The Fifteenth of June

by Brent Jones

  More to the point, his penis wasn’t anything special. It was a bit on the small side, and definitely crooked—too much masturbation the most likely culprit. Not to mention he put no effort into keeping his pubic hair trimmed. He knew sending an image of his depressing appendage wasn’t likely to generate much interest from the opposite sex, but considering the day before, there was no harm in letting Kara have another peek.

  Kara: Yum! :) Can’t wait to feel it inside me

  Kara: I’m gonna milk you dry

  Drew: How do you want me to give it to you?

  Kara: From behind is my fave, plus the view should be good for you

  Kara: But you can give it to me any way you want

  Kara: Just make sure to pull my hair and smack me around a bit

  Drew wasn’t sure what to make of this. His only sexual experiences in the past five years had been with Heather—boring, unresponsive, and missionary. Slow, near silent, and always with the lights out and a condom on. Never more than once a week. A predictable routine that ran like clockwork.

  Drew wondered if Kara would ever be like Sierra, one day recounting the copious amounts of casual sex she once had. Taking it however she could get it, even from her coworker with the tiny bent penis.

  I’m probably being too hard on myself.

  Then again, if Kara were anything like Sierra had been, looking to fill some kind of inner void, she would probably enjoy some blow. He snapped a photo of the baggie and sent it to her.

  Drew: You into nose candy?

  Kara: I’m into whatever you are Drew Thomson ;)

  Kara: Lol

  Kara: It’s been a while but yes I’d love a hit of that

  Drew: It’s gonna be a fun night

  Kara: You have no idea. ;) xoxo

  Drew dropped the baggie in his desk drawer and grabbed his two towels, wedging them below the apartment and balcony doors. It was becoming a familiar procedure.

  He would save the coke for tomorrow night—but in the meantime, some weed might settle his mind. He rolled a small joint and sparked it up, finally ready to record.

  “I found out last night that Dad isn’t who I thought he was . . .”

  He sucked in a lungful of smoke, held it deep, and exhaled it slowly.

  “He’s—he’s not a bad guy, I don’t think. I’m just seeing him in a, uh, different way now. I mean, I don’t think he’s a bigot or whatever. He’s just a product of his time. The world changed around him and he didn’t change with it.”

  Even Drew had a tough time believing that. Being old fashioned was one thing, but a father shutting out his son was another. He wasn’t ready to believe that his father could be so severe. Distant, sure, but certainly not the confrontational type. And not the sort of man to take a position on much of anything.

  “I think I owe it to Logan to give him another shot. He’s an asshole for sure, but maybe there’s more to the story. Dad always accepted me though, just as I was. I never had to be something else. But I guess Logan never felt that kind of acceptance. And I can’t imagine what life would be like without someone there to make me feel normal.”

  It occurred to Drew that perhaps his father, from an era long gone, was a human warning sign. A reminder of the tragedy that seemed to follow a life unfulfilled.

  “Dad spent the last twenty years waiting for his life to end, and maybe I’ve been doing the same thing. I met this chick at Northwood Park this morning, and she was just bursting at the seams to tell me all about her own life. Her mother killed herself a long time ago and yet—I don’t know, she, uh, reacted differently than I did when Mom died. She used it as a reason to help others.”

  Maybe she’s just as fucked as I am, and maybe she’s just pretending to be all right.

  “I don’t know if I could ever do that. Help others like she does. I’m too selfish, I think. It’s pitiful, I know, but I couldn’t be bothered.” He ran his fingers through his scraggly facial hair. “But then again, where did that get Dad?”

  Drew took another pull, the smoke taking the edge off, aiding his concentration. He struggled to articulate what was really on his mind. He needed a drink, and as soon as possible. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Had he been at work, he would have already finished his water bottle.

  “The truth is, after talking to her, I thought maybe I was ready to change. Even, uh, came home and straightened the place up a bit.” Go ahead, you fucking junkie. Explain why it’s all too hard. “But, uh, not yet . . . I’m not ready, I don’t think. Maybe some other time. I mean, I’ve got my whole goddamn life to change.”

  The nagging sense of failure at turning his life around that morning wore at him, but only for the briefest of moments. Nothing a drink wouldn’t fix.

  “She said something else to me this morning, something that I haven’t heard in a long time. Sierra talked about special moments, and that was a phrase Coffee Breath used to use with me.” But what do they know? They aren’t you.

  He thought hard about what Coffee Breath had told him as a child.

  “She told me every moment was special in its own way, and that keeping this diary would help me . . . live my truth, whatever that means. I’m just not sure what to believe anymore. It’s like everyone has their own little recipe for happiness, but no one really seems all that happy.”

  Drew found that realization both disturbing and profound. He second-guessed himself, hoping his observation had been inaccurate.

  “I’ve got Kara coming over tomorrow night, even though Sierra thinks casual sex leaves us feeling hollow. Something like that, even though she used to get around plenty. Who knows? Maybe fucking leads to some sort of enlightenment. It’s worth finding out . . .”

