“Just answer the question. Would you let him fire you if it meant your kids might go hungry?”
“God, I don’t know. Why are you asking that?”
“I just think it’s important for you to realize something. If you don’t believe in God, then morality is about one thing: consequences. That’s it. If you can shed your morality and escape the consequences, you win. But if you constantly obsess over doing the right thing, your options are restricted, and you’ll get left behind. As for me, I’m running a business.”
“What business?”
“Selling dope, duh. I’m thinking about expanding.”
“What time is it?”
He checks his cell phone. “12:06.”
“Shit. My break ended four minutes ago.”
Gilbert chuckles. “Eventually you’ll learn to relax.”
*
My living room ceiling needs to be repaired, if not replaced. There’s a huge bulge near the light fixture. I told my landlord, and he said he’d fix it soon. But that’s what he told Sam about the toilet.
After Gilbert ran off with his blackmail pictures, I didn’t stick around to chat. I went back to my apartment right away, and put buckets under the leaks. I haven’t spoken to Sam since.
I did see him once, as I was arriving home from a shift—silhouetted behind the curtains in his living room.
The book he gave me, Crow, was lying on the coffee table when the leak started. A couple inches of water accumulated in one of the buckets, and I accidentally knocked Crow right into it.
The last poem I’d read was “A Horrible Religious Error”, on page 37.
I left it to dry on the kitchen counter, but Marcus Brutus leaped up and tore it to shreds.
I have no problem with Sam’s sexual preference. That’s his business. But I don’t like that he didn’t tell me.
Gilbert told me Sam’s sexuality is the reason he doesn’t talk to anyone in the family. He came out of the closet a few years ago, and when he did, everyone shunned him. The Ryans are mostly Catholics, Gilbert says, and now the only one who’ll talk to Sam is his cousin, the marijuana farmer.
I asked Gilbert if the cousin’s outcast too, for growing weed, and he told me no—he still gets invited to family dinners.
*
Gilbert calls, and tells me to put my jacket on because he’s hiking to the top of Foresail Bluff with Paul and Donovan, and I’m invited.
“That’s your plan for Saturday night?” I say. “Trudge through the snow and freeze your ass off on a cliff? Isn’t it, like, a two-hour hike?”
“10 minutes, the way we go.”
“All right. I’m in, I guess.”
The only trail I know of leading to the top starts at the beach below, and winds back and forth up the steep slopes. But Gilbert drives us through a subdivision, Eminem booming out the open windows, and stops at a dead-end in front of a huge pile of rocks. Donovan takes out a bag of weed and starts rolling a joint on top of a CD case.
“Do you smoke?” I ask Paul.
“Every now and then. You?”
I shake my head.
We wade in through the snow, which is knee-deep in parts. My jeans are soon soaked. It’s a cloudless January night, and the stars are brighter here, without streetlamps. They provide enough light to walk by.
“I guess it’s safe to say the sun isn’t going to explode,” I say.
“It’s only 11,” Gilbert says. “There’s still time.”
We reach the cliff. The view is nice: a sea of lights on the left, a sea of water on the right. Donovan takes out the joint, holds it up, and says, “To Gilbert’s restoration to Spend Easy.” He lights it, takes a couple puffs, and passes it to Gilbert, who does the same.
Gilbert holds it out to me.
I take it, and hold it in front of my eyes. Donovan rolled it well—his joint looks almost factory-produced, like a cigarette. I notice my hand is shaking a little.
“Don’t suck from it,” Gilbert says. “Breathe it in. And hold the smoke in your lungs.”
I inhale, breathing deep, and hold my breath for five seconds. I exhale.
I inhale again, holding it for 10 this time, and exhale.
I inhale—
“Sheldon?”
“Yeah?” I croak.
“You’re bogarting the joint, dude.”
“Sorry.” I pass it to Paul.
I look out over the water. There’s a ship passing in front of Chime Island. It seems so small and fragile, from up here. One rip in its hull—that’s all it would take to bring it down.
“Hey,” I say. “If you could choose how the world ended, what would it be?”
“Judgment Day,” Donovan says. “Obviously.”
“Giant meteor,” Paul says. “Same way the dinosaurs went. Coming down right here in front of us, into the water.” He gestures. “Quick and easy. And we’d have a great view.”
“What about you, Gilbert?”
“Natural causes.”
“That’s not very specific.”
“I know. What about you? What would you pick?”
“Stoned to death.”
That didn’t make any sense. But we all laugh.
Paul takes out a hacky sack. We play Killer, in which you have to kick the sack into the air once, and then, as it falls back down, kick it at someone. If you hit your target, and he fails to kick it again before it hits the ground, he’s dead.
Our eyes have adjusted to the darkness. There’s just enough light.
I haven’t played much hacky sack, but I’m better than I expected. We’re all doing well. We barely speak. Paul handles the ball best, but doesn’t go for many kills. Gilbert dodges well. And I save myself several times—sometimes in spectacular fashion, like when Gilbert tries to kill me and the hacky sack grazes off my shoulder, ricocheting into the air. I turn, follow it with my eyes, and intercept with my foot, sending it back to Donovan, who kicks it at Paul. I had no idea my reflexes were that good.
