Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  “I was hired for the night. Usual sound guy didn’t show.” It’s easier to lie and hope Mrs. Robinson doesn’t check up on me. If she does, I’ll worry about it when it happens. Right now, I just need her to go.

  Disappointment hits me when I walk back into the room and find her still in my bed. Jesus, you bang one old lady, and she clings like a genital wart. “So, uh, I hate to do this, but my girlfriend’s going to be home soon. You should probably get going.”

  “Your girlfriend?” Her eyelids narrow. The haggard look on the woman’s face tells me this isn’t her first trip to the rodeo. She sees right through my bullshit.

  “Yeah. She’s kind of nuts. It’s best if you’re gone by the time she gets here,” I reply, swirling my finger at my head for effect.

  Dropping the girlfriend is something I only do when absolutely necessary. Making up fake girlfriends is the equivalent of telling your boss you have a dead relative to get out of work. You don’t want that kind of karmic juju coming back to bite you in the ass.

  Alice grumbles something about me being an asshole before rolling out of my bed and grabbing her shit, but I don’t stick around to watch the walk of shame. Instead, I head to the kitchen and poke around for something to eat. One thing I miss about living with Jill is the food. She kept the fridge well stocked and always had bowls of leftovers individually wrapped with instructions. She idiot proofed shit for me. It was awesome. All I have in here is cold pizza, some bread, and a six-pack.

  I slam the fridge door, nearly jumping out of my skin when I see what’s-her-face hovering behind it in the dark. Chick snuck up on me like a ninja.

  “You’re just as bad as my son is. He never takes anything seriously, either. Everything’s a party to you people.” She stands, arms crossed over her chest defiantly, hip jutted out. In this light, she can almost pass for a younger woman instead of the aging beauty queen with over-processed hair and too much lipstick standing before me.

  Once upon a time, this lady was probably a knockout. Bet she had dudes lined up around the corner, but somewhere along the lines, she ended up like this. Lonely. Desperate. Willing to go to bed with anyone just to feel connected to another human being for a few hours. How does this happen to a person? If I don’t start changing my ways, I’m going to end up like this.

  Who am I kidding? I already am.

  “We had fun, Alyssa. Let’s not spoil it,” I warble around a mouthful of cold pizza. The last thing I need right now is a lecture from Mother Time. She doesn’t know shit about me, and if she did, she’d know that I take everything seriously. Too seriously, in fact. It’s the reason I took the job at The Wreck to begin with. I hoped working around music would help me relax.

  Music has always had a calming effect on my soul. Whenever shit in my head got too loud, banging away at my drums chased it away and put everything into perspective. Ever since the accident, my shoulder hurts too much to wail on them the way I used to. Yet another regret in a string of many.

  Speaking of regrets. I casually try to shove my current one toward the door without making it too obvious that I’m literally throwing her out at this point. My buzz is gone, I have a headache, and her two-pack-a-day voice is starting to grate on my nerves. I want to go to bed and forget this ever happened.

  Opening the door, I usher her through it as she snaps her name at me for the second or—who am I kidding, probably fifth—time. “Adios, Alyssa,” I say to myself as soon as the door closes with her on the other side.

  Music wails from the backyard as I pull past the shop into my sister’s driveway. The gravel crunches under my feet, while loud howling guitar riffs and growling vocals waft through the warm evening air.

  “No more Twisted Sister!” I shout, straddling the picnic bench across from her.

  Jillian smacks the volume on the speaker, turning it to a less ear-splitting decibel. “The prodigal son returns! And he looks like shit!”

  “Rough night,” I grumble, fishing for a beer in the cooler. Hair of the dog, right? “What are ya cookin’? Smells good. I’m starving.”

  Ever since I moved out, Jillian insists we get together for Sunday dinner. Yet another tradition she claims she does for our parents' benefit. It's not enough I have to see her and Jameson every day at work, but I have to spend time with them on my day off, too. Personally, I think she worries I'm not going to eat unless she feeds me. She's an old Italian grandma trapped in the body of a twenty-five-year-old.

  “Good because Jameson grilled enough sausage to feed an army.”

