Unscrewed

by Ren Alexander

  I don’t answer her as I storm through the living room that should’ve been put to death along with the last murder victim who died here. “You’re not even Patrice,” I mutter, yanking open the stuck front door. It shakes and swings fast, but I catch it before it hits the wall, not wanting to wake the kid. She doesn’t need to hear her mother belittling her father, revealing how much he sucks. I don’t even need the reminder.

  When I reach the porch, she yells, “Don’t forget Hadley’s married!”

  I spin around, not sure why I need to acknowledge Shasta at this point. “So? What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “Right. Before the Halloween party last year, you told me you didn’t fuck her.”

  “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but I haven’t.”

  She throws her arms out, making this a dramafest I don’t want tickets for. “Why not? I know you’re fucking in love with her! Everyone knows that!” Goddamn Amos.

  “She’s my friend. Unlike you.” Having said way too much, I turn and go down the stairs. That still doesn’t stop Shasta from her theatrics.

  “What does Hadley have that I don’t?”

  I stop to wait for a car to pass, and then I cross the street. And whether she hears me or not, I yell, “Class!” And my heart.

  Apparently, she did hear me because she screeches, “She can have all the class in the world, but she’s never had your cock or your baby!” Wrong.

  I shake my head, getting into my truck. I can’t believe I’m tied to this stupid cunt for the rest of my damn life.

  I head home, but before I do, I look at Shasta’s house. It’s a fucking dump, and my daughter lives in it while I’m worried about impressing people with my wardrobe. Priorities, Greg. Get some of those too.

  Ripping open the plastic shower liner, I grab the towel from the hook and dry off. But no matter how long or how often I shower, I still can’t scrub Shasta off me. She has seeped into my life inside and out.

  I put the towel around my waist, tucking it into itself. I have to open the bathroom door since the vent fan waved bye-bye shortly after I moved in. I told the landlord, but I guess he has a priority list as well.

  Using the side of my arm, I wipe the steam from the mirror, seeing a streaked version of my face reflecting my current mood, disgraced. Is this how I’m always going to feel around Shasta? I want to get over feeling like shit when it comes to her, but it’ll be impossible when my dick slip eventually calls me Dad.

  Jesus. I can’t get over that.

  Going into my room, I sit on the edge of my bed, leaning forward and putting my elbows on my thighs. The black wire bracelets on my right wrist slide down. To myself, I whisper, “What the fuck am I going to do?”

  I know it’s my fault I’m in every situation I’m in. Shasta. Yeah. I had sex with her. But she’s dense and has no idea what it meant for me to do that. The shit I had to overcome to allow myself to be that close to someone I don’t trust. We may have been physically close, but I didn’t let her get close to me. That makes absolutely no sense, but it’s the reality. I was in total control. Until she handcuffed me. Memories slammed into me like a line-drive softball pitch. They were reckless, constricting, and demoralizing. Everything I had been and apparently still am, no matter how hard I struggle to not be. So, yeah. I lost it.

  Then there’s the other side of the pendulum. Hadley. I was closer to Hadley in every other way than I’ve been with anyone. But like Shasta, she’s fucking oblivious to what it took for me to reject her and want her. She doesn’t know how I lost control and possibly fathered Finley or how it killed me to give her away at her wedding. She’s only now aware that I don’t give a damn about that wedding.

  Sighing, I sit up, running my hands through my wet hair. The purple book on the nightstand catches my attention. I had brought Eden’s diary in here so I wouldn’t see it as much. Works great.

  Rubbing the bracelets on my wrist, I roll my eyes and pick up the diary, turning to the next page.

  Dear Gregster,

  You’re doing the opposite of what I told you to do. Even dead in the ground and bouncing from brimstone to brimstone, I. Know. You.

  I see you too, brother dear, so stop the nonstop yanking. It makes Jesus cry and for baby angels to lose a wing. They end up flying sideways and skidding over clouds. Not a good look for heaven.

  An open mind. Something you don’t have. Repeat after me: Less is more. The world is my oyster. Life’s too short. Greg Rodwell is a dumb shit.

  Keep repeating all of the above until it finally sinks in.

  The point, you ask? There are other fucking fish in the damn sea! So, if your line is too short, get a new pole!

