by Brent Jones
“Lots of people here, huh?”
Two young men wearing baggy jeans and matching checkered bandanas entered the reception area. Bucktooth took their names.
“Yeah, almost too many,” Drew replied, clearing his throat. “Kara, right?”
She giggled. “Yes, I guess you caught that. What’s your name?”
“I’m Drew. Drew Thomson.”
“Katrina,” Bucktooth called. “Go on in, miss. You’re next.”
Bubbles scowled and marched over to Bucktooth, who ushered her through a door leading to a small side office. The door shut behind her.
“Kids these days,” Drew said with a smirk.
“I know, right?” Kara replied. “What a brat.”
Drew inhaled deeply, savoring the allure of Kara’s sweet floral-citrus fragrance. As a rule of thumb, he endeavored to keep others at a distance. But Kara intrigued him—and not just because of her good looks. He felt compelled to engage her in conversation despite feeling inadequate and apprehensive. “So, what brings you to Transtel?”
She looked confused. “I need a job.”
“You, uh, don’t look like someone I would have expected to meet here.”
“Oh no?” She raised an eyebrow. “What do I look like?”
“Uh, no, I just meant—”
“Is it because I have all my teeth?”
Drew laughed. “Well, sure, that’s part of it.”
Kara reached out and straightened Drew’s collar. “Are you applying to be the manager or something?”
Her hands lingered around his neck—unexpected and appreciated. Drew felt his groin swell. “Oh, God no, nothing like that.” He thought for a moment. “Guess you could say I need a job, too.”
“Ever worked at a call center before?”
“Nope.”
“You like talking to people all day?”
“No. I hate it, actually.” He decided to change the subject. “Any chance you’re single?” Oh, fuck. Way to be tactful.
Kara suppressed a grin. “Are you always this smooth with women?”
“Yeah, this is as smooth as I get, I’m afraid.” Drew forced himself to hold eye contact with her. It felt uncomfortable, but he didn’t want his self-doubt to show. “Do interviews make you nervous, too?” He hoped to take the attention off himself.
“A little bit.” She hesitated. “Why? Do I look nervous?”
“No. You look great.” Attaboy. Way to dump your girlfriend of five years then find a hotter chick to hit on. Nice moves. Drew ignored the voice in his head. Apparently everyone had this same little voice, a voice of reason that helped sort right from wrong. But his little voice mostly antagonized him, stressing his insecurities, empowering his anxiety. Yes, he had recently broken up with Heather, but all he was doing was talking to someone—no harm in that, right? At some point he had to move on. This was good practice.
“Was that a compliment?” Kara asked, running her hands through her hair.
“Yeah, uh, I believe it was.”
“Thank you, Drew Thomson. You’re not so bad yourself.”
Drew’s cheeks got warm. “Thanks. But seriously, don’t be nervous. They’re going to hire every person in here.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it’s Transtel,” he whispered. “They can’t hold on to people. Everyone hates it here. Look around—I mean, honestly. What kind of business has a drop-in recruiting day? They’re about to interview a guy who could win first place in an ugly sweater contest. Who, by the way, brought his fucking kid to a job interview. They do this same song and dance every month.”
Kara looked around the room, her expression shifting between confusion, revulsion, and delight. Drew used reading her reactions as a pretext to examine her body—ears decorated with delicate studs, exposed collarbone, small, perky breasts, a slender waist, and what was most certainly a firm, round backside occupying the seat next to him.
She looked back at Drew. “Welcome to the freak show.”
“The interview is just a formality so these guys can tell their clients they screen their staff carefully. But the truth is that they’ll take—” Drew thought back to what he had told Neil at The Stone Goblin Friday night, “—anything with tits and a heartbeat.”
“That’s good to know,” Kara said with a smile. “Although I don’t have much happening in the tits department. Maybe they’ll settle for a fat ass instead.”