  “You talkin’ shit about me out here?” Jameson emerges from the house, sliding the screen door shut behind him.

  “S’up, man?” I chuck my chin, imitating his greeting.

  Jillian tilts her head with a wry grin. “Yeah, I was telling AJ how much I hate you.”

  Jameson snorts. “That’s not what you were saying this morning.”

  “Gah ... I'm already hungover! Don't make me puke." I shake away the disturbing imagery Jameson loves to put in my head.

  The initial thought of my little sister and my wayward best friend didn't exactly thrill me. Considering the hell I put these two through, a little light-hearted ribbing is the least of my worries. Still ... gross.

  Jillian rolls her eyes and laughs. "How was the band last night? Any good?"

  "Eh," I say, curling my lip. "Classic rock. The place was full of middle-agers."

  "Tell me you didn't bag an old lady last night." Jameson shakes his head and uses the edge of the table to pop the cap off his beer bottle.

  "She wasn't that old!"

  He cringes. "You'll stick your dick in anything, won't you?"

  "What can I say? I'm a giver."

  "You're disgusting. You're never going to have a quality relationship if you keep eating at the taco truck," Jillian shoots.

  "Whatever." I tip my beer to my lips. My delusional sister seems to think a secret pool of women is out there just waiting to be discovered. Just because she was lucky enough to meet her significant other as a kid doesn’t mean the same fate is in the cards for the rest of us. It’s rough out there.

  A screeching cry blasts through the little speaker box on the table, taking the unwanted attention off my love life for the time being. “Zakk’s up,” Jillian announces with a sigh. Her exhausted eyes scream Calgon, take me away as they roll toward Jameson.

  My nephew came barreling into this world about six months ago and hasn’t stopped screaming since. Kid has a metal set of pipes, a guitar player’s name, and a front man’s attitude. When he hits puberty, my sister is fucked.

  “I’ll get him.”

  I step out of the spotlight and into my childhood home. Every time I come back here, I can’t help but feel weird. The bones of the house are the same, but everything inside has been changed. The worn hardwood floors seem even older next to the new furniture. Mom’s old lace curtains are gone, replaced with sleek modern panels in vibrant colors. New photos depicting a new life have replaced the childhood photos of Jill and me that used to grace every wall. A new life where I may as well not even exist. But I do. And if these walls could talk, they’d tell stories about the family that was here before. A family that loved each other with a fierceness so bright they literally burned themselves out.

  “Hey, Lil’ Shredder,” I say, poking my head in the room. The very one I once called mine. The walls are the same shade of midnight blue, but all my shit is long gone. Toys, books, and baby paraphernalia of all kinds lie strewn about. Zakk stops screaming and shoots a drooling toothless grin in my direction. “You just wanna join the party, huh, kid?”

  He reaches for me. As I lift him from his crib, I see the drumstick sheets I bought the day Jill told me she was pregnant. Instinctively, he clings to my side as I cradle him in the crook of my elbow. “You got me out of some this-is-your-life crap I wasn’t interested in dealing with. You got my back.” He responds by blowing a raspberry in my face, bubbles of saliva popping around his tiny lips. I nudge my finger int
o his pudgy stomach as big gales of cackling belly laughter explode from him.

  I love this kid. More than I thought I was capable of loving another person. Whenever I’ve given up hope on having any kind of life, Zakk reminds me that some things are definitely worth fighting for.

  2

  Casey

  “You’re not going to believe this!”

  My roommate crashes into my room at lightning speed. Light from the living room filters in through the doorway. I crack open one eye and see her bouncing from foot to foot.

  “Marisa, it’s three in the mornin’. Can I not believe it at a more reasonable hour?” I roll over and pull the covers over my head.

  “No! I’m way too wired to sleep. If I don’t tell you now, I risk not being able to tell you tomorrow, so you have to hear it now!” Marisa is babbling a mile a minute and not coming even remotely close to using her indoor voice. She gets like this every time she comes home from The Wreck. Pumped up on loud rock ‘n’ roll and far too much vodka. Sometimes, it’s better just to let her get out what she needs to say rather than bother to argue with her. She always ends up winning anyway, and it takes twice as long.

