The Fifteenth of June

by Brent Jones

  Hipster gave his head a subtle shake, disgusted at the thought of such a mainstream order. He took their cash and got to work.

  Sierra and Drew shuffled to the opposite end of the counter to wait for their beverages. “You’ve had a lot of sex, huh?” he asked.

  “Yeah, dude.” She chuckled, lowering her voice a little. “For years—in college and for a few years after that. I was open to trying just about anything.”

  Drew hadn’t thought of her in a sexual context before that moment. Sierra was attractive, no doubt. She had deep blue eyes, milky skin, prominent cheekbones, and a distinguished jawline that gave her face the shape of a cover model. A pretty girl—Eastern European, perhaps—but certainly no match for Kara, and doused in just enough melancholy to make her appear aloof.

  “I’m surprised. You seem . . .” Drew inspected her change of attire. She looked like a kindergarten teacher dressed in billowy slacks, a blouse that covered the full length of her arms, and sensible flats, “. . . a bit conservative.”

  “Now I am, sure. But I had an experimental phase. I tried to find love wherever I could, however I could, and the truth is, I had a lot of fun doing it. But it wasn’t fulfilling. It was just fucking. A means to draw my self-worth from others.”

  That made no sense to Drew. If he had women lining up at his door, he’d feel plenty fulfilled. Probably the way Neil feels all the time.

  Hipster handed them their drinks. They chose a private table in the corner, a chair on either side.

  “My point is,” Sierra continued, “this girl—”

  “Kara.”

  “Kara, sure. Just be careful what you wish for. Not all that glitters is gold.” She took a shallow sip from her steaming mug. “So you’re a sales guy?”

  “Used to be. I worked in corporate sales for a little over three years.”

  “You don’t seem like a sales guy.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She considered her response before speaking. “You seem a bit disinterested in people, that’s all. And sales guys usually have a certain way of conversing with others. As if they’re always trying to get people to like them.”

  He gave her a flippant wave of his hand. “It was a job and I was good at it. That’s all.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Oh, God no, not at all. You’re right—I’m not a people person.”

  “That’s what I mean. But you’re good at adapting to different situations, right?”

  I’m here talking to you, aren’t I? “I guess so.”

  “What happened to your mom?” Sierra asked. “You said she died where that bench was built, but you didn’t say how.”

  Her persistent questioning reminded Drew of the first conversation he had had with Kara in the Transtel cafeteria. “She was murdered.”

  “That’s tragic.” She frowned, tilting her head to the side. “You never got to say goodbye.”

  “I was eight at the time.”

  “And now your father’s on his deathbed?”

  “Lung cancer. Smoked three packs a day his whole life.”

  She nodded. “I never knew my father. He left my mom and I when I was just little.”

  “You said your mother died fifteen years ago?”

  “She committed suicide when I was twelve. Slit her wrists in the bathtub, like something you’d see in a horror movie.”

  “Shit. That must have been tough.”

  “I made a lot of stupid choices as a teenager. I acted out—petty stuff. Vandalism, truancy, smoking pot.” She looked down at her tea. “A whole lot of self-destructive behaviors, really. Then, one day, I met someone—a complete stranger. And, well, she helped me find ways to channel my emotions in a more positive way.”

  Did she find you passed out on a bench? “Is that what you’re trying to do for me?”

  Sierra seemed to pride herself on speaking with intention, careful to select words that would achieve the greatest impact. She took a long slurp of her tea, most likely giving thought to how she would formulate her response. It seemed disingenuous on some level, but a welcome change to the impulsive way most people communicated. “I see some of my former self in you, like I said. And I’d like to help.”

  Drew couldn’t be certain if he was ready for help—not from her or anyone else. His life felt as though it was spiraling out of control, but he waffled between fearing it and celebrating it. “I’m not so big on emotions.” He looked away. “So I’m not sure you could help me channel much of anything at the moment.”

  “Are you saying you’re some kind of psychopath?”