Drew gulped. “I would.” He grew uncomfortably stiff, his erection visible through his slacks. “I mean, not settle. I’d—”
Kara silenced him by placing a finger on his lips. “I think I know what you’d do,” she said, glancing down.
Bucktooth welcomed another candidate to the reception area—a man with a limp, a shabby plaid jacket, and stubble too long to be intentional, too short to be stylish. His body odor was severe and unmistakable. Between greeting newcomers, Bucktooth called interviewees to the side office one at a time, the room rapidly turning over its occupants.
Drew strained to think of something clever to say—anything that might charm Kara before his name was called—but came up with nothing.
She spoke first. “So you’re telling me that you’re applying here because you know you can’t fail?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Nothing wrong with that, I guess. A job’s a job, right? We’ve all got bills to pay. And it’s nice to have a few bucks to go out and every now and again. No one wants to sit at home alone—”
“So you are single then.”
She gave him a coy smile. “Yes, Drew Thomson. I’m single. You gonna ask me out on a date now?”
Drew shook his head. “No, I need a job first. But,” he began, riding a sudden wave of confidence, “if we ever did go out, what would you like to do?”
“Anything you’d like,” she replied.
Anything? “Anything?”
“Anything.”
He gave his head a shake. “Uh, you like to party?” he asked. Aside from the occasional gathering hosted by Neil, Drew didn’t party often—unless getting drunk by himself counted—but he figured Kara was likely an active socialite.
“I like to have fun sometimes. What about yourself?”
Maybe I should tell her how I talk to my webcam on a rocking chair. That’ll get her in the mood to party. She’ll probably beg me to take her home right this minute. “Yeah, absolutely,” he lied.
“Do you smoke?”
“Weed?”
“Yes, weed, Drew Thomson. Do you smoke it?”
Drew glanced to their left and right—no one was listening. “Yeah, I smoke.”
“Good. We’ll get high sometime.”
Bucktooth appeared again. “Drew,” she called.
“Knock ‘em dead, tiger,” Kara said. “Guess I’ll see you in training?”
Drew smiled and nodded. He wanted to ask for her number, but wasn’t sure how to go about it.
“Drew,” Bucktooth called a second time, looking straight through him with her crossed eyes.
Bucktooth closed the door and Drew found himself in the presence of a bald man in his late thirties, who was about seven tons overweight. The buttons on his shirt looked as if they were ready to pop. He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Paul Yannic.”
“Mr. Yannic.” Drew shook his hand. “I’m Drew Thomson. Pleased to meet you.” He had met hundreds of decision makers over his years in sales—each one easier to manipulate than the last. Fat guys were his favorite. They had so little ability to say no. “You look like a busy man, sir.”
“Tell me about it. Going to have to work through my lunch today. And please, call me Paul.”
You’ll starve by the looks of it. Drew offered a fake smile. “Don’t let yourself get too hungry.”
Hungry Paul tilted his head to the side, unsure how to take Drew’s comment. “Have a seat,” he said, waving at the two open chairs in front of his desk. “Did you bring a resume for me?”
Drew open
ed a suede messenger bag and pulled out two crisp sheets of white paper. He passed them to Hungry Paul.
After taking a moment to review both pages, he looked up at Drew. “This is your resume?”
No, you stupid fucker. I borrowed it from a guy at the soup kitchen like all the rest of the degenerates you talked to today. “Yes, sir. It is.”
“Very impressive. How did you enjoy working with The Ascension Group?”
It was lovely. They even let me get high on the job sometimes. “I found my work challenging and rewarding. It meant a great deal to me to exceed my clients’ expectations.” Drew cherished corporate speak. It was cold, formal, and predictable—second nature, in other words.
“Uh huh. You sold office supplies, right?”
“Yes. The Ascension Group is a distributor for a number of high quality lines of stationery and office supplies. Printers, too. Mostly corporate sales.”
Drew could tell that Hungry Paul was many things, but he wasn’t completely obtuse. Guys working lucrative corporate sales gigs didn’t volunteer to answer phones for minimum wage.
“Why did you leave?”
