by Cooper, Doug
He shakes the change in his tip jar. “Variety may be the spice of life, but consistency pays the bills.”
“Not when you’re consistently wrong.”
“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.”
I look back through the bar. “Don’t have a lot of options here.”
A crack of thunder sounds. Caldwell looks out across the lake. “It only takes one thing to give your life order and some purpose.”
“And it only takes one lottery ticket to be a millionaire. Not much probability there, either.”
Fat raindrops fall, accumulating on the sidewalk. He tilts his head back and catches a few in his mouth. “Tell you what, if you’re interested in a new hobby, I’ll give you some guitar lessons. Never know where it could lead.”
I consider the offer. I’ve always wanted to learn to play but never had the opportunity. “Definitely have the time.”
“Allow me to share a verse with you.” His voice becomes rhythmic. “The journey is lonely, and it’s long. Keep your focus, and you’ll be strong. Trust your heart, you can’t be wrong. Find your meaning, sing your song.”
“Who wrote that?”
“Caldwell.” He looks back up at the sky. “I better get home. Let me know about the lessons, Shep.”
The storm hits fast and hard. The streets empty. The heavy rain and wind pushes people to whatever shelter they can find. I stay out on the porch and watch the storm roll through. Going to be a slow night. Haley tells me to punch out. Not sure if she knows what happened between Cinch and me. I’m just happy not to be in the bar.
To avoid Cinch I steer clear of the red barn. I’ll go back when I’m ready to sleep. The rain has stopped, and the clouds depart as quickly as they arrive. Walking on the seawall on the back side of the monument, I spot Astrid sitting alone on the slope leading to the plaza. I haven’t seen her since our night at the cove and my nights with Dawn and Meadow. I hop off the seawall and stroll toward her.
“Looks like you caught me at my hideout.” She pats a spot beside her on the raincoat spread across the ground. “I love it here at night—especially after a storm. So peaceful. Sometimes, I like to lie here on the hill and scan the sky for a shooting star, imagining the monument is watching over me, protecting me. The cool grass, the spongy ground, and the quiet absorb all my fears.” I flop down next to her. She looks at the bruise. “Whoa, what happened?”
“Cinch and I got into a fight.”
“With who?”
“Each other.” Even the words feel strange coming out of my mouth. “Not sure I agree with what you said the other night about the island being good for friendships.”
She laughs. “I wouldn’t pay too much attention to anything I said the other night. I’m not sure what got into me.”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t have too much faith in my decisions and actions lately, either.”
“Seriously,” she says. “We hang out a few times and then I start talking about relationships and being free. I mean, what’s up with that?”
I lie through my teeth. Anything to protect myself from further embarrassment. “You were right. We both need to figure out where we’re going and what we want to do. How can we be true to each other if we have no clue what we want?”
Astrid stands and straddles me, extending both hands. “Come here. I want to show you my favorite view.”
We climb over the wall leading to the plaza. At the base of the monument she lies on her back with her legs extended at a sixty-degree angle, her feet resting on the column. “Lie down and stare up one of the flutes. Look up at the top. Inhale when the light comes on, exhale when it goes off. Blow away your fears, let go of your problems.”
The fixed stare of the stars comforts me. I direct my eyes to my feet and follow the channel upward. I synchronize my breathing with the light and melt into the concrete. “What do you have to be afraid of?” I ask her.
“I don’t know. Life, I guess.”
“I’ve never felt more alive than the past few weeks.”
Astrid drops her legs and sits up. “That’s a load of crap. You’re just running away.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“No, it’s not. I think I do the same thing. I come here to hide. I avoid getting involved with you to hide. If I don’t try, I can’t lose.”
“It won’t be like this forever.”
“It will be if we don’t change.”
I focus on the beacon flashing against the starry sky. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“If you really believe that, there’s nothing more to talk about.”
I drop my legs and sit up. “What the fuck do you expect from me?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t accept that liking someone is really a good reason not to be with them.”