Gilbert kills Donovan, and a couple minutes later, the game ends when Paul sends the sack speeding toward Gilbert. He dodges, and the hacky sack sails over the cliff.
“That was awesome,” Donovan says. “The whole thing.”
“We’ll never recreate it,” Paul says.
We return to the Hummer. I check the time—we were only gone for 30 minutes, but it felt like hours.
Gilbert puts the car in drive.
“Wait,” I say. “What are you doing?”
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Driving.” The Hummer moves forward.
“You can’t—you’re stoned.”
“I can, actually.”
“Stop the car.”
He brakes suddenly, and we’re all jerked forward. “What?” he says.
“You’re stoned, Gilbert. You’re impaired. You can’t drive.”
“Six years of driving stoned say different. You need to calm down, now, Sheldon. The weed is making you paranoid.”
“I’m not being paranoid. You could kill someone.”
“Jesus, Sheldon. What did you expect? Did you think we’d sit in the car and wait to be sober?”
“Can’t we just listen to music for a while?”
“We could. But we’re not going to.”
“Well, I’m walking, then.”
“Bye.”
“You’re going to make me walk to my apartment? From here?”
“I’m not making you do anything.”
I hesitate. “Fine,” I say. “Bye.” I open my door.
“See ya, Sheldon,” Donovan says.
I get out. It feels even colder than before. The Hummer drives away, and I stand there, watching it go.
I start walking.
Chapter Twenty
Theresa and I were the only patients in the ward with any interest in spending time in the small garden outside. We went out there whenever we could. The nurses wouldn’t always unlock the door for us—I didn’t know what set of rules governed these de
cisions, and neither of us asked. Despite how strong she seemed, I think Theresa generally felt as defeated as I did. I got the impression that it helped her to help me, but I never said that, out of fear she would stop.
We sat out there when allowed, side by side on the concrete bench. Through the chain-link fence we could see a busy road, and beyond that was the university.
“That’s where I’m headed,” she said. “When I get out.”
“You’re starting a degree?”
“Finishing one. Linguistics. I have a year and a half left, anyway. Being in here set me behind—I was in the middle of a summer semester when everything fell apart.” She sighed. “I won’t graduate with my best friend, now.”
During that first meal together, I told Theresa why I was in the psych ward. It seemed fair—she’d told me her reason.
She asked why I wanted to kill myself. I told her I had no money, and no friends.
“Tell me the real reason,” she said.
But I wasn’t ready.
“Sam says I’m looking healthier,” I said now, in the garden. “I told him I have you to thank.”
“Don’t tell people that,” she said.
I looked in her eyes. I always had so many words for her, but most of them went unsaid.
“God, Sheldon. You want to kiss me, don’t you?”
I opened my mouth.
She took my hand. “I like you, Sheldon. A lot. But when I leave this place I don’t want anything connecting me to it. I don’t want to talk to anyone I met here, and I don’t want you telling people you owe me anything. I don’t want you ever to mention my name. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. And I sat there, silent, barely breathing, dreading the moment she would release my hand.
Eventually, she did.
*
Gilbert and I get off work at 10, drive to my apartment, and smoke a joint in the shed, like we have the last four nights. Then we go inside and watch videos on his phone. We’re in the middle of watching a talking dog question his owner about the contents of the fridge when Gilbert gets a text message from Kerrin: “hey babe where r u”. We finish watching the video, then he texts her back.
“How are things going with you guys?” I say.
He puts down the phone. “Pretty shitty.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I just broke up with her.”
“Why is she calling you ‘babe’, then?”
“Because I just broke up with her. In my reply to her text.” He gets another message.
“What’s she saying?”
“‘OMG babe why? What’s wrong?’” He starts texting again.
“What are you saying?”
“That I cheated on her.” He turns off the phone.
“Why are you breaking up with her?”
“The sex no longer compensates for how annoying she is. Anyway. Donovan tells me you wrote a novel. Can I read it?”
“Sure. It’s not a novel, though. It’s only 50 pages.”
“Go get it.”
“Right now? It’s on my computer.”
“I’ll read it off the screen, then.”
We go into my bedroom, and I open “The King of Hearts”. Gilbert puts it on autoscroll and leans back in the chair, hands behind his head.
“Can you read that fast?”
“I can if you shut up.”
I lie back on my bed and watch him. On the second page, he chuckles.
“What’d you just read?”
“Shut up.”
It takes him 15 minutes, during which he laughs, grunts, points out grammatical errors, and yawns. When he’s finished, he closes the document. “Have you let anyone else read this?”
“No. Why? Do you like it?”
“Some parts are pretty funny. But I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to try harder to hide your source of inspiration.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Sheldon. It’s pretty obvious the girl in the story is Capriana.”
“No she’s not.”
“It’s fine, Sheldon. I think fiction writing is a great way to work out all your angsty emotions. You get to drag her name through the dirt, and she has no avenue for rebuttal. You make her look like a complete slut.”
“First of all, Gilbert, Capriana is a slut. Second of all, the story isn’t about her, so shut up.”
“You don’t have enough data to call her that.”