  Damn it. Your life doesn’t have to be a cliché country song.

  E

  I swear to God she’s laughing at me. Like I need another chick telling me what the hell to do.

  Throwing the book back onto the nightstand, I drop my towel and flip the bird. If Eden is haunting me, hopefully seeing me naked changes her mind and she leaves me the hell alone.

  Mostly.

  Standing, my left leg burns. I check out the damage in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door. The dark purple and blue covers my left cheek and wraps around the back of my leg and to the side. The battle scar would’ve been worth it if we at least won the damn game.

  The same as every other night, my thoughts drift to Hadley. But tonight, I’m wondering if she’s mad at me or maybe feeling differently about me now that she knows I wanted her. Tonight, she told me I’m hers.

  What does that mean? Will she change her mind about us making love? Fuck. I’d even be okay with a fast bang in my truck.

  Yeah.

  No.

  Maybe.

  It doesn’t matter. Those words and Hadley’s voice saying them are a seductive whirlwind. In the mirror, I watch my dick harden and grabbing onto it, I help it along as I turn off the light and get into bed.

  No picture needed tonight.

  “Happy Monday, everyone.”

  The majority of the room mumbles a generic response to our mighty leader while I sit in my usual seat for the office meeting. Nevertheless, this morning Hadley sits on the other side of Val, refusing to make eye contact with me. I guess we’re doing this tango now. I need to tell her about what Shasta’s doing to me. Above anything, Hadley’s my best friend. I want her to help me with my daughter. God knows I’ve only been watching from the sidelines as she raises our daughter without me. If Finely is mine. I suppose it’s still a thousand percent more than I’m there for Birdy, but it’s still not enough for me.

  Before this meeting, I’ve stayed in my office all morning. I haven’t said anything to Hadley since Saturday night, not for lack of words because I always have shit on tap. But it’s because I don’t want to push her too far, even as I balance on the edge. For now, I’ve told her most of what had to be said. The rest... Well, the rest will have to rest in peace.

  After what happened at the party, I don’t know how we move forward or how I should act around her now. It apparently doesn’t seem to be the status quo since she can’t even look at me. Twice, I tried to catch her attention, but she only turns the other way. Did she tell Wilder about our conversation? Did he maybe tell her the truth about his friendly chat with me? Yeah, right. He’s kept her in the dark plenty of times before. Old habits die hard.

  I sigh, picking up my pen and twirling it to keep my mind busy, but with Betsy to my left, the Hershey bar I scarfed as breakfast threatens to erupt. I don’t know why she’s next to me. She’s usually up Shasta’s ass. Her odor is appalling. It seems she laid it on extra thick this morning, probably to cover up her natural stench.

  To my right is Sylvie, a much more pleasant option and she smells a hell of a lot better than the cum dumpster to the left. Or the one sitting diagonally from me, who is screwing me over yet again.

  Brandon says, “I want to thank all of you for a great softball season and a fun night at my house.”
Brandon wouldn’t know fun if it bit him on his wrinkled ass. “I saw most of you there.” He smiles as mostly the entire office gawks at Gloria, sitting at the far end of the table.

  She fumbles with her stack of useless papers as her pinched, gnarled face slays all hopes and dreams. “What’re you all looking at?”

  Sitting to her right, Amos, as stupid as he is, says, “We missed having you there, Gloria. It wasn’t the same without you.”

  “Mr. Vaughn, it’s getting deep in here with all the horse dung you’re shoveling.”

  On the other side of Sylvie, Grant laughs, making an exaggerated face. “Harsh.” Only preppy sleazebags say that word.

  The others laugh while I impatiently tap my pen on my notepad, tired of all this bullshit. And what the fuck do I do about Birdy? I have no experience taking care of a baby on my own. I guess I was a baby once, but I didn’t change my own damn diapers. I barely know how to breathe on my own still. Why in the hell put me in charge of another life? Is this some kind of joke, courtesy of karma? Is this Eden’s revenge somehow? I have to figure all this shit out before the end of the day. Sunday was no help because all I did was surf the ‘Net, looking for things I’ll probably need for this kid. I found a disturbing blowup doll with real hair and a Motorhead onesie, which was out of stock anyway. What a waste of time.

