That’s the state I was in when I got a call from Jeremiah. While I’d worked a seemingly glamorous high-tech career at a company that was now nonexistent, he’d taken a decidedly non-technical job, as unit manager for a restaurant. I’d hassled him about it at the time, but he’d risen quickly through the ranks.
“Like it or not, there’s a good ol’ boy network. At Waffle House, that’s the Georgia Tech alumni.” When Jeremiah had said that to me years ago, I’d shaken my head. How could he choose that when he had so many other options? But Jeremiah had his own pressures. And that had turned out to be my saving grace after I got out of jail.
When he called me to suggest I interview for a job here, I jumped at the chance. Jeremiah set up the interview with Brian, and I was blunt about the conviction, and why it happened. He was blunt at the time: company policy said no convicted felons. But both of them went to bat with the company security department to make an exception in my case.
We’d have ended up homeless if it hadn’t been for that. Sometimes you have to be grateful for whatever you can get.
When Brian walked into the restaurant, it was obvious I was in the weeds. Plates were lined up on the sandwich board, the restaurant was full, and all three of my waitresses were calling orders faster than I could get them marked. Brian immediately came out on the floor, washed his hands and put on gloves, and took a position on the grill next to me.
“Morning, Cole,” he said, a grin on his face. “Busy?”
“Yeah, it’s been nuts the last little while.”
“Well, that’s a good thing,” he replied.
We worked through the rush, and I was grateful for the help. I hadn’t been in this business long, and I’d had my own restaurant just a few weeks. I didn’t have the skill or experience to keep up with this kind of rush.
Waffle House wasn’t the kind of job where managers sat in the back office doing paperwork and watching other people work. As a manager, my job was to be on the grill seven hours a day, six days a week. Paperwork, keeping the restaurant supplied and staffed, scheduling, orders—everything else happened outside of production hours. My usual day started at six a.m. and ended at four or five p.m., and I came back to the restaurant three nights a week, sometimes for hours. I’d been riding on the edge of continual exhaustion ever since I started training, and it didn’t look to be getting better any time soon.
The lunch rush ended, though. I cleared the grill area then walked up the line, checking in with customers. Finally, I ducked into the back room. Brian was in my office, looking at the computer. I grabbed the bottle of water off my tiny desk and gulped back a drink.
“You’re getting better,” he said. He slid off the stool and stepped into the doorway. I traded places, sagging onto my desk.
“Thanks,” I said, almost gasping.
“Still, going forward, you need to schedule a second cook on the weekends. Sunday morning’s no time to be working alone. Especially on a race weekend.”
I nod. “Yeah, I had Jimmy on the schedule to come in at nine and work a double. He was going to back me up, then work second shift,” I said. “He called in around 8:55, and by then I was so busy I couldn’t get on the phone.”
Brian chuckles. “You can take a minute to let me know. That’s not just to save your ass. It’s so our customers don’t get stuck having to wait too long.”
I sank onto my stool. They’d start calling orders again any second. I was exhausted, it was only noon, and I didn’t have a second shift cook.
“Who you got coming in for second shift?”
I shook my head. “Nobody. I’ll start calling.”
“You know, you can always work it yourself. Save you some payroll.”
I swallowed. True enough. It would be my second double shift in two days: this was a race weekend at Talladega, and our business was way up. Plus, today of all days, I did not want to go home.
It was September 15.
Today was Brenna’s eighteenth birthday.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s a good idea.”
I looked through the one-way glass to the restaurant. Everyone was eating except one table, three men. They were regulars, each of them around fifty to sixty years old, and they always sat in Julie’s section. She was over there, taking the men’s order. You could practically see the old farts salivating.
“So it’s been a few weeks since you got your own restaurant. How you holding up?”
