“You owe me, like, ten. I charge extra for checking in after midnight.” Brad grins, but his eyes are serious. “And I know I don’t need to tell you this again, but you’ll owe me new furniture if you mess anything up.”
Cameron nods. He got the same speech last week when he crashed on the couch after the bar. Elizabeth just got new living room furniture, and apparently its utilization for normal living room activities, like sitting and lounging, is a sensitive subject. He used to sleep in the guest room when he crashed here, but it’s been remodeled for the baby now. Just last month, Cameron patched the drywall in the closet, for payment in pizza, after Brad tore it up trying to install some ridiculous shelving system. Cameron could patch drywall in his sleep, and in fact he did one time. Or half-asleep, anyway. Or so the foreman of that job site claimed before sacking Cameron on the spot.
“And seriously, Cam?” Brad continues. “Two nights, tops.”
“Ten-four.”
“So where are you gonna go?” Brad folds the beer-dampened paper towel and places it neatly on the edge of the table.
Cameron props a sneaker over his knee and twists a fraying shoelace around his finger. “Maybe one of those new apartments downtown?”
Brad sighs. “Cam . . .”
“What? I got a buddy who worked that job. He says they’re nice inside.” Cameron pictures himself settling into a wide leather sofa, digging his bare toes into brand-new carpet. He’ll need a flat-screen, of course, eighty inches at least. He’ll mount it to the wall and run the cords behind so they don’t show.
Brad leans forward, lacing his hands. “There’s no way in hell they’re going to rent one of those to you.”
“Why not?”
“Dude, you have no job.”
“Not true. I’m between projects right now.”
“Are you ever not between projects?”
“The construction industry is cyclical.” Cameron straightens up, a bite creeping into his voice. What would Brad know about actual, physical work? He spends all day faffing around some dumpy little office, shuffling papers for the local electric utility.
Brad used to talk about leaving, going to San Francisco or something. But he’ll never leave now, and Cameron knows why. His parents are here, Elizabeth’s, too, and now all four of them are about to be grandparents. The whole clan gets together for dinner on Sunday nights. Probably eats honey-glazed ham or some shit. Why would they ever leave? Cameron wonders if there’s some sort of special tether children of normal families are granted. One for which he’s never been eligible.
“Cam, what’s your credit score?”
Cameron hesitates. Truth is, he has no clue. Hell would freeze before he’d check. When he got the Jeep a few years back, it was in the low six hundreds, but that was several questionable life choices ago. With a sarcastic smirk, he answers, “A hundred and twenty.”
Brad shakes his head. “Maybe that’s your bowling score. Sure as hell’s not your credit score.”
“Well, what can I say? I’m awesome at bowling.”
“Obviously.”
Cameron runs his fingers over the little series of punctures in the side of his sneaker. Probably from Katie’s dog, a teacup something-or-other with a taste for footwear, his in particular. The dog is such a pain in the ass, Katie sent it to live with her parents, but they brought it over every time they visited. At least he won’t have to deal with that garbage anymore.
“Why don’t you go back to school?” Brad suggests, not for the first time. “Get your associate’s degree or something.”
Cameron grunts. Brad should be smart enough to realize college costs money Cameron doesn’t have. But suddenly, Cameron does have an idea. A good one. “You know that apartment over Dell’s?”
Brad nods. All the regulars at their watering hole know about the place upstairs. They joke sometimes that Old Al, the bartender, could make a killing renting it out by the hour.
“The other night, I heard Old Al say it’s empty,” Cameron continues. “Maybe he’d rent it to me.”
“He might make you settle your tab first. But maybe.”
“I’ll ask him when we’re there for our gig next week.”
Brad clears his throat. “Next week?”
“Fine. I’ll go over tomorrow.”
“Good,” Brad says. Then he looks down. “By the way, there’s something I need to tell you. I wanted to wait until everyone was together, but . . .”
“But what?” Cameron frowns. “Just spill it.”
“Um. Our Moth Sausage show next week? It’ll be my last.”
“What?” Cameron feels like someone kicked him in the chest.
“Yeah, I’m quitting the band.” Brad grimaces. “With the baby coming, Elizabeth and I think it’s best if—”
“You’re the lead singer,” Cameron blurts. “You can’t quit.”
“Sorry.” Brad looks like he’s shrinking in his chair. “Can you not tell the guys yet? I really wanted to wait until everyone was together.”
Cameron stands and stalks over to the window.
“It’s just that with the baby, things will be different,” Brad goes on.
Cameron glares at Brad and Elizabeth’s front yard, its glowing landscape lights, the golf-course grass, the brick walkway. To his horror, a lump forms in his throat. Of course Brad would leave Moth Sausage when the baby came. He should’ve seen it coming. “I get it,” he says finally.
“I’ll still come to the shows.”
Cameron swallows a scoff. There won’t be any Moth Sausage shows without Brad.
“Elizabeth, too. Maybe we can bring the baby.” Brad lets out a long sigh. “I really am sorry.”
“It’s cool.” Cameron returns to the sofa and starts removing the decorative pillows, making a point to stack them extra neatly. “It’s late. I should sleep.”
“Yeah, okay.” Brad hovers for an extra moment before picking up their empty glasses. “Hang on, you need sheets,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.
Sheets? For a couch? Since when?
A minute later, Brad reappears with an unopened package of bedsheets, which he tosses at Cameron. They’re purple and white striped, and Cameron would bet anything Elizabeth picked them out. Purple has always been her favorite color.
Brad is still hovering like a goddamn mosquito. “Need a hand setting up?”
“Nope.” Cameron flashes a tight smile. “Night.”
“Okay. Uh . . . night.” From the kitchen, Brad calls back, “Don’t let those baby vipers out.”
Cameron doesn’t answer.
Day 1,307 of My Captivity
HUMANS HAVE FEW REDEEMING QUALITIES, BUT THEIR fingerprints are miniature works of art.
I am well-read in fingerprints. I suppose you could say it is one fortunate side effect of dealing with humans all day long, their trembling boogers and damp armpits, their sticky palms reeking of floral lotion and Popsicle residue.
But when the doors lock for the night and the lights dim, they leave behind a stunning, intricate mural on the glass at the front of my tank.
Sometimes I spend quite some time staring at them, studying. Little oval masterpieces. I visually trace the grooves from the outside into the center, then back out to the edge again. Each one unique. I remember all of them.
Fingerprints are like keys, with their specific shape.
I remember all keys, too.
Muckle Teeth
Mrs. Sullivan?”
Tova opens her trunk, preparing to start her shift, when a short man waving a manila envelope comes jogging across the Sowell Bay Aquarium’s parking lot, weaving around the typical handful of cars belonging to the evening fishermen and the day’s last joggers. Recognizable Sowell Bay vehicles, most of them. Somehow, Tova hadn’t even noticed the unfamiliar gray sedan from which this fellow just burst forth.
“Tova Sullivan?” he hollers again, approaching.
She slams the hatchback shut. “May I help you?”
“Glad I finally found you!” he says, panting. As he catches his breath, he flashes a smile too large for his face, with oversized white teeth. They remind Tova of the bleached barnacles that cling to seaweed-strewn boulders down at the sound’s edge.
He continues, “You’re not an easy lady to track down, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”