

  “Hey Torren,” I hear Jeff say across the way. “What’s been keeping you away lately? Are you golfing at the club? Weekends at the yacht club? Or maybe you’ve found a socialite in that ritzy town that needs a hole in one?”

  Leila stiffens next to me and pulls away just a little from my body. I see Jeff laugh to himself. He knows I’m not going to beg Leila to do shit with me tonight so his efforts at cock-blocking should be easy. He’s been my best friend since middle school and even if I haven’t been around much lately, he’s made the effort to keep in touch and check in every once in a while.

  I simply smile when I respond “Walton, if I wanted any lip out of you, I would just rattle my zipper.” The others stifle laughter not wanting to be the focus of whatever rebuttal he is forming. Jeff always has a rebuttal.

  “Oh, come on man, I see you’re trying, but your comebacks suck more dick than you do.”

  My turn. “If I wanted a comeback, I’d wipe it off your chin.”

  We battle, sparring through our own laughter.

  “Alright enough of the dick jokes you two, we get it you can go all day,” shouts Aaron sitting across the fire in one of the trucks

  “Fuck yeah I can go all day A-A-ron,” Jeff shouts. “Tell ‘em, Chelsea.”

  Chelsea doesn’t say anything but rolls her eyes feigning disinterest. Her cheeks turn red and we all know Jeff’s embarrassed her. They dated on and off all through high school until last year when Jeff cheated on her. Chelsea was a catch for Jeff. It’s a shame he fucked it up, but we all know he’s had a rough few years so none of us request that he back off. Around sophomore year of high school, his mom and dad stopped showing up to our football games. He stopped hanging out as much and would make excuses to rush home every day.

  Finally, at the end of the season, his parents showed up for the final game on parents’ night. We almost didn’t recognize them, each of them a shell of the person they used to be. Mr. Walton’s skin was an ashy grey shade, you would expect it to be dry and brittle based off the color, but it wasn’t. I remember standing next to him on the field as each of the players and their parents were called to the field and being recognized. His skin was perspiring, like a constant dewy glaze that sat on him, and it was November, most of us were shivering. My own dad had gripped my neck spinning my head straight on to the crowd so as not to stare. Mrs. Walton stood on the other side and while she looked a little better, it was clear she hadn’t had time to run a brush through her hair and her eyes held bags so heavy that I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t just take a nap out on that field. Jeff nor I had a good game, I was concerned for him, for them, and I think he was just… scared? Embarrassed? I wasn’t sure then, and still don’t know now, but he definitely had been distracted.

  The next day I had pulled him aside and he finally came clean, his dad was in stage four pancreatic cancer. The disease had spread to his liver and likely other areas of his body, but they quit running scans and X-rays to track the growth weeks before. The doctors had said at this stage there wasn’t much they could do, and Mr. Walton went onto hospice care. I did more to try and help Jeff out after that. Offering to come over and help cook dinner or mow the lawn for them. He didn’t really want me there and I soon found out why. Mrs. Walton was a mean drunk. I had never known that before because Mrs. Walton didn’t ever drink before, but the stress and her pre-bereavement was weighing heavy on her. She had emotionally checked out. I never questioned the bruises Jeff would show up with and I’d often offer for him to come over to my house instead. He did, he spent a lot of time at my house. My dad worked long hours and usually wasn’t home until after dark, so we’d throw one of those pre-made lasagnas in the oven most nights and call it good. On weekends when my dad was around more, I’d offer for Jeff to stay but he usually disappeared, but I also knew he wasn’t going home. Just before our junior year, Mr. Walton died at home while taking a nap. I attended the funeral, and while Jeff was there, he seemed anything but emotionally present. He was still Jeff at school, he used humor, cruelly at times, as a defense mechanism I could only guess.

  I’m broken from the embrace of my memories by the sound of a country song blaring and some of the girls start dancing with each other in the bed of the trucks. The booze is clearly settling in, supplying us with more social lubrication than most teenagers need. Jeff is seen hooting and hollering at them. Catcalls falling from his mouth faster than a construction worker’s. Being around him again feels good, even if he’s not the Jeff from long ago.

  I pull on Leila’s hand as I slide off the truck bed. I lead her to the front of the truck and open the door tucking her in and go to the other side.

  “Where are we going?” she giggles, still sipping from her cup.

  “Nowhere.” I gesture to unzip my own pants and she quickly picks up on the hint. There isn’t much privacy here, but it’s not something that has ever bothered Leila. She’d probably gets off on everyone watching. Her teeth graze her bottom lip and I see her dip down, within moments she’s taken me in her mouth and I feel the darkness of daily routine slip away and lean my head back to enjoy my escape.