I kept my gaze on the restaurant on the other side of the glass. What I wanted to say was, This is the worst job I’ve ever had in my life. I was exhausted, pushed harder than I could really take. But this was the bed I’d made. “It’s going well,” I said. “I’m not fast enough yet. At anything.”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s the way it is. You’ll get there, it just takes time and lots of practice. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. And this is a big change for you.”
I shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, Brian. I’m grateful for the job. When I finally get it down, I’ll be the best manager you have. It’s just taking some time.”
He grins. “I like that. You should be gunning for my job.”
“In the long run,” I said. Not the least being because he wasn’t working a grill forty hours a week. At my level and the one higher, all you did was work to the bone. But if you survived long enough to get a division, the job was very different.
Today I didn’t mind staying busy. Today I needed to stay busy. I needed it so I wouldn’t think about where my daughter was. If I thought about it, I might break down. Again.
I wondered how Erin was doing today. How she dealt with it? Would she sit at home and drink and dredge through all those awful ads? Or would she be keeping busy too? At least Sam had school to keep him busy.
But I knew it wasn’t enough.
Julie was heading to the back room.
“Looks like I got an order,” I said, slipping off the stool.
“All right,” Brian said. “Keep up the good work.”
I returned to work.
Sam
On Brenna’s birthday, I shut myself in my room and shut out the world. I couldn’t do anything else. I’d been online for hours when the incoming chat message popped up on my screen without warning.
Gemini: I heard you got into a fight with the mayor the other night.
I replied: Yeah. It turned out to be pointless. The girl we were trying to help ended up joining his faction.
Gemini: That happens. You ought to know that by now.
I did. Gemini had been one of the first people I met in the sim and had occasionally acted almost as a mentor, even though she wasn’t a member of any of the factions. Sometimes she creeped me out, though. She mostly sat at the bar and schemed, only rarely seemed to get out and role-play. I envisioned her almost like a spider, sitting there pulling strings here and there. I was well aware that in her world, I was at the end of one of the strings. But she’d also been a useful source of information. You had to give some to get some.
I wasn’t currently on the sim; instead, I was shopping for a new dress and hairstyle. My avatar didn’t have a lot of clothing suitable for dates, and tonight I had one coming. The date was in character … we would play it out in the sim. That was fine. Everything had to be completely in character. It would never be otherwise, because in this world I was Tamara, and to them, that’s all I’d ever be.
I was looking at two dresses, one black and one red, trying to decide between them, when Gemini messaged me again.
Gemini: You didn’t answer.
I sighed. Finally I typed, I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. RL stuff. RL, of course, meant real life.
Gemini: Want to talk about it?
I swallowed. There was some safety in the anonymity of being online. And I did want to talk about it. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t told Mrs. Mullins or Hayley that it was Brenna’s birthday. Finally I responded: It’s my sister’s birthday. She turns eighteen today.
Gemini: And this is
a problem because…
Tamara: She went missing two years ago, and we haven’t seen her since.
Gemini: Holy crap. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d realized.
Tamara: It’s okay. Maybe I need to talk about it. We were really close. Brenna’s the only person who treated me like I needed.
Gemini: What do you mean?
I closed my eyes. No one in the world knew. Nobody.
Except Brenna. She knew. I wanted to be able to talk about it. But … it’s not like this was the real world.
I sighed. Then I typed: Can you keep a secret?
Gemini: Of course.
Well. I might as well. I type: I’m physically male. But not inside. Inside, I’m a girl. I always have been.
I picked the black dress, right-clicked on it. The price was $385L, or a little bit more than a dollar in real money. I bought it. Now for some matching shoes. New hairstyle? Yes.
The lack of reply from Gemini was starting to scare me. Had I just made a huge mistake? We’d been talking a lot, but what did I really know about her? But finally she responded. I didn’t realize that. You’re transgender?
Tamara: I’ve never put a word on it. Not like that. Gay or transgender or … I’m just … I’m a girl. It’s who I am.
Gemini: And your sister was the only person in RL who knew?
