“We’re worried about you.” Amara sticks to the script when no one else does. We need to be a unified front—all for one and one for Silas—no matter how afraid we are of him.
“Worried over what?”
Amara glances me, suddenly unsure of herself. She has to say it. Someone has to say it. “We know you’re still using.”
Silas actually guffaws.
I manage to find my voice. “Please, Silas. We want to help.”
“What kind of help do you think I need, Erin?”
“We won’t support your addiction anymore.” Do I even believe what I’m saying?
“So you wrote this all down? Have you been practicing? Oh, man.” He laughs again, as if he’s impressed at the whole undertaking. “You guys…This is priceless. Really. Bravo.”
“Silas, please. We just want you to get better. I—I think—”
His laughter stops. Silas stares at me, his gaze sharpening. He’s never looked at me like that before. “Just say it, Erin. Say the fucking words.”
“Silas, I love you. But I—”
“But. But what, Erin? Get it off your chest.” The derision in his voice makes me feels like he’s calling me out—like he knows the intervention isn’t for him; it’s for us, our guilt pushing us to play out this pitiful charade.
“I—I can’t let you do this anymore—”
“You can’t see it yet,” he cuts me off. “See them. But you will.”
His eyes—I can see how dilated his pupils are. A pair of black holes. “You’re high right now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“Not high. Haunted.”
Something within me comes undone. Like tugging on a loose thread that unravels an entire sweater, the words tumble out all at once. “I asked you here and you—what? Shoot up? What are you on?”
He’s smiling. Smiling that same fucking smug grin he’s worn his whole life.
“I am done, Silas.” I can’t stop myself. “I am so sick and tired of your cryptic bullshit!” The rage rises up into my chest so quickly, I can’t hold back. “I want you out of my life!”
What am I doing? This was supposed to be for Silas—“Get out!” I shove him. Hard. His body offers little resistance. He feels oddly soft, almost pliant, like Play-Doh. I expected his chest to puff up, to repel me somehow, but I get the sense his body will fold if I push any harder. But I can’t control myself—can’t stop. I only push him harder. Harder.
“Erin,” Amara calls out from behind me. “Don’t—”
“Get the fuck out of my apartment! NOW!”
Something has taken over. I keep pushing him. Silas is out of the living room now.
“OUT! GET OUT!”
He’s in the hall, stumbling back with each shove. His plastic bag crackles when it scrapes against the wall. My eyes sear into his. I’m staring him down as I keep pushing—exorcising this sick spirit from my apartment—expelling his presence.
“I’m fucking through with you! DON’T EVER—EVER—COME BACK!”
He looks wounded. Confused. How can I do this to him?
“You are dead to me!”
His back slaps against the front door. Without a word he opens it, walks through, and slams it shut. Suddenly he’s gone. Truly gone.
That doesn’t keep me from screaming at the door: “DEAD TO ME!”
* * *
—
The McMartin Agency took over the red brick warehouse that was once an ironworks that built steam locomotives. They started producing iron plating for Confederate warships during the Civil War. I only know this because of the brass plaque in the waiting area.
There’s something obscenely chic about the whole industrial vibe going on in here. The decommissioned furnace still sits in the center of the lobby, now painted a sleek, oily black. If Robert E. Lee had spooged in an Office Depot, I imagine this would be their bastard love child.
I pass the time before my interview by reading the plaque for the fifth time: Evacuation fires swept the district, but workers diligently remained at their posts to protect the foundry against rampaging looters. Their heroic efforts to save the ironworks succeeded in sparing the factory from capture by Union soldiers, but tragically not from the flames.
I can only imagine what those foundry workers might think if they knew the factory they burned to death in is where the jingles for Little Debbie Swiss Rolls are born.
I bought a dress just for today. My job interview dress. Simple, black, cinched waist. Round neck and long sleeves. Zipper running down the back. As I slipped it on this morning, I found myself taking on the identity of someone ready to show initiative. Someone with drive.
I like this person. I can be this person.
My phone rings. The chime echoes through the waiting area. I cringe, as if the receptionist is going to dock me points.
It’s Silas.
I’m about to answer, feeling myself getting pulled in. The undertow of Silas is strong. But I can’t give in—not this morning, not anymore. I can’t let him hold this power over me.
Cut him off, Erin.
Silas says give me your love and devotion.
Cut him out.
Silas says bend over backward for me.
Cut him.
Silas says…
“Ms. Hill?” the receptionist says.
I smile. I am a beam of radiant, golden light. Time to shine.
She escorts me through the open-plan office before handing me off to Mr. Gidding. He’s all smiles as he closes his office door behind me. The buzz from the hive of hipster copywriters fades away. “Thanks for coming in, Erin.”
“Thank you for meeting with me,” I say with practiced enthusiasm. The front wall of his office is nothing but window. I feel like a butterfly pinned and framed behind glass.
“Have a seat.” He holds out his hand, offering me the chair in front of his desk. His body is sinewy and tanned from years of cycling, as all the picture frames hanging from his wall attest. He’s two notches shy of silver fox status—let’s say gray fox—which, ew, gross thought.
“You wouldn’t remember but I’ve known you since you were just yea tall.” He holds up his hand. “I was invited to a birthday party or two.”
“I hope the present was a write-off.” He doesn’t laugh at my joke. That was supposed to be a joke, wasn’t it? Where the hell did my sense of humor run off to?
He fills the conversational void with the agency’s history. “We started off small, but our client base has grown. Got ourselves some real heavy hitters. Toyota, Marlboro. National play.”
An abrupt trill erupts from my bag, startling me.
“Sorry.” I pull my phone out and switch it to vibrate, giving me a chance to glance at the caller ID. It’s Silas again. Fuck.
“We’re quite competitive with the folks up in New York.” Mr. Gidding keeps talking, paying my phone no mind. “We’re giving those Yankees a real run for their money.”
“It’s interesting that you should say that.” Oof, awful segue. “Something I’m extremely passionate about is bringing social awareness to larger corporations.”
“Oh?” I can’t tell if he’s impressed or merely amused. How many other grads have waltzed into his office and delivered a similarly rehearsed spiel?
Too late to back down now. I launch right into the intersectionality of marketing and street art. “Ever since I read Underworld, I’ve been obsessed with the idea of getting the consumer by the eyeballs.” Silas would despise me for dragging DeLillo into a job interview. So what if I’m misappropriating his critique on advertising? I’m pretty positive Mr. Gidding’s never read him, so I skip the novel’s commentary and deliver my sales pitch. “Billboards are a thing of the past. The preexisting surfaces of our public spaces are ripe for advertising. We can’t be overt about it, obviously. It can’t feel like a promo spot for Bud Light. It needs to be organic, a visual extension of the environment. Which is why I propose something more grassroots…”
“That so? Do tell.”