  “No, nothing like that—”

  “Because a lot of salespeople have psychopathic tendencies.”

  Hot as it was, Drew swallowed the rest of his coffee in two big gulps. “I just mean that I don’t feel things the way other people do.”

  “Maybe you’ve never allowed yourself to.”

  “I used to see therapists when I was young—”

  “Sadness Doctors?” she asked, referencing their conversation at the park.

  “Yeah, right. Sadness Doctors.”

  “Did it help?”

  “I don’t remember. Just one, who I nicknamed Coffee Breath—for obvious reasons. She encouraged me to keep a diary.”

  “Did that help?”

  A shit-ton, yeah. Drew didn’t feel comfortable mentioning his video diary entries just yet. They were private—Coffee Breath had insisted on it. “I don’t think it helped much.”

  “We all handle tragedy differently, dude. Some of us lash out and some of us bottle it.”

  “I think I’m the latter.”

  “If that’s the case, I understand why emotions are hard for you. You’ve numbed yourself to make room for the grief you carry.”

  “Maybe.” All this self-analysis made Drew tense. It was foreign, enemy territory. A devastating descent into his own personal purgatory. “Did you ever find out why your mom ended her life?”

  “I think coping with loneliness got the better of her, to be frank. She always blamed herself for my father leaving. She liked to bottle things, too.”

  “You never got to say goodbye either, I guess.” Drew thought for a moment. “Is that part of the reason why you’re so anxious to help others—to prevent suicides?”

  Sierra seemed surprised at the leap he had made. “Yes, that’s part of it, I imagine. But not just suicide. People do all sorts of harmful things when they can’t accept reality.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  “Substance abuse, for example. Drinking and drugs.”

  Don’t forget gambling. “You said at the park that you don’t drink.” Drew had never met someone who purposefully refused alcohol.

  “That’s right, I don’t. Not anymore, at least. I used to. I’d pop pills and drink by myself almost every night, wishing the world would come to an end.”

  Sounds like my kind of party.

  “But it got me nowhere,” she continued. “I gave up all that junk and took up running. If I ever got the urge to drink, I’d go for a jog. I keep fit and work out daily. I eat well—vegetarian, mostly organic and whole foods. And I work hard at my job. That’s what I mean by channeling my emotions toward something positive.”

  “Do you like your job?”

  “I do, actually. People usually think of accountants as boring types—”

  Let me guess. You’re the fun accountant.

  “—but I find my career challenging and rewarding. I make good money and live comfortably.”

  “You must if you live in this neighborhood.”

  “I try to surround myself with likeminded people. It keeps me grounded.”

  Drew shuddered at the thought of a place where everyone was like Logan.

  “Or,” Sierra continued, “you can get your fill of drugs, alcohol, and meaningless sex—from Kara or whoever else. I get it. Change is hard. It takes time.”

  “Did you ever find yourself addicted?”

  She studied hi
s face, searching for the motivation behind his question.

  “I’m just not sure I could give up drinking right now,” Drew said.

  “Addictions are choices, dude—nothing more. It’s a hard battle, don’t get me wrong, but it’s up to you what you put in your body.”

  She makes it sound so easy.

  “Trust me,” she said. “I’ve battled my own . . . demons. If I can do it, you can, too.”

  Drew felt his phone vibrate again and pulled it from his pocket. He expected to see a text from Kara, but it was an incoming call from Transtel.

  “Sorry,” Drew said, raising his index finger. “It’s work. I gotta get this.”

  She smiled politely.

  “Hello?”

  “Can I speak to Drew please?”

  “Yes, this is Drew.” He forced his voice to sound hoarse.

  “Drew, it’s Paul. Is everything okay?”

  “I’m, uh, not feeling so good, Paul.” Drew glanced at a clock across the room. He and Sierra had been talking for nearly an hour.

  “What’s all that noise in the background?” Hungry Paul asked.