“You were the one who said the island is tough on relationships.”
“I was just protecting myself.” She takes my hand. “Either it’s going to work or not. If it’s not, let’s at least have some fun ruining it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Not to worry about the future. Let’s just go out one night this week.”
A wave of excitement rifles through me. I say, “Our choices are somewhat limited on the island.”
“I don’t care what we do.” Her voice bubbles with hope. “We can go to dinner, hang out, whatever. Just the two of us.”
I turn toward her. “I’m willing to try if you are.”
She fastens her arms around my neck and pulls me close. “Does this mean we’re going steady?” she asks. “Won’t the other kids tease us?”
“I don’t know if there’ll be anything steady about it, but I think we’re finally going.”
The red barn is dark when I return. The smell of marijuana lingers in the air. Hoping to avoid Cinch until the morning, I leave the lights off and creep back toward my room. His voice cuts through the darkness. “Where you been?”
“Oh, hey. Thought you were in bed or still out.” I turn on the light. “Was over at the monument hanging out with Astrid.”
Cinch says, “What do you think? Did she hear about Dawn?”
“I don’t know what to think. She wants to go out this week.”
“Don’t think. Fuck her. Give her what she’s asking for. What’s there to be nervous about? Pussy is pussy.”
“But what if it goes really well? Or what if it goes poorly? I don’t know if I’m ready for anything serious.”
“Man, you’re fucked up. Just go on the damn date. Quit trying to predetermine everything.”
“I wish it were that simple. Life is a lot easier when you don’t care about the outcome.”
He tilts the recliner forward. “I’m sorry about before. I shouldn’t have hit you.”
“It’ll heal.” I continue back toward my room.
His tone is soft and warm. “You know, I cared once.”
I stop and face him. “That’s your problem, right?”
“I guess I deserve that. If you don’t want to hear this—”
His usual sarcastic edge is filed away. I stop and walk back to the living room. “No, go ahead.”
“It was high school. I worked my ass off to play football because my dad was a coach. But it was never enough. He just pushed and pushed. He would wake me up on Christmas morning to work out before we opened presents. Know why? Because no one else was working out then, and that’s how I was supposed to get ahead.”
I get us two beers from the fridge. “So what happened?”
“Blew out my knee senior year.” He extends his left leg. “One pop and my future changed. All the colleges dropped me.”
“Things seem all right with your father now.”
“Not really. It’s never been the same. It’s like he thinks I did it on purpose. In some ways I’m glad it happened. I hated football, and I hated him for making me play it.”
“At least he was involved in your life,” I say.
“Could’ve used a li
ttle less involvement. Sometimes no one being there is an advantage.”
I take a long pull from the beer. “Fuck it. Who cares?”
He rises from the recliner and tosses the half-full beer in the trash. “I do. And you do, too. Let’s get a good night’s sleep for a change.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THUUUNG. The keg I’m pulling off the truck nearly lands on my toe. Bob says, “You better be careful. That’s the second time you’ve almost taken off your toe. Sometimes you get the kegs, and sometimes they get you.”
The week after the storm, Bob approached Haley to recommend someone who could assist with delivering beer in the mornings because Bob had to unload all the beer himself whenever his helper didn’t show up. After working with him I’m not sure which he values more, the physical help or the company.
For me, although the money is good—fifty dollars cash per day for three to four hours of work—it’s more than the money that gets me up every Monday to Thursday at seven-thirty. I can make easy money in other ways. Working for Bob gets me out of bed and moving. If I go out the night before, the hangover is gone by noon. It is also a welcome distraction for me from the fight with Cinch, the impending date with Astrid, the uncertainty of what my life is becoming.