  He inhaled all he could from what remained of the joint, setting it in a glass ashtray as the flame reached the paper filter at its end.

  “I just hope I don’t embarrass myself when she comes over. Kara is so hot, and I think she’s got a little more practice than I do.”

  Drew felt a bit strange, a grown man of twenty-eight, intimidated at the thought of getting together with an attractive woman. He hoped his insecurities wouldn’t show tomorrow night.

  Having said all he intended to, Drew ended the recording at four minutes and ten seconds. On the inside—buried right around where Sierra had tapped him on the chest earlier that day—he knew he had more to share. Reality was starting to bubble to the surface: he wasn’t living his truth at all, no matter how many special moments he shared with his webcam. But he wasn’t ready to admit it to himself.

  Drew dug through his neatly arranged boxes, scattering them across the living room, frantic, searching for a bottle of whiskey. He knew it was in there somewhere. Got you, you little bastard. He opened it and tipped it back, relieving the irritation coursing through his blood.

  He opened a new browser tab and navigated to his favorite online poker site. He deposited the few dollars that remained in his checking account and joined a virtual table, where he spent the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Kara had been telling the truth—she did indeed sleep naked. But after she and Drew had consumed nearly a half gram of cocaine, neither one achieved rejuvenating slumber.

  They got up the next morning, jittery and unrested, and began the awkward dance of readying themselves for work in the presence of a stranger. Both were in dire need of a shower, drenched in a curious cocktail of bodily fluids, their nether regions sore from friction.

  After a quick stop for a breakfast at a rundown Palmer Heights diner, they drove their respective cars to Transtel, arriving at work minutes before their scheduled starts.

  Drew stole the occasional glance at Kara, his mind working to make sense of what had happened the night before. Their sex date had felt like a performance, as though Kara had been reciting the lines to her favorite pornographic films, her voice a high-pitched squeal at all times. Enjoyable, for sure, but false at the same time—almost too good to be true. Drew cou
ldn’t shake the feeling that he and Kara had been unified by lonesomeness rather than intimacy.

  Kara peeked over at Drew every so often, offering him a debauched smile or a suggestive wink. An hour or so into their shift, she tossed him a folded note. My ass hurts, it read in her handwriting, her signature heart beneath it.

  At nearly eleven o’clock, Hungry Paul approached Drew, a serious look on his face.

  “Good morning, Paul. How’s it going?”

  “Good, thanks. You’re not on a call, are you?”

  Obviously not, dickhead. I’m talking to you. “No, sir. Not at the moment.”

  “Good. Can you drop yourself out of queue and join me in my office?”

  Drew did as he was asked, following Hungry Paul to a secluded cubicle against the far wall of the call center floor. Hardly an office, but it was where Hungry Paul spent most of his time, hiding out behind artificial walls and scanning reports.

  I bet he masturbates to photos of cheeseburgers back here, too.

  Hungry Paul spoke first. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yeah, stomach bug on Tuesday. I spent the morning puking.” Hungry Paul remained silent, giving Drew a chance to elaborate. “I’m, uh, sorry about not calling in before my shift. I was feeling pretty rough.”

  “I understand. How’s your dad doing?”

  Since visiting his father with Logan Monday night, Drew hadn’t returned to the hospital. Two full days without checking in, but he had every intention to visit that night—and to hopefully confront his father about what had transpired between he and Logan all those years before.

  “He’s not doing so great. Won’t be with us much longer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Hungry Paul said, unmoved. “Listen, I want to talk to you about your relationship with Kara Davenport.”

  “My relationship?”

  “You told me when I interviewed you that you have your sights set on management.”

  I lied. “I do.”

  “All right, well, let me put it to you this way—do you think a candidate for management should be fooling around with other agents?”

  “Of course not, but there’s nothing going on between me and Kara. And even if there was, I’m not a candidate for management already, am I?”

  “It’s called professionalism, Drew. You’re always being evaluated.”

  I can’t believe this fat fuck is going to school me on professionalism. He’s a manager at a call center for crying out loud.

  “You need to show up for the job you want, not the job you have,” Hungry Paul explained.

  “I agree with you, sir, but this is the first I’m hearing of concerns with my performance.”

  He shook his head and rotated his computer monitor toward Drew. “Do you see that?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m looking at, to be honest.”

  “These are some of the reports I review daily—handle times, time in and out of queue, and the like. It gives me a sense of who my top performers are.”

  “Am I one of them?”

  “Today will be your third shift.” He pointed at a chart on the screen. “You haven’t had to escalate a single call to me. Meanwhile most of your peers are escalating four or five angry callers a day.”

  “I’m good at taking shit, I guess.”

  “You’re always back from lunch early. You often skip breaks—”

  “All I do is sit in one place,” Drew said with a shrug. “No need for a break.”

  “Yet it looks like you spent twelve minutes out of queue on Monday.”

  Shit!

  “Monday, three twelve to three twenty-four—”

  “I had to use the bathroom.”