  “Oh, I—I’m just at the doctor’s office in the waiting room.”

  Sierra rolled her eyes.

  “Right,” Hungry Paul replied. “Listen, we all need a personal day every now and again, but if you don’t call in to the sick line an hour before your shift starts, it’s considered a no-call, no-show.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul. My mistake.”

  “It’s your first week taking calls, so I’ll let it slide this time. Just remember for the future, okay?”

  The future. The whole damn world is obsessed with the future. “You bet,” Drew said. “Thanks for understanding. I hope to be back to normal tomorrow.” The call ended and Drew tossed his phone on the table.

  “That’s your day off, huh? Calling in sick?”

  “A day off is a day off,” he replied.

  Sierra raised her mug to her mouth, finishing her tea, the sleeve of her blouse retracting from her forearm. Drew caught a glimpse of her wrists for the first time—each one decorated with a detailed row of fine scars. She caught his line of sight. “I told you, dude. We’ve all got demons to face.”

  He nodded, his face grim and sympathetic.

  “Sorry, but I have to get going. I’d be happy to continue chatting, though, if you’re up for it later.” She picked up his phone and entered her number in his contacts. “If you need help, please call me. You don’t have to be alone.”

  Drew took back his phone and put it in his pocket. “I’ll do that.”

  “I mean it, don’t be a stranger. Let’s get together again sometime soon—as long as Kara won’t mind, that is.”

  “I told you. She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “But she is willing to sleep with you, isn’t she?”

  Drew nodded in agreement.

  “In my experience, for most men, that’s the same thing.” Sierra got to her feet, picking up both of their empty mugs from the table. Just before turning around, she said, “One last thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It isn’t too late for you.”

  Drew had no idea what that meant.

  “You agreed to have coffee with me,” she explained. “I think you want to change—you just don’t know how yet.”

  “Is that something I can figure out how to do—how to change, I mean?”

  She raised her hands at her sides, a mug grasped in each, a gesticulation of uncertainty. “No idea. You’ll change when the time is right—when you’re ready. Takes a special moment, usually.” She returned their mugs to the front counter and left Cool Beans.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  After having coffee with Sierra that morning, Drew ventured into a nearby thrift shop. He selected a few affordable items that his apartment lacked—a used set of bed sheets, a small desk for his laptop, and a decorative lamp. As though upgrading his humble abode might be the catalyst needed to make more difficult changes.

  It hadn’t occurred to Drew before checking out that he had left his car at the hospital the night before. He walked back to get it—deciding against visiting his father, still processing what he had learned the night before—then returned to the store to pick up his purchases. He wasn’t sure the desk would fit—it took him twenty minutes to get it loaded in his hatchback. It turned out that even making small improvements could be difficult.

  Once home, he did a load of laundry—his building housed coin operated laundry machines for communal use. He placed his new sheets on the mattress and relocated it to his bedroom. He moved his mountain bike to the balcony and placed the desk against the living room wall, setting the lamp on one of its dusty corners. He folded his pile of clothes in the bedroom closet, and stacked all his scattered boxes together in one place.

  The Tuesday afternoon sun was pounding through his living room windows, which were still deprived of curtains. He stood back and surveyed the changes he had made to his apartment, arriving at a simple conclusion—nothing was any different. There he was, still alone and craving a drink. He’d been sober only a few hours, yet the compulsion to imbibe gnawed at his insides, filling him with a familiar dull ache. It was beginning to feel like his entire interaction with Sierra that morning had been part of a broken dream sequence.

  She had unloaded a lot of free advice, and some of it may have been valid. But it seemed trite and intangible at that moment. He only knew how to be himself, after all—flawed, distant, and cold. If he knew how to be anyone else, he’d have already auditioned for the role. Her words had reinforced a simple truth—that talk is cheap.

  Drew received a notification on his phone—a new text message from Neil.