Every morning Bob and I make different stops to replenish the stock and cart out the empties. Some mornings are more difficult than others, as some places take kegs, some bottles, some cans, and some all three. Today the stops are Tipper’s, the Castle, the Presshouse, the Beer Barrel, and the Skyway. Although the job is repetitive, it’s satisfying because progress is evident in each trip from the truck to the cooler. Regardless of whether I’m carting in beer or hauling out empties, one stack always decreases and the other increases.
After we finish at the Beer Barrel, I hand the owner a copy of the order receipt. He stares at the five stacks of papers on his desk. “Oh, I don’t even know why I try to stay organized. Someone just comes in and shuffles everything around anyway.”
The interaction is soothing. Even though my conversations with the owners and managers are brief, they continue from visit to visit. The combination of what Bob tells me and what the people divulge provides plenty of material from which to build a story, and having the breaks in between allows ample time for me to formulate questions.
Bob stresses the importance of maintaining good relationships with his customers because he’s also the salesman. While most distributors have one person for each job, Bob does both. He’s been associated with the island for so long that he really doesn’t have to sell anything. He merely tells people what they need, and they trust him. The customer contact feeds me in an entirely different way, though. The two or three minutes I spend with each person are often the most meaningful ones in my day.
“How are your kids?” I ask the owner of the Beer Barrel. “They’re probably excited for the summer. I remember when I was a teacher, I—”
He looks up. “You were a teacher? What on earth are you doing carting beer? Summer vacation?”
“I retired. After five years I decided to see what else might be out there for me. The only thing I really miss is the interaction with the students.” Honestly, I don’t know if I believe that or not. I haven’t really second-guessed any of my decisions. If the school didn’t want me, I had no use for them. I’m learning quickly, once you quit one thing, it gets easier and easier just to leave situations rather than deal with shit. If I really cared, I probably would’ve stayed and at least tried for a fresh start in another school. But there’s nothing fresh about that image. It would’ve been the same job filled with the same faces pleading for me to do more and me falling short.
“If you stick around here,” he says, “the school’s always looking for substitutes. Most of the full-time teachers either ride a boat or fly to school, so you can imagine how difficult it is to find subs. It’d be good for the kids to see a young professional person. Most of the young people around here are drunks or drug addicts.” The irony of his comment forces me to look away. Guess I fooled another one, at least for now.
Bob walks up and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You ready to hit the Skyway? We can have lunch there when we finish.”
Knowing little about Bob, I’m curious to see his interaction with Randy. For some reason I expect it to be awkward. Will Randy initiate his usual banter? Stein told me he thinks Randy is gay, but also that no one really knows because Randy never has a boyfriend. He appears to play the part, but he also seems to like fucking with people. If someone’s not romantically linked to a female around here, everyone else’s gay-dar goes off.
Due to the busy Memorial Day holiday, the orders have been large. Bob warned me not to let the extra weight scare me off. That the week after a holiday is always hell.
I lift a keg onto the pushcart. “Nice to do some actual work for a change.” It’s probably the most honest statement I have made in a long while. I have pushed myself so far over the line since I got here that I don’t even know where the line is anymore. I feel cut off from my surroundings, but I have nowhere else to go. The island is now my home. I hope the new work and the fresh start with Astrid will ground me.
At the Skyway, Bob positions the truck by the basement door. “Wait for me here. I have to go through the front to open it.” After a few minutes, his round, smiling face appears on the other side of the door. “Randy sure is an interesting bird, isn’t he? He was all a-flutter when I told him you were helping.” He walks back through the basement. “Let’s see what the cooler looks like. Sometimes those other delivery guys leave it a fucking mess.”
As predicted, food items block the entryway inside the cooler, and a stack of milk crates with assorted dairy products stands in front of Bob’s designated spot.
Bob says, “You see? Some guys just drop their stuff in here and take off. They think somebody else should arrange it for them. The way I see it, there’s only so much space in the cooler. If you don’t take care of yours, there’s no guarantee you’ll keep it.” He stands and readjusts his pants. “Why don’t you handle the Lite? I’ll straighten this and get the other stuff.”