  “Fine. Hurry up then get out,” I whine.

  “Lady Roger got into a huge fight with one of the customers tonight.”

  “You’re right; I don’t believe it. Good night.” I yawn, adjusting my covers again.

  “That’s not all!” she yells, pulling my comforter back. Mental note. Crash Missy’s party at eight a.m. tomorrow. “Frankie D. said he’s tired of Lady Roger’s bullshit and fired her. The Wreck needs a bartender. The job is yours if you want it!”

  Now, I’m awake.

  I sit up in my bed, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dark. The sliver of light from the doorway reflects off Marisa’s disco ball earrings, casting millions of tiny shining fractals dappling across her face. “You got me a job at The Wreck?”

  “Yes! He’s desperate. Needs someone who can start tomorrow. I told him you’d fit in perfect!”

  I don’t know whether to kiss her or kill her. I don’t fit in at The Wreck. At all. On one hand, I seriously need a job. I’ve been out of work for weeks now, and whatever savings I have is starting to get dangerously close to the red zone. But on the other hand, my interest in being that entrenched in the rock scene is even smaller than my bank account.

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not going to be like that, okay?” Marisa says, reading my mind.

  She knows exactly what I’m thinking. Musicians are dogs. Everyone in that God forsaken industry is only out for themselves. No one cares who they hurt. “It’s just tending bar two nights a week. No one has to know about you and Davis. Just do your job, collect the tips, and come home.”

  “All right, fine,” I say, defeated.

  Marisa claps her hands and does a little shuffle on the spot. “Awesome! You’ll love it! And now, we’ll get to hang out on the weekends!”

  Silver linings.

  At exactly five minutes to seven, I pull open the heavy wooden door of the abandoned warehouse currently known as The Wreck. It’s dark and reeks of stale beer and sweat. This time of the evening, the place is a ghost town, but later, there will be so many bodies in here, they’ll have to turn people away at the door. It’s insane how busy this place gets. Hopefully, the patrons are good tippers.

  “Hello!” My voice echoes through the wide empty space, while my Cavender boots thump on the ancient hardwood. Cowboy boots in a rock club might be a little contradictory, but they cost a small fortune, and I love them. “Anybody here?”

  An enormous dark wooden bar stretches along the entire length of the wall at the back of the place. Bright lights shine below the rows of bottles behind it, making the liquor inside them glow. A door at the end bursts open and a stout man with a five o'clock shadow comes barreling through carrying a rack of clean glassware.

  “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.” All the glasses clink together as he sets the rack down on the bar top. “You must be Marisa’s friend.”

  “Yeah, I’m Casey Grainger. Are you Frankie D.?”

  “Yep. Frankie DiLorenzo. Thanks for coming in on such short notice,” he says, extending a furry hand across the bar. His sleeves and collar reveal more hair beneath. The man is like a sweaty werewolf. “Marisa told you I need someone who can start tonight, right?”

  “Yep. That’s no problem.”

  “Excellent. Come around back. Let’s see what you can do.” Frankie walks to the end of the bar and opens the trapdoor to come out into the main space, while I take his spot in the back. “It’s mostly a beer and shot crowd, but I need someone who can work fast. Get ‘em in, get ‘em out.”

  “Of course.” I wait as Frankie sets up an iPod on the edge of the bar and moves his thumb along the screen. The loudest, heaviest guitar riff I’ve ever heard blasts through the tiny speaker and emits through the cavernous space.

  “Okay!” Frankie shouts over the music. “Get me two Coors Lights and two shots of Jack!”

  Jumping to action, I scramble to the coolers, grabbing the beers and popping the tops off the bottles before setting them down in front of him. Then I turn toward the booze behind me and swipe the Jack Daniels off the shelf to set up the shots.

  He doesn’t acknowledge the drinks in front of him. The siren wail of music blasts through my brain as he fabricates another order. “Gimme a vodka cran and a rum and Coke!”

