“Yes. You’ve made that perfectly clear. I’ll go get the NyQuil.”
“I don’t need NyQuil, I need whisky.” He tries to get up and trips on one of the empty beer bottles on the floor. I grab him just before he falls into the glass coffee table, and am rewarded with a chest full of beer. Great. Now I need to shower. Unlikely I’ll get a job smelling like him.
“Jesus, Dad. Sit down. I’ll get it.”
When I return with a glass of Jack (and the NyQuil), he’s lying on the couch again, with his back to me. He’s shaking; I think he might be crying and I seriously can’t deal. So I set the glass on the coffee table and go back up to the kitchen for the bottle. I leave it for him next to the glass, and hear him murmur something about “that stupid fucking lock” as I let myself into my room.
Once I’m safely in my dungeon, I pull my shirt over my head, throwing it into the hamper on my way to the bathroom. I twist the shower knob all the way up, and I stare at myself in the mirror, gripping the countertop like if I let go I’ll evaporate into the steam. It would be nice to just sort of fade away like that. I wonder if that’s what Mom thought.
? ? ?
The mall. Kill me now.
Not only is it filled with stupid people, but it’s also filled with stupid people I have the misfortune of knowing. And now I’m slogging through this hell looking for a reason to make coming here a regular thing. I only make it to the Colorado-ski-chalet-themed food court before I decide having a job here is absolutely not an option. Some of the guys from the team and their girlfriends sit around the hearth of the giant fireplace in front of Sbarro. Brett’s brother works there and likes to give his older brother’s cool friends free stuff so they’ll like him. It makes me sad for Brett’s brother that he wants so desperately to fit in with a bunch of worthless assholes.
I hide behind a large Mormon family to sneak past the guys from the team and head for my car.
I drive around aimlessly, stopping at a few places to fill out applications: a bagel place, a dry cleaner claiming to be “Denver’s best,” and Home Depot. I’m kind of rooting for the Home Depot job. At least I probably wouldn’t see people from school. Plus it’s next to a Taco Bell, and that’s a place I can still afford.
I’m practically out of the sprawl of suburbia when I consciously realize where I’m driving. I’ve never been here before. It’s not that it’s far from home; it’s just the opposite direction from anywhere I ever go. It’s a new subdivision and things are still under construction. But there’s one strip mall. Sorry, not a strip mall. An “outdoor shopping experience,” according to the sign. This place, the stores under construction—it’s clearly trying to resemble an upscale mountain town. Telluride, maybe? There are a few boutiques you’d normally find in a mall and several chain restaurants, or at least they will be once they’re finished. So far the only active businesses appear to be a Pilates place, a barber with an old-timey pole in front, a cafe that looks like it might actually be locally owned, and, of course, a Starbucks. At the end of one of the streets, around the corner from the Starbucks, is a photography studio with a HELP WANTED sign in the window. I decide to parallel park along the fake street and explore further.
The chime of the door alerts an empty waiting area to my presence.
“Hello?” I call to the back.
I’m pretty sure the place is completely deserted until I hear something clatter against the ground, followed by a string of curse words.
“Hello?” I call again. “Is everything okay back there?”
A bearded man who looks like he should be hunting in the mountains and living off of whatever he kills comes out from behind a red curtain that separates the waiting area from the picture-taking area—the, uh, studio, I guess.
“You here for senior pictures? My girl will be back in a few to schedule times if you don’t mind waiting.” Grizzly Adams gestures for me to wait on one of the velvet couches against the wall, which is filled with dozens of framed photos of kids, families, and dogs.
“No. I’m, um . . . are you still hiring?” I nod toward the HELP WANTED sign in the window.
Grizzly Adams straightens up and a huge smile spreads across his face. At least I think it’s a smile; it’s hard to tell under all the gray facial hair. He thrusts his hand out at me. “Henry,” he says, his eyes going from my worn sneakers to my jeans to my button-down shirt that’s a little too tight in the arms to my eyes. “I could use some muscle around here.”
“Tyler,” I say, shaking his giant paw. “Tyler Blackwell.”
“Well, Tyler Blackwell, what do you have to offer this fine establishment?”