The Skyway doesn’t sell draft beer, so only cans remain. Bob taught me that if I stack correctly, I can fit ten twelve-packs on each cartload. After my fourth load, I stop to wipe the sweat from my eyes. Randy barrels down the steps. Wearing only briefs and a kitchen apron reversed and tied around his neck as a cape, he stands confidently with both fists clenched on his hips, like a superhero. “Enough screwing around down here; let’s get some work done.”
A lady yells from the top of the stairs, “Randy, get some clothes on. What if the health inspector shows up?”
Bob restacks the beer on his cart, which he dumped due to the surprise. Still laughing, he says, “Come on, Randy, can’t you wait until we’re finished? We only have a little more to do. You’re making us hungry. What’s for lunch today, anyway? Italian sausage, maybe bratwurst?”
Randy simply turns and bounds up the stairs.
Bob can’t help but smile and shake his head each time we pass during the remaining trips. After we finish, he pulls me aside. “You know he did that only to get a laugh out of us, right? I don’t want you to get spooked.”
“Oh, I know. It’s all about shock value. I wonder if he’s even gay.”
“You might find out. He’s never come down in his underwear for me before, or for anyone else who’s worked for me.”
My part-time job with Bob is only one of several changes that occurred after Memorial Day. Cinch’s brother recently graduated from college and wanted to come for the summer to keep his parents off his back about finding a real job. Griffin of all people probably deserves a break, though. He graduated in four years with an engineering degree while playing football each year, achieving what Cinch failed to.
It’s easy to tell that Cinch and Griffin are brothers. They share the same hairline and carefree disposition. But the more I’m around them, the more opposite I realize they are.
Cinch always takes the easy route; Griffin likes a challenge. Cinch is a history teacher, Griffin an engineer. Even if they share a common interest, they hold opposing positions. Both played football because of their dad, but Cinch was a running back while Griffin was a linebacker.
I’m not sure if it’s the athletic training or the way Cinch and Griffin were raised, but Griffin handles delegation well, while Cinch is definitely in charge. An obvious respect resonates between the two brothers. Griffin is grateful for Cinch pulling him on board and is willing to do whatever it takes to carry his share, whether in the Round House or the red barn.
What Griffin doesn’t realize is that Cinch didn’t have to pull any strings to get him a job. Actually, Griffin is better suited for the work than either Cinch or I. He is six feet two, but with a shirt on, his muscularity is well concealed, and his experience playing linebacker has taught him how to leverage bodies. The only strike against Griffin is that he’s Cinch’s brother. Everyone loves Cinch, but one is more than enough.
Griffin’s arrival has pumped energy into a situation that even after a short time has become stale. Together, Cinch and I made one trip on the roller coaster and safely arrived back to the station. I’m not completely sure I want to go again, but Griffin makes the decision for me. Please sit back, riders, fasten your seat belts, and make sure the safety bars are pulled down and locked in a secure position.
For Griffin’s first night on the job, Cinch makes up a new position called floater, which translates to person who does anything Cinch doesn’t feel like doing. Watching Griffin from the porch, Cinch says, “I love new employees. They’re so prompt and responsible. They come to work sober, showered, and clean-shaven. It doesn’t take long for this place to change that, though. You want to stay out here tonight?”
“For a while at least,” I say.
Cinch pats his pocket. “Well, I got something to entertain us if it’s too slow.”
“Uh-oh, I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”
“You ever done Special K?” he says. “It’s liquid cat tranquilizer that is cooked down into a white powder. You do little bumps. Pretty intense. It’s like you just walked into a fun house with the floor tilting; your head and feet feel as if they’re five times their actual size. You just have to be careful you don’t do too much. It can make you sick, or knocks you into a K-hole. I saw a guy do a line of it thinking it was cocaine, and he wigged out. He was on all fours trying to smash all these invisible ants. He kept saying ‘the ants, the ants.’”