  I lean across the bar, straining to hear him over the overwhelming noise and try to read his lips. I whip toward the bottles again, snatching the rum and vodka with both hands. The metal scoop chills my skin as I slam it into the well two consecutive times, filling the glasses to the brim with ice and pouring the booze with each hand simultaneously.

  The sudden quiet seems deafening when Frankie cuts the music. “Nice work,” he says, raising his bushy eyebrows. “I think you’ll fit in here just fine.”

  “Thanks.” I smile.

  “You’re cute too. A big change from Lady Roger. The guys will appreciate that.”

  Oh, hell no. “I don’t know what Missy told you, Mr. DiLorenzo, but I’m not here to be leered at. If that’s the kind of establishment you run, then you’d best find someone else.” I grab my purse and start toward the end of the bar, but his hand on my forearm stops me.

  “No, you misunderstand me. Look.” Frankie reaches for his phone, gives the screen a few swipes, and then slides it across the bar. “That,” he says, pointing at the screen, “is Lady Roger.”

  A smile and a flush spread across my face. “Oh.”

  Whenever Marisa would come home talking about Lady Roger, I imagined some busty old biker chick with frizzed out hair and a neck tattoo. I was way off. Staring up at me is the biggest, blackest transvestite I’ve ever seen in my life.

  He laughs. “Great bartender, terrible hothead. Just couldn’t take the drama anymore.”

  “I get it. I’m sorry. It’s just—”

  Frankie raises his hand, shaking his head as he walks behind the bar. “Hey, no worries. We all have our crosses to bear.” He grabs a shirt from a shelf underneath and hands it to me. “I have one shirt handy. I’ll order you a couple more if you decide to stay after tonight.”

  Over the course of the next two hours, I get a crash course in everything Wreck related, from drink costs to how to bounce a disorderly customer. My head is spinning by the time the other employees arrive.

  “Hey, Case.” Marisa strolls in, all fire and boobs. “Nice shirt.”

  Piles of flaming red hair sit atop her head in a crazy modern-day beehive with curly tendrils coming down around her face. Her leather vest does little to cover her chest and is practically see-through in the back. Anyone else would look completely trashy in this getup, but for Marisa, it works. She’s glamorous. It’s what attracted me to her in the first place when we met seven years ago. Not only that, but she’s tough and mouthy. The perfect best friend. The peanut butter to my jelly. When shit went south
in my life, Missy was the one who dusted me off and got me the hell out of Dodge.

  “Hey, Miss! How come you don’t have to wear one of these dumb tank tops?” I whine, toying with the ties in the front.

  “I let Frankie D. look at my boobs at the holiday party last year. Not my finest ten minutes, but he’s let me wear whatever I wanted ever since.” She meets me behind the bar and mixes up two Southern Comfort and lime shots. “Here’s to your first day in the salt mines, bitch,” Marisa toasts, clinking one tiny glass into the other and then downing the shot.

  The crease in my brows makes her laugh. “You have thirty minutes until the hornets come buzzing in here demanding blood and beer. Take the shot. It will give you an edge.”

  I throw it back and wash out the glass in the sink. “Atta girl!” she cheers, slapping me on the back.

  “Missy, who’s your friend?” A hulking beast of a man comes behind the bar, crowding the huge space with his girth.

  “Hey, Bits, this is Casey, our new bartender. Casey, meet Bits, the bouncer-slash-I.D. checker-slash-resident fat bastard.”

  I look up—way, way up—into the guy’s smiling face. Most of his teeth are missing, save for one rotten shard right in the front, and he has a dent in his forehead. “Welcome to the crew.” He smiles, shaking my hand with his sweaty ham hock.

  “Thanks. Nice to meet you.”

  “Rhonda coming in tonight?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care,” Marisa answers, tinkering with the glasses behind the bar.

  Missy blows through lovers as quickly as I change my underpants. Men or women, she doesn't discriminate. She claims having sex is like going to the gym—you should do it every day and never use the same equipment twice.

  “Great! I guess this means I’m taking tickets tonight too…” Bits keeps talking, chastising Marisa for shitting where she eats, but the guy who just walked in the door somehow makes the enormous man disappear.