  Neil: Party at my new place Saturday night bro. Be there

  Neil: Bring your call center bitch if you want

  Drew hadn’t considered bringing Kara to Neil’s housewarming party. He liked the idea of showing her off, but Neil could be a bit much, as could the parties he threw.

  He set himself on his rocking chair, carefully examining the desk for the first time. It was outdated, worn and chipped, but better than nothing. Drew stared at his laptop, eager to record a new entry in his video diary. A lot had happened in the last twenty-four hours, so much so that hitting the record button seemed daunting. He couldn’t decide where to begin, so he allowed his mind to wander.

  Sierra had offered him a word of caution about his pseudo relationship with Kara—not all that glitters is gold.

  Easy for her to say. She’s done a lot of fucking and I haven’t.

  Kara had added a certain bounce to his step in recent history. She had given him a reason to feel normal on some level. He even felt lusted after, which was an abnormal sensation. Sure, Heather had made him feel wanted, but in a clingy, codependent way. Kara seemed to desire him on a primal, visceral level. A new and entirely welcomed experience.

  It seemed that living with purpose, as Sierra might have described it, meant forsaking the few things that brought him joy. And a joyless life seemed like all the more reason to get drunk and high—a sort of vicious circle that he wasn’t sure how to break, even if he wanted to.

  A knock came at the door—an unusual knock with an unfamiliar pattern.

  Drew opened up. “What’s with the fancy knock?”

  “That’s my new top secret knock,” Marcus said. “It’s kinda like a secret handshake. I came up with it so my customers will know it’s me.”

  “But I just called. I was pretty sure it was you.”

  “Ah, that’s a good point. So can I come in?” Drew held the door open and Marcus moseyed into his newly ornamented living space. “Where’d your bed go?”

  “It’s in the bedroom now, believe it or not.”

  “Right, that makes sense.” Marcus snapped his fingers, noticing the new piece of furniture against the wall. “You got a desk, too.”

  Drew had found Marcus bothersome when they had first met. His lackad
aisical approach to distributing illicit substances was baffling. But Drew was starting to find his quirkiness refreshing, almost endearing. If only all merchants were so personable and free of judgment. The crowd at Cool Beans could learn something from him.

  Marcus handed him a baggie. Drew held it in his palm for the longest time, staring at its powdered contents, and it seemed to make Marcus uncomfortable. “Are you going to pay me?” he finally asked. “This is usually the part where you give me some money and tell me to leave.”

  Drew nodded, but felt torn. He reached in his pocket and grabbed all the cash he had left, counting out enough to keep himself fed until Friday, his first payday at Transtel, and handed over the rest. “Is that enough?”

  “A little short, but you can give me the rest later.”

  It only took me a week to get myself into debt with my new dealer.

  He saluted Drew and headed for the door. “See you soon. Call me anytime.”

  Drew scrutinized the coke in his hand. If this were a movie, this is the part where he’d go flush it, determined to make his life right again. But this wasn’t a movie, it was something much worse—real life. And the sad truth was that no matter what he did with the coke, snort it or flush it, it wasn’t going to make a bit of difference. Not today, anyway.

  His phone vibrated again.

  Kara: Are you feeling better?

  Drew debated how to respond. His head wasn’t whirling anymore and his stomach had slowed its churning, but he still felt rattled and out of sorts.

  Drew: Yes. I’m doing better now thank you

  Kara: Good. I have something for you

  An incoming image download. It was a selfie of Kara in the Transtel restroom—where she’d performed oral sex on him the day before—standing in front of the mirror, lifting her shirt.

  Kara: I’m horny ;)

  Kara: Come fuck me right here in the bathroom

  Kara: This place is so boring when you’re not here

  Drew: You’re making me hard

  Kara: Show me

  Drew complied, dropping his pants and snapping a quick photo with his phone. Even if he had spent all his twenties single, he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which he would have volunteered snapshots of his genitals to women. As he understood it, most of them didn’t care for that sort of thing. But in this case, Kara had asked for it.