  “Uh huh. It looks like Ms. Davenport had to use the bathroom at the exact same time.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah, and do you know the strangest part?”

  “We both ate the cafeteria food?”

  “Around that same time Monday, one of your coworkers returned from the women’s bathroom and reported that two of her coworkers were fornicating inside a stall.”

  Bubbles, that cunt. Drew shook his head, feigning surprise. “Did you ever find out who it was in there?”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” Hungry Paul said with a grin. “I watched you and Ms. Davenport pass notes to each other all through training. I’ve noticed you take your lunch breaks together. And this morning I saw you come skipping in together, hand in hand, for the whole building to see.”

  “We weren’t holding hands.”

  “You’re treading a fine line, Drew. You received a copy of the employee handbook, right?”

  “I believe so.”

  “There’s no provision against being friends with your colleagues, even outside of work. But sexual activity is prohibited onsite, of course, and managers are discouraged from engaging in romantic relationships with subordinates. Not to mention . . .” He peeked over the cubicle wall, ensuring they had privacy, “. . . I’ve noticed that you and Ms. Davenport sometimes share a water bottle.”

  “Yeah, she’s so forgetful like that. Always leaving hers at home.”

  “I know you came from the corporate world, Drew, and next to other managers you’ve worked for, you probably think I’m an idiot.”

  You got me.

  He didn’t wait for Drew to respond. “But I’m not stupid. Employees don’t share a water bottle at work unless there’s something good in it.”

  “It sounds to me like you know your mineral waters, Paul.”

  “It sounds to me like getting drunk on the job is grounds for immediate termination.”

  “Good thing I’m stone sober.”

  “Yes, that is a good thing.”

  It wasn’t that Drew thrived on resisting authority, nor did he resent it—he generally preferred to slip under the radar, to be agreeable and avoid confrontation when possible. But at this exact moment, called out for his drinking, he found the temptation to push back irresistible.

  “Paul, I have to ask—where’s this conversation going? If you suspect I’m banging your agents, drinking on the job, and playing hooky, why not just fire me?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Drew thought for a moment. I need this job, at least for the time being . . . unless Marcus is hiring. “No.”

  “It’s not what I want either. You have a lot of potential, and if you work hard, I think you could make an excellent manager here someday. And so far you’ve made my job easy. In defense of Ms. Davenport, so has she—you’re two of my better agents. I wouldn’t want to lose either of you, but I can only turn a blind eye for so long.”

  Drew sunk his head in defeat. He was no fan of Hungry Paul, but he received his message loud and clear.

  “What I’d like you to do,” Hungry Paul concluded, “is to listen carefully to what I’m telling you, clean up your act, and live up to your potential.”

  He sounds like Sierra. “I can do that, Paul. Thanks for the talk.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Drew returned to his workstation, taking a moment to digest their conversation before putting his headset back on. He glanced at Kara. Her hair wasn’t fashioned with its usual care, her clothes were wrinkled, and her makeup had been applied with haste. Even her customary scent was missing. She was still gorgeous, of course, but she wore plain evidence of their shenanigans the night before. Drew wondered to himself why he had ever thought their involvement could be kept secret, obvious about it as they were.

  She caught him staring. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing. Just some paperwork I forgot to fill out in training.”

  “What paperwork?”

  “Nothing important. Listen, what are you up to Saturday night?”

  “This weekend?”

  Drew nodded.

  Kara rocked her head back and forth for a second or two. “I’m free, I think. Why? Think you can handle me for another night?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’d love
another night with you, and my friend Neil happens to be having a housewarming party. He just moved in, and I haven’t seen his new place yet. Want to come with me?”

  “A real date, Drew Thomson?” She looked stunned. “You actually want to be seen in public with me?”

  What do I have to lose?

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  Russell stirred, restless and agitated, slowly opening his eyes. Drew perched at his bedside. The television mounted on the opposite wall relayed a muted news broadcast of weather reports with stock tickers peeling across the bottom.

  “You’re awake,” Drew said. He had arrived at the hospital shortly after work, determined to talk to his father. Hours had passed and his patience had paid off.

  Following his chat with Hungry Paul, Drew had felt obliged to put away his water bottle for the remainder of the workday. But the ride over to the hospital had given him a chance to restore balance, having consumed enough vodka to pacify his frayed nerves for a few hours.

  “Drew . . .” Russell trailed off, his speech slurred, strained and arduous.

  Patrick had been in and out of the room all night, and he was currently visiting with his family downstairs, granting Drew time alone with his father.

  Drew stood and made eye contact with Russell who looked tortured, miserable, his life force depleted. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel like I’m ready to die.” Russell glared at the mashed dinner that had been set on his bedside table. He turned away from it, making his disgust obvious.

  “I’m sorry you have to go through this.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. It’s time.”

  “Is that really how you feel?”

  Russell fought to breathe, shifting himself on the bed, as though inhaling from different positions might lessen his discomfort. “I told you, son. I