“If I can be honest, Hung—uh, Paul, I’m ready for a new challenge.”
“You were there three years. You must have been earning—what? Seventy or eighty thousand?”
Yes. “No, not quite that much,” Drew said.
“I mean, the job here pays a lot less than that.”
“I know. But that’s okay. I—” Drew paused. He was prepared to trade financial gain for relative obscurity—a job without stress or consequence. “I have my sights set on management, to be frank. I think I could add a lot of value in a leadership role here. If you’d consider me for management, that is, one day.”
Hungry Paul seemed pensive. “Think you could adjust from working outside the office to being confined to a desk all day?”
“Oh, absolutely. If anything, I’d welcome the opportunity to get off my feet for a few hours each day.” He hoped to appeal to the limited mobility of his obese interviewer.
“Well, then I’d like to offer you a spot on our team. Training begins next Monday at eight. Welcome aboard.”
No other questions? Not even a reference check? You’re not even going to tell me what the job is? No wonder this fat fuck can speak to a hundred people a day. “I’m honored, sir. Thank you,” Drew said, shaking his hand.
After a short exchange, Drew pardoned himself and returned to the waiting room. He passed Bucktooth then slowed his pace as he approached Kara.
“How’d it go?”
“Perfect. Hopefully I’ll see you next Monday.”
“I hope so, too.”
“Kara,” Bucktooth called.
Kara picked up her handbag and made her way to the side office, her scent leaving a trail that Drew committed to memory.
Bucktooth appeared in Drew’s field of vision. “Would you still like a brochure, sir?”
“No, thank you. I’ll get to know this place soon enough, I’m sure.”
Transtel wasn’t only a step backward in his career—it was like a colossal backflip off a cliff. No need for a guided tour to see what rock bottom looked like.
But handling irate callers would be easy. Drew knew he’d be able to remain anonymous and intoxicated on the job—and get paid to do both. And if there was any justice in the world, perhaps he would see Kara again, too.
Drew left the building and got into his car. He closed the door and took a moment to appreciate the silence. This is worth celebrating. It wasn’t only the sense of security in finding a job that Drew intended to celebrate. He had also navigated a successful exchange with an attractive woman.
According to the dashboard, it was just past ten thirty. Drew grabbed a water bottle in his cup holder and brought it to his mouth, swallowing several gulps of vodka. Not his first choice of refreshment, but it had been on sale. And vodka worked as well as any liquor—besides, he’d be home shortly, where there was coke and weed waiting for him.
* * *
Chapter 6
Tuesday morning arrived and Drew turned into Hillcrest Cemetery. He took a gulp from his water bottle, carefully navigating his car up a narrow paved path, which wound to the heart of the grounds. He parked behind two familiar vehicles then slowly emerged, carrying a small bouquet of flowers he bought from a nearby gas station.
Expansive rolling hills were decorated with stones of every shape and color—tall pinks, short grays, and variants in between. Some stood upright while others were tilted with age. Faded and forgotten along with grief from decades past. Dark clouds gathered in the distance and there was a light drizzle. The forecast called for a thunderstorm and one was surely brewing.
He climbed a short hill to find Russell and Logan gathered in front of Angela. Both men held umbrellas—a commodity Drew had never thought to acquire for himself. He used his sleeve to wipe water from his brow then approached his mother, laying his bouquet alongside others at her head.
“You’re late, Andrew,” Logan said.
“Nice to see you, too.” Drew stepped under his father’s umbrella. “Doesn’t look like I missed much.”
Russell placed an arm around Drew. “You’re here now. S’pose that’s all that matters.”
“Sorry,” Drew said to his father. “Traffic. You know.”
Russell nodded. Drew and Logan exchanged hostile glances.
Logan was slightly taller and leaner than Drew, certainly more effeminate. He had a wiry frame, a clean-shaven face, and fair features, like his mother. It was unusually cool for a June day and Logan donned layers of expensive garb, including a double-breasted trench coat and a dainty salmon colored scarf.