  Goddamn it. I’m past screwed.

  Brandon announces, “Crick is on the mend. He will return to work next week. Such a trooper.” He sure is. Scanlon went down for the love of the game while Shasta goes down for the love of Brandon’s perks. It can’t be for the love of his pruned balls.

  More laughter. More Grant. Faster pen tapping. Maybe I should try the drums for stress relief because my sister’s right. I need some kind of support group for jacking-off people. No, wait. For jackoffs. Shit. For people who jackoff too much. Yeah, I guess that’s me. What would they call it? Jackoffs Anonymous? That sounds like a metal band. I could take my pen tapping skills and—

  “Rod, you here?”

  More fucking laughter. Who in the hell laughs this early on a fucking Monday morning? I’m not even halfway through my first coffee yet. Stupid jackoffs. Well, there’s a good support group name.

  “Uh, yeah?” I answer Brandon just to shut him up. I’m obviously here, dingle chode.

  He pushes up on his glasses and Shasta takes a break from killing me softly to eyeballing him loudly. “I was asking if you had any ideas for a Halloween party. I thought it might be fun for us to do one this year.” Seriously? I don’t want to spend my favorite holiday with these ass clowns. I’d rather be at a Jerkoffs R Us meeting.

  “I, um...” Everyone stares at me, except for one person, but that’s not surprising. Right now, I think Hadley hates me more than Shasta pretends to. “I’d have to think about it.” Hell no.

  “Don’t think too hard,” Grant says, grinning like a shark who just ate somebody’s favorite uncle. “We wouldn’t want you to bruise your brain again.”

  I don’t attempt a smile. “Ha ha.” My coworkers shriek with laughter at something that wasn’t remotely witty or original. Do they have no discerning taste in a sense of humor at all?

  Brandon asks, “What was the name of that place Morgan Kammer had her Halloween party last year?” Bull. Shit. Looking up from the table, Hadley and I lock eyes, thinking the same thing. Neither of us wants to relive that disaster. But our moment doesn’t last long, and she goes back to shunning me. For how long? Fuck if I know. I thought I did the right thing by telling her the truth. Most of it. But I think I fucked up big time. As usual.

  Thankfully, Val’s on the same wavelength as most of us, and she says, “The center we used had so many issues. We can have it at my house.”

  Brandon removes his glasses, and Shasta drools. What’s with her finding this old fuck attractive? I’m pretty sure he was friends with Moses.

  He laughs, shaking his head. “No, no, Val. I don’t want to put that on you. The softball party was great. We’ll just have it at my house. There’s plenty of parking.” Conceited prick.

  I look over at Val, who shrugs and says, “We can all help pitch in with decorating. It’ll be fun.” So she thinks. I promise if Gloria falls from a ladder, I will die laughing. I probably should bite the dust for laughing at that. But whatever. Go out with a bang.

  Brandon nods. “That’s fine. But I’ll sit that one out. I have no idea how to decorate.” He laughs, and I want to punch him in his brittle nut sack. “We’ll use the same caterers. I’ll even sweeten the pot. Best costume will win...” He pauses either for dramatic effect or because his dementia kicked in. “Let’s do 500 dollars. Cash.”

  Except for me, the whole room gasps while Brandon smiles at me. And the look on his face clearly is an invitation to a pissing contest. Up yours, dick tart. Why in the hell do I get dragged into these fucking things? Does everyone want to see my dick or something? Christ. But I have to say, if it’s about the money, Brandon wins hands down. No competition there.

  On the other hand, if it’s about who’s packing more heat, I’ll fucking win that one. Don’t even go there, Mr. Magoo.

  Into kissing ass, Amos says, “That’s generous, Brandon. Do we have enough in our petty cash or party fund for that?”

  Gloria, forever her charming self, spouts, “Damn Halloween? This better not cut into my bottom line.” Gloria’s so cheap she drives a 1992 Buick Roadmaster. I’d bet serious cash the tires are original.

  Brandon grins, holding up his hands. “It’s all on me. As are the food and decorations. It’s the least I can do for such a hardworking staff.” Does he mean all of us? Or his hardworking staff thanks to Viagra? Inquiring minds don’t want to know.