Tamara: Knows. She knows. She’s not dead, just … missing.
Gemini: Sorry. I’m very sorry. All of that must be difficult for you.
Tamara: Sometimes there are good days.
Gemini: But you said today is her birthday. I’m guessing this isn’t one of the good ones.
I sighed. It was nice to have someone get it. I typed: Yeah. It’s not. I miss her.
Then a realization hit me. I’d told her Brenna’s name, and that she’d been missing two years. That would be enough information to find us with a simple Google search. To find out who I was and to learn that I wasn’t even eighteen yet.
People under eighteen weren’t allowed in the sim. They weren’t allowed on the sim at all. The only reason I was able to get in was because way back when I started playing, I’d stolen one of Dad’s credit cards long enough to get my account verified. As far as Second Life was concerned, I was forty-two-year-old Cole Roberts.
Shit. If Gemini Googled my family, that could be awful.
I was shaking. I needed to play it casual.
Tamara: Anyway, thanks for listening. I just needed to talk some of that out.
Gemini: Any time.
I checked the time. Twenty minutes before I was to meet Gunstock. I put Gemini out of my mind and teleported back to my apartment.
Shoes. I checked the time. Shit. We’d see. I changed into the dress, my steampunk clothes morphing into a knee-length sleeveless black dress with a high collar. One by one I tried the different hair styles I had, finally settling on one that looked like a French braid.
Perfect. Perfect. I checked the time. Five minutes.
In reality, we could do this wherever. We could meet in some other sim in Second Life. But we were playing this one-hundred-percent in character. That was the only way it could ever be, because I wasn’t a beautiful woman, and no one needed to know that. So when he asked me to go to dinner and dancing, I agreed. Our characters would be at one of the in-character bars in the sim. Our conversation would be in character. And I was thrilled about it, because it felt like I was really going on a date.
In my heads-up display I could see a green dot moving its way across the sim toward my apartment. That was almost certainly Gunstock. I felt my chest tighten in anticipation.
What if he doesn’t like me?
Stop. I wasn’t mousy Sam. Here, I was Tamara. I was strong. I was a hero, a member of the Brigade, someone who protected the innocent. I didn’t need to let fear rule me.
Words appeared at the bottom of my screen: Gunstock Valor rings the doorbell.
I walked to the door and clicked on it. It opened.
Gunstock looked different than the last time we’d played two days ago. He’d been adjusting to the Brigade quickly, and we’d played together several nights. I tried to place it then realized he’d replaced the stock skin with a new one. His face was several shades darker than before and marked with a five o’clock shadow.
Gunstock: Tamara, you look beautiful.
I felt myself flush a little.
A knock on the bedroom door yanked me out of the game. Goddamn it!
“What?”
“Sam?” It was Mom. “What are you doing?”
“Studying. I’ve got a test tomorrow.”
“Open the door, Sam.”
Christ, why now? I quickly typed: /OOC: I’m so sorry … BRB. I minimized Second Life on my screen and switched to PowerPoint, which still had a presentation from AP Biology open. Then I got up and opened the door.
“Sam…” Her eyes darted to the computer, where she took in the PowerPoint presentation on the screen then looked back at me. “I just wanted to check in with you. It’s Brenna’s birthday. Are you … are you doing okay?”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”
She looked distressed. “Sam … it’ll do some good.”
I felt guilty about the pained expression on her face. But right then I needed to get her out of there. “Mom, I need to study for my test and get some sleep. Please?”
Her shoulders sagged, and she looked down at the floor. Then she looked back at me. “If things are bad, will you talk with me? Brenna didn’t … and…”
I swallowed. A stab of grief sank through me at her words. I shoved it away. “Sure, I’ll talk with you, Mom. You know that.”
Mollified, she nodded, and said, “Good night, Sam. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
She walked away. I closed and locked the door and rushed back to my computer.
I typed: /OOC: back. I’m so sorry about that.