  ~

  The slight throbbing of my head wakes me. My body is stiff and sore, and I feel disoriented. It takes me a moment to realize that I fell asleep in the truck last night. Leila is curled up with her head on the passenger door and her feet splayed out on me. I crane my neck to loosen the muscles from sleeping upright and look around. A handful of other vehicles are parked around us and I spot a few people sleeping in the beds of trucks, some are passed out scattered on the ground.

  I shake Leila awake.

  “Hey, I gotta get going. I’m gonna help Gavin around the shop today. Do you need a ride home?”

  Gavin doesn’t make m
e work the weekends. He has another guy, Javier, who he has help out just on the weekends. Javier went to school with Gavin back in Glennville years ago, and Javier needs the extra cash to support his wife and little girl, so he picks up a weekend shift on Saturdays and does all the auto work. It works for me because I usually appreciate the time off. Working with your brother as the boss is not a dream job no matter how much you love the guy.

  Leila’s barely stirring. I gently shake her again.

  “Come on Lei, I gotta get going. You need a ride home?”

  Her eyes are fogged and her hair is messy from sleeping in a truck all night, and probably the blow job. I have vague memories of grabbing her hair to keep it from falling around her. She’s a pretty girl, but in these moments, I feel almost bad for how her life is turning out.

  “Yeah, can you drop me off? I don’t want to wait around for another ride.”

  I take Leila home, both of us are quiet on the ride, likely from the hangovers we are experiencing. I don’t drink all that much anymore since I don’t know many people in Layton, so I’m going to pay for last night’s actions.

  When I arrive at Leila’s, she grabs her things. “Come around more often, Holdridge. We miss you around here.”

  “Thanks, Lei.”

  I wish she had gone off to school. Leila was bright enough, but her parents could use all the help they can get around the house, so she took up a secretarial job in the oil field. Oil dominates this part of the country. In order to stay afloat in this town, you have to be a part of it. Her dad has worked the rigs as long as I can remember, keeping him out for weeks at a time. Her mom works at the cleaners here in town. She deserved more. Jeff and a bunch of the guys work in the oil field too, doing various jobs. It’s why we rarely get around to seeing each other, no one is ever home around the same time, but Jeff still texts me when he gets home. He’s currently on one-week rotations and then comes home for one. Sometimes when he’s bored, he will drop by the shop and help us out during the week he is home, but I’m quickly learning how lonely adulthood can be. Life after school is not what it’s cracked up to be, and I’ve spent the last year in Layton trying to figure out who I’m supposed to be.

  Half an hour later when I arrive at the shop, I throw a wave to Javier in the garage and grab one of my extra uniforms that I leave at the shop for just this reason. Gavin is at his desk again. I approach the small office and knock on the open door.

  “Hey, thought I’d lend a hand. You want me to help Javier or give you a hand with the paperwork?”

  “Yeah actually why don’t you take a seat real quick, I’d like to go over some of this with you.”

  I pull out the chair and it screeches as it pulls across the floor, and he swivels the computer screen so that we can both see it. I see about a billion numbers. He also has papers scattered all over his desk, receipts from all the work we do and ledgers tracking incoming pay and outgoing costs for labor and supplies. He goes over the numbers. I’m trying to follow, but I’m just not made for this kind of work. All I make from it is that somehow, we managed to lose money this year. We’ve been behind on paying off the loan, essentially since we were approved for it. Gavin’s point is that we should have profited based off the numbers and receipts we’ve accrued. Something isn’t adding up. The numbers start to confuse me and within minutes I feel frustrated.

  “Can’t we get an accountant to do this for us?”

  “We can’t afford an accountant like this, Tor.”

  “We can if we are just going to do it wrong. If the income is right then we should have more money somewhere, either that or we spent it.”

  Gavin groans, growing frustrated. “Don’t worry bro, I’ll handle it. Why don’t you head on home? Thanks for your help.” I get up to leave and I can feel the frustration and disappointment rolling off Gavin. I don’t really understand the significance of the financial dilemma, but I do know in Glennville the IRS is more likely to be pissed off at you than working with you, so I fear we are soon to be another statistic. Holdridge Brothers wasn’t my dream, it was Gavin’s. My dream holds more power, more leverage. I want to be needed in more ways than what oil changes could ever offer me. I want to be a manager, maybe an owner, an executive (although maybe one that doesn’t wear a suit), or even CEO. I want to run shit.

  I don’t really know what to do to help, so on my way home, I start to look into the local accountants that might be of use.

  ~

  Monday morning, I walk into Mason Mavens, it’s a small office, but the inside has left no surface untouched by the budget. Great marble floors line the office and I wander over to the grand front desk, a petite blonde woman is sitting there, and she greets me as I approach.

