She clears her throat. “Would you like to sit and have a cup of coffee, dear? Obviously, I’m finished with tonight’s work, but we could talk through what needs to happen tomorrow. My last day. Make sure there’s a smooth transition.”
“Coffee?” Cameron says this like it’s a foreign word. For a moment, he looks drained, like a wind sock fallen flat. He gives his head a quick shake, and just like that the storm is raging again. “Nah. I just stopped by to grab my hoodie from the break room.”
He stalks out of the pump room, and Tova trails him. “But what about tomorrow?”
“There’s no tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder. “Terry never offered me the job. Why would I stay? How incompetent do I have to be to get passed over for a job emptying trash bins and mopping floors? I mean . . . no offense.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s a misunderstanding. Terry has been quite distracted; the new octopus—”
“I’m done with misunderstandings.” He ducks into the break room and emerges a moment later with his sweatshirt tucked under his arm. “Anyway, I’m out of here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Headed back to California.” Cameron avoids meeting her eyes directly. A sad, sardonic smile spreads over his face. “Road-trip time.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“Yep.” Cameron’s tone is clipped. “Would’ve already been gone, but being the idiot I am, I left most of my shit inside Ethan’s house earlier today. Laundry. Even my guitar. Came back to get it.” He holds up the sweatshirt. “Figured I might as well grab this, too.”
“You’re leaving, and you haven’t told Terry?”
“He’ll figure it out.”
“And what do you think will happen when you fail to show up tomorrow?”
“He’ll fire me?”
“And who will prepare food for so many of our . . . friends?”
“Not my problem. It’s not exactly rocket science.”
Tova gives him a stony stare. “This is not the way a person should end employment.”
Cameron shrugs. “How would I know? I’ve never had a chance to quit a job. I always get canned. It’s kind of my thing.” He stomps into Terry’s office. She follows, and watches as he plucks a piece of paper from the printer tray and scribbles a note, which he folds and deposits on Terry’s desk.
“There. Is that better?”
She picks the note up and hands it back to him. “Leaving your boss high and dry without proper notice . . . you’re better than that.”
“No, I’m not.” His voice cracks. He tosses the paper onto the desk. “I’m really not.”
Day 1,361 of My Captiv—Oh, Let Us Cut the Shit, Shall We? We Have a Ring to Retrieve.
HUMANS SPARE NO JUDGMENT WHEN IT COMES TO wolf eels. If I had a clam for every time I heard someone call them hideous or ugly or monstrous, I would be a very plump octopus indeed.
These assessments are not wrong. Objectively speaking, wolf eels are grotesque. Theirs is one of few enclosures I have never entered or explored, but that has nothing to do with their unfortunate looks.
It happened long ago, before I was captured and imprisoned. I was young, naive, and looking for a place to crash, as you humans might put it, in the open sea. The rocky den beckoned; it would have been a perfect home for me. I did not realize it was already occupied.
With my vast intelligence, I ought to have used more caution. As soon as I peered through the gap in the rocks, it struck. The wolf eel’s needle teeth and fleshy maw are not only ugly, but quite strong. I paid for my mistake three times.
First, I paid with my pride.
Second, with one of my arms. The arm started to grow back the next day, but by then, it was too late.
Third, with my freedom. Had my own poor judgment not brought about such injuries, perhaps I would have evaded my so-called rescue.
With immense patience, I wait for Tova to leave. Unscrewing the pump housing has become more difficult lately, but with effort, I remove it. By the time I have worked myself halfway through the little gap, I am already feeling The Consequences, as they come on ever more quickly these days.
I do not have much time left.
I speak to the wolf eels in soft platitudes as I enter their enclosure. The large male glares at me, his garish head hovering in the mouth of their den; after a moment, his female mate joins him.
You are both looking lovely today, I say, hugging the glass on the opposite side of the tank. The creatures blink. My organ heart pounds.
I have no intention of lingering here, I promise as I sink toward the bottom.
Their tank bottom is made of sand, whereas mine is coarser gravel, and I am surprised at how soft it feels as I dredge through it, searching. The two pair watches, having emerged a bit more from their den now, their jutted jaws opening and closing robotically, as always. Their thin dorsal fins ripple like ribbons, but they do not approach.
I sweep the sand at the base of the plant, and finally the suckers at the tip of my arm brush something cold and heavy. I snatch the chunky ring and curl it in the thick, muscular part of my arm, where I know it will be secure. I glance at the wolf eels, who are still watching my every move. I hope you do not mind my taking this.
Even the short journey back to my tank saps my strength. I am weakening by the day. Still carrying the heavy ring, I slip into my den and rest, as I will need stamina for my next trip. The last one.
A Goddamn Genius
The serpentine belt, Cameron discovers, is aptly named. The thing winds around under the hood of the camper like a very long snake. The dry air smells like dust and burnt-up brake pads, and the morning sun is relentless. Every few seconds, with a loud whoosh, a burst of wind smacks him in the side of the head as another semitruck hurls down the freeway, like a parade of oversized beetles, mocking him with their menacing grilles as he stands on the shoulder in front of the camper’s popped hood. With one hand, he yanks on the snapped belt. In the other, he holds the new one from the glove box.
“What in the hell,” he mutters to himself, staring at the vehicle’s innards. He recognizes the major parts. Engine block, radiator, battery, dipstick. Thingy that holds the blue stuff that cleans the windshield.
The new belt was sitting there the whole time, right there in the glove box. Why didn’t he have it replaced? That squealing noise. It was never going to go away on its own.
It certainly did not go away during the last twelve hours of driving.
Well, that’s not exactly true. The squealing did disappear . . . along with the power steering, on this barren stretch of interstate outside Redding, a hundred-something miles south of the Oregon-California border. Is there anything Cameron can’t fuck up? His attempt to flounce after a humiliating failure is, itself, a humiliating failure.
How very meta.
“Okay, I can do this.” He blows out a breath, then squints again at the video, propping the phone on the bumper. There’s no other option. If he keeps driving, it won’t be long before the engine overheats and shits the bed. Well, that’s not exactly how the video described it, but . . . it’s not good.
Besides, putting in the new belt can’t be that hard, and he, Cameron Cassmore, is a goddamn genius.
It’s time he started acting like one.
The Eel Ring
On Thursday afternoon, Tova’s last day of work, Janice Kim and Barb Vanderhoof materialize on her porch with a rectangular box.
“Come in, won’t you?” Tova says. “I apologize for the state of the house. All the packing is just . . .” She sweeps an arm around the clutter. “I’ll put on coffee.” That’s one thing that hasn’t been packed yet: the percolator. It will be the last thing to go.
She takes the box from Janice, assuming it’s some sort of casserole, but it’s far too light. She sets it on the kitchen counter and flips open the lid, revealing a small sheet cake shaped like a fish. Congratulations on Your Retirement, the icing reads.
“You shouldn’t have!” Tova laughs. “But it’s accurate. I’m actually retiring.”
“At long last,” Janice says, producing a parcel of paper plates and disposable napkins.