“Whatever.”
“One piece of advice: I wouldn’t let anyone else read this. It would be social suicide.”
*
Since his coup, Gilbert has made the break room his domain. I’m sitting up there with him, taking the first break of my shift, when Ernie comes up holding two coffees. “I bought you one, Gilbert,” he says, his eyes on the table, a tremulous smile on his lips.
“Thanks,” Gilbert says, and starts slurping from it.
“Where’s mine?” I say.
Ernie laughs a single syllable and sits down, as far away from us as he can get. He smiles again at Gilbert. “So, you’re such a good worker that Frank hired you again. Wow.”
Now that he’s back, Gilbert answers the occasional page, and puts out the occasional cartload, to maintain appearances. Other than that, he gets high and sits in the break room, playing video games on his phone.
“Appears that way,” he says. “You seem nervous, Ernest.”
“I’m just a little tired. I went for a 10 kilometre bike ride before I came in.”
“In January?”
“Yeah. Um, on my exercise bike.”
“Right. Are you sure you’re not hiding something?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure. I have nothing to hide, because I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
“Really? No one? Not even Frank?”
“That’s right, no one.”
“Well, why don’t you take off your pants?”
“What?”
“If you don’t care what anyone thinks, why are you wearing pants? It’s nice and warm in the break room, and your pants look like they’re pretty tight. Why not take them off? At least till the end of your break.”
Ernie gives a high-pitched chuckle. “You’re so crazy, Gilbert.”
“Not really. If you don’t care what people think, then there’s no reason to be wearing pants right now. See, I’ll take mine off.” Gilbert stands up, unfastens his belt, and drops his pants, stepping out of them. He leans his chair back against the wall. “This is great. Won’t you join me, Ernest? Who gives a shit, right?”
Without moving back from the table, Ernie slowly unzips his fly and slips off his pants, leaving them bunched around his ankles. His face is red.
“They aren’t off yet.”
Ernie kicks them off his ankles.
Gilbert laughs and puts his back on. “You do care what people think. So much you just pantsed yourself to prove a point.” He stands up, bends over, and grabs Ernie’s pants from under the table, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a phone.
“Hey!” Ernie says. He stays sitting.
Gilbert taps on the screen a few times. “There’s the video you used to get me fired, Ernest. Delete.” He taps a few more times. “Looks like you sent the video to Frank right from your phone, meaning you probably didn’t upload it to your computer. Meaning this email likely contains your last copy of it. Delete.” He tosses the phone on the table in front of Ernie. “I wouldn’t recommend trying that again.” He drops Ernie’s pants into the garbage, picks up his coffee, and leaves the room.
*
Weed gives me weird dreams.
Tonight, I dream Frank and Eric are conducting demented experiments in a laboratory hidden deep inside Spend Easy. They’ve come up with a method of crossbreeding animals with vegetables. And then their creations escape into the aisles.
I’m fronting Aisle Two when a cross between a cat and a tomato scurries under my feet. I step back, disgusted. It turns around, looks at me, and opens its mouth to meow. But no meow
comes out. It makes a growing sound, instead. I’ve never heard anything grow before.
The cat has shiny red tomato-skin, and green stalks for ears. When it moves, its joints crackle.
“Brute?” I say.
I turn around, and Frank and Eric are walking toward me. Behind them, Aisle Two stretches into eternity.
“Do you like him?” Eric says. “We’ve been working on these for some time. Soon, every household will have one.”
“It’s perfect,” someone says behind me. I turn again, and there’s Gilbert, the tomato cat rubbing against his leg. He picks it up, and the growing sound gets louder. He brings it to his face, as if to nuzzle it with his nose.
He bites into the torso.
The creature writhes in his grasp, trying desperately to escape. Gilbert takes another bite. The juices run down his chin. The cat’s vegetable flesh glistens wetly.
Gilbert smiles.
Chapter Twenty-One
I never want to be high at Spend Easy, so I don’t smoke if I’m working later. I’m tired from being out late with Gilbert and Donovan almost every night, though, and I have to push myself to hit my usual case count numbers. It doesn’t help that Ralph’s relying on me more than ever, now that Gilbert’s renewed his commitment to slacking off, Donovan’s working a lot less, and Tommy quit.
Tommy gave Ralph two weeks’ notice soon after the sun failed to explode. Apparently, Ralph told him he could have his job back any time—probably because Grocery’s so understaffed. During his final shifts, Tommy leans against his cart a lot, staring into space and sighing. You’d think not dying would cheer him up.
I ask Paul why he hasn’t been out with us again. He says he smokes pot pretty rarely—every few months or so.
“Cassandra’s sure surprised you started smoking,” he says.
“Cassandra? You talk to her?”
“Yeah, a bit. She’s been reading my book.”
“You know she has a boyfriend, right?” I don’t like the idea of her and Paul talking.
“I do. We’re just hanging out.”
“Be careful, Paul.”
He shakes his head. “I think you have a chip on your shoulder when it comes to her. She told me you guys have a history. Cassandra’s had a rough life, you know. Her mother walked out on her and her Dad when she was young. Never came back.”
Taking Stock Page 17