  “Hi, I’d like to speak with an accountant about a file I brought in. I’m looking to have them review it.”

  “Sure, have a seat, sir, and someone will be right with you.”

  I take a seat on the plush seats and feel out of my element. I am dressed in my work uniform, stopping in before my shift. Just as I am about to talk myself into leaving, I am called back. I follow a guy dressed in a nice suit through a maze of desks and cubicles until I reach the back of the office where a private office reads “Maverick Mason.”

  I walk into the office and a middle-aged man with a buzz cut dressed in a suit that’s slightly too large for him shakes my hand. He comes off as friendly and inviting and I’m put at ease momentarily. I show him the file, and how Gavin has been tracking everything, I brief him on the income and expenses and go on to explain how the numbers aren’t coming together.

  “Hey son, I’d be happy to take a look at this for you, but right now we just aren’t taking on small cases. In order to keep my own business afloat, I’m attached to the corporate world and I don’t have any other accountants to help me out right now. In fact, the only help I have right now is my daughter, Arianne, while she’s out of school, and I’ve already swamped her in work to help catch me up. I hope you understand.”

  I nod at him in understanding. As he walks me out, I catch a glimpse of the daughter he referenced. She’s sitting in a cubicle scrolling through computer files and she doesn’t look the part of an accountant. Her shoulder length blonde hair and jeans and hoodie outfit scream perky cheerleader, but aren’t all the girls in towns like these, cheerleaders, maybe dancers, even theater stars, destined for Hollywood? I’m sure there’s a handful of people with Hollywood connections in this area. As I try to memorize her face in case I see it on my TV screen one day, I notice a few ticks about her that don’t add up. A black choker wraps around her petite and pale neck, she scribbles notes down and her grey nails flash across the pad, and a studded messenger bag covered in rock badges ranging from The Flaming Lips to Van Halen sits on the floor. I spot a Bon Jovi badge and give her a mental pass for that one. Bon Jovi was the status quo that 90s boy bands aspired to. This screams more of angsty emotional teen than perky cheerleader and I huff out a laugh at the idiosyncrasies as I push open the door to exit. Mr. Mason has a rough couple of years ahead of him raising her.

  I leave the office hoping I’ll think of another solution, but the reality of the lower class in this town is not providing much hope.

  Chapter 3

  Ari

  Days drag on at Dad’s office. I’ve only been here a week and I am desperate for something more interesting to do. Dad allows me to run some of the numbers which basically consists of putting them into the computer. I remind myself to pick something more adventurous when I get to college, as in more adventurous than an accountant, but less adventurous than an exotic dancer. I’m all about that middle ground. I sit in the front of a screen all day. When I’m not doing that, I’m filing ridiculous amounts of paperwork that Dad has been backed up on since April.

  I pack up my messenger bag and sling its weight over my body. The silence around me is comforting. I’m the last one in the office today. I like it best this way. I typically come in a little later so I can be the last one here. I g
rab the keys and lock up. My bike rests outside and I unlock it from the rack. I pull my sunglasses out from my bag and put ‘em on before I bike home. I look around and see a random truck parked with someone sitting inside in its idle position. I straddle my bike and begin the monotonous peddle home. It’s only a couple blocks, and most days I enjoy the serenity that riding provides, but today the heat is making me paranoid. I’ve only gone a block, but it feels as if the truck that was just parked is now following me, driving almost alongside me. It’s moving ever so slowly, and I itch to look back but brush away my paranoia. I bike a few more blocks picking up speed and then take a left I hadn’t intended on to see if I can shake the truck. It remains in my peripheral vision.

  The soft screeching of brakes alerts me to the fact that it has stopped on the side of the road and I finally find my nerve to look back. A guy jumps out and starts walking toward me, but keeps his distance. My heart is racing and sweat rolls down my body as the sun beats down on me. I turn my head back again nonchalantly as if I’m merely looking around, I make an effort not to make direct eye contact with him. I conclude that it’s a medium height, curly dark-haired, Caucasian male. He appears young from the glances I catch. His direction is pointed at me and he seems focused on me each time I turn around, but he also seems very calm, as if this were his daily walk. I halt my bike to a stop and dismount it, turning to face him.

  “Are you stalking me?”

  “Stalking is such a harsh word. I like to think of them as long romantic walks that only I’ve agreed to,” he quips. His voice sings of lighthearted intent, but my guard is up.

  “What do you want? I don’t have any money on me, you’re better off following the girl in the Range Rover.” I point off in the distance, assuming there is another girl somewhere in a Range Rover, because they are a dime a dozen here.