“Let’s begin,” Russell said.
All three men instinctively lowered their heads.
When Angela died, Russell had purchased their plots together—him on the left, her on the right, one companion headstone between them. It was inscribed with both of their names and birthdays, and Angela’s date of death, his yet to be added.
“Angie,” Russell began, “We’re here, my love. All of us.”
The Nowaks—Angela’s sister and mother—never joined them. The Thomson men had no idea if they were even still alive.
Drew took hold of the umbrella while his father reached inside his jacket, rummaging to locate and open a pack of cigarettes. A dense plume of smoke escaped from Russell’s nostrils. He choked for a moment before regaining his composure while Logan glanced at his watch.
“We’re all doing well, Angie. Life’s treating us good. Your boys are both men now,” he said, looking at his sons. “S’pose you’d be proud.”
Drew liked the idea of one day being reunited with his mother but often found himself conflicted. His disbelief in an afterlife rendered his father’s words meaningless. Then again, Drew used his laptop to converse with an audience of none. He and his father shared that in common—they found solace in talking to themselves rather than others.
“Logan is carving his path in the world, Angie. And Drew,” Russell hesitated, taking a drag off his smoke. More coughing. “Well, Drew takes after me.”
Logan smirked—as if to silently broadcast his superiority—even though a vote of confidence from Russell was, in all likelihood, worthless to him. The shining example of what no one should ever become.
“Anyway, we all miss you,” Russell said. “We know you’re still with us and we never stop thinking about you.”
“Love you, Mom,” Logan added.
After a deliberate moment of silence—interrupted only once by coughing—all three men raised their heads to see who would speak first. Logan volunteered. “You got stuck in traffic, Andrew?”
“That’s what I said.”
“At eleven in the morning?” Logan asked, as if he were cross-examining an expert witness.
“Yes, Logan.” Drew made no attempt to hide his irritation. “It’s always congested down by the office. You know that.”
“Funny,” Logan said,
“because I stopped by your office yesterday to meet you for lunch, and it turns out you don’t work there anymore.”
Drew snorted. “You’re a fucking private eye now, too?”
“Drew,” Russell interjected, “don’t talk like that in front of your mother.”
“Thank you, Russell,” Logan said. “But before you come down too hard on him, why don’t you stomp out that cigarette? It’s a bit tasteless to smoke at your wife’s grave, isn’t it?”
Russell conceded, most likely hoping to placate Logan.
Drew took a long stride and got in Logan’s face, their noses nearly touching. “Back off,” he said. “This is a tough day for Dad.”
Drew wasn’t a fighter—he lacked the physical agility, let alone the drive, but he hoped his tough stance might intimidate his brother. It’s not like Logan was built for brawling, either. His diminutive figure put him at a disadvantage.
Logan sniffed. “Is that booze I smell on your breath?”
“So what?”
“It’s eleven thirty in the morning. That’s what. You show up late to visit mom, couldn’t be bothered to shave, you’re drunk, and—what? It’s no big deal?”
“It’s no big deal,” Drew repeated.
“It is a huge deal, Andrew. You need help.”
The precious few who had ever truly known Drew might have described him as introverted, subdued, or perhaps even quiet. Sure, he had addictions. But none—not even Neil or Heather, who knew him best—would have said Drew was quick to anger. A pacifist under most circumstances, largely the result of a narrow range of emotions, but mostly because he couldn’t be bothered. But Logan managed routinely to claw his way under Drew’s skin, to get into his head. Drew gritted his teeth and grabbed his brother’s scarf, tightening it around his throat. “Let’s talk about you instead, huh? How about that? Maybe you’re the one who needs help. You show up to see Mom dressed like a fucking faggot. Why? To show her what a little bitch you are?”
Logan wrestled free from Drew, dropping his umbrella in the process. “That’s not—”
“Why don’t you tell her how you spend your days sticking up for rapists and killers—like the one that got her? I bet she’d be really proud of that.”