  While everyone yelps about party ideas and Brandon’s bribe to like him, I resume tapping my pen. Sylvie’s hand bumps against my leg as she leans close to me, whispering, “Can you believe this, Rod? Another party?”

  I shrug, shifting in my chair, surprised she’s in my space, and she’s acknowledging me. I weakly laugh. “How many Harry Potters are showing up to this thing?”

  Sylvie laughs, pushing on my arm, and I just about fall out of my fucking chair from shock.

  Leaning over Sylvie, Grant asks, “What’s so funny?” Your face.

  Again, I shrug, refusing to converse with him. He eventually gives up and joins the inane chatter about costume ideas, ruining my morning and my holiday. I risk glancing at Hadley, who pretends to not notice me. Unfortunately, Val does notice and sadly frowns at me. How uplifting.

  Sitting through the rest of the meeting is agony with Brandon’s droning and Hadley going out of her way to ignore me. Even if we’ve fought before, I’ve never ignored her. She’s in every one of my thoughts. How can she act as if I don’t exist? Do I really mean nothing to her? Was she lying to me the whole time?

  As Brandon wraps up, I try not to watch Hadley, but I catch Shasta watching me. She crooks an expensive eyebrow, which is an overt message stating I’m going to fuck up with Birdy. Like I’ll come up with some stupid excuse or ditch the kid altogether. But damn it. I need to do this or Shasta will make me pay in so many ways. And I’m already paying for the rest of my fucking life.

  As we’re dismissed, I go back to my office, checking my watch. Time is running out. I have to get my shit together before I lose it in front of my kid. I’m confident her first impression of me was a disaster. She’s probably trash-talking me at daycare.

  I plop down in my chair in full-blown panic mode. I could call my mother, but she has no idea she’s a grandmother, let alone twice over. She’ll come here just to kill me before ever meeting her grandchildren. That’ll have to be a conversation for another time. Like never.

  Amos stops in my part of the office, studying me more than he most likely did for the bar exam. “Something up?” I’d lie, but hell, he’s bound to find out. I’m not exactly the strong and silent type.

  I pick up the stress baseball on my desk, close to shredding it. “Shasta’s leaving Birdy wit
h me for a week.”

  His face lights up with a grin that’s scarier than the thought of my mother killing me in my sleep. “Really? That’s great, Rod! I’d love to help. What do you need?”

  Since sobbing like a damn baby myself isn’t an option at the moment, I laugh, dropping the ball and rubbing my hands over my face. Behind them, I mumble, “A vasectomy.”

  “A what?”

  Moving my hands, I say, “Every damn thing.”

  He nods. “Okay. I’m heading out for an appointment. I’ll pick up some necessities to get you started. What size diaper?”

  “How in the hell should I know?”

  Vaughn sighs, but I know he’s reveling in my misery. “I’ll ask Shasta then. Why don’t you take off? You have enough personal days. I think you’ll need it.” Amos laughs, leaving the office. I’ll be sure to tell my mother it was Amos’ idea to keep Birdy a secret.

  As I wrap up the work I really wasn’t doing, I leave my office, automatically heading for Hadley’s until I stop myself. Shit. I can’t keep doing this with her. I’m not playing these games where I have no shot in hell of winning. And now, Shasta’s even in on watching me bomb. Always the fucking loser.

  I do a U-turn in the U-shaped hallway and head toward the lobby, where Patrice is staring at her computer screen while Rhonda rummages through filing cabinets. As I pass, they both stop what they’re doing to gawk at me. What the hell is their problem? Okay. I get Patrice’s unilateral idiocy, but Rhonda is just fucking bizarre without a reason.

  I hate talking to either, but it’s unavoidable. I punch the elevator button and say, “Uh, I’m leaving for the day if anyone wants to know. Um, thanks.”

  Patrice’s face remains blank as Rhonda’s is the polar opposite, shifting from excited, scared, sad, and a forced calm. Jim Carrey had fewer expressions in both Ace Ventura movies.

  When the elevator still hasn’t arrived, I hit the button again, mouthing fuck you to it. Rhonda practically whispers when asking, “You want me to tell Hadley?”