Gunstock: Shall we?
The two of us walked toward the Erie Hotel. The building had been modeled after a hotel in the New Orleans commercial district, with wrought iron detailing and rails on a wraparound two-storied porch. On the ground floor were several tables, which were far enough apart to be semi-private. For the next two hours we chatted. Only in character, but Gunstock continued to push. What was I like in real life? Where did I live? What kinds of things did I like? I had to push back and set hard boundaries. There is no real life, I said. Only here.
I looked at the clock. Brenna’s birthday was over.
A wave of exhaustion hit me. I seated my avatar at a table near the windows … I wanted to crawl into bed. But I didn’t want to blow it with Gunstock. I blinked my eyes, trying to decide what to do. I had school in the morning and really couldn’t afford to go without sleep another night. Last night, on the eve of her birthday, I hadn’t been able to sleep at all.
Tamara: /OOC: I don’t want to blow our fun, but I’m exhausted in RL. Would you be really upset if we picked this up another night?
Gunstock: /OOC: Sure, that’s fine. I’ve had a nice time. Get some rest.
Tamara: /OOC: Good night.
Gunstock: Good night.
Before I could change my mind I logged out. My eyes were aching from staring at the computer for so long. I stood up and stretched, feeling out of place and sad. My eyes went to the picture of Brenna that occupied the corner of my desk.
I turned out the light and undressed in the dark so I couldn’t see myself. I slipped under the sheet and imagined I was Tamara, and that I mattered, and that I had my sister back.
I whispered, “Wherever you are, Happy Birthday, Brenna. I love you.” I squeezed my eyes shut to hold back tears, but then I gave up trying to hold them back.
That’s when I heard them—Mom and Dad arguing again in the kitchen.
Erin
The old grandfather clock I’d bought at one of way-too-many estate sales in Fairfax County chimed twelve times at midnight. The clock was priceless. Dark pol
ished mahogany. Nineteenth century. Incredible craftsmanship. The surface of the clock was highly polished—you could see your reflection in it. You could apply your makeup in the reflection, or shave, or get a good look at all of your shortcomings and faults. The only reason I still owned it was because we couldn’t find a buyer for such a priceless item. Although, undoubtedly when it got desperate enough (it already was) we’d unload that too, for far less than it was worth.
I’d been sitting cross-legged on the couch, my eyes staring in the general direction of the pendulum as it swung lazily back and forth, back and forth. In my lap was a photo album. Photos of me and Cole and Brenna (and later Sam).
I shouldn’t have taken the album out. It was a window to another time, a happier, wonderful time in our lives. The first few pages were mostly baby pictures. We were so young. Brenna was born in 1996, just eighteen months after I graduated from Georgetown. Cole had dropped out of college, opting instead to go to work as a system administrator for a small startup, and we were renting a little two-bedroom in Tyson’s Corner.
It was a little ironic. I had a bachelor’s degree in economics, but the law of supply and demand meant that my high-school-graduate husband—who happened to have computer skills—made more money than me. So with the kids, I quit my job to stay home. For years I was resentful about that. But now, I was grateful.
Grateful, because I got that time at home with Brenna before she disappeared.
I swallowed the last of my wine and set the album to the side. It was an inexpensive wine, Autumn Blush, from the Bryant winery in Talladega. Undoubtedly, they made moonshine there after hours for the NASCAR crowd, who camped out for days waiting for the races while they played their scratch-off tickets and drank Budweiser.
There was a thought worthy of Cole. I knew better than to stereotype people.
Midnight was past. Brenna’s birthday was over. I slid off the bed and stood a little unsteadily. I’d finished off most of the bottle.
Not exactly the first time, now, was it?
I opened the flimsy bedroom door and padded on the crappy carpet down the crappy hall and knocked on the equally crappy door halfway down the hall, then reached down to the handle. Locked again. I could probably push the hollow door open with little effort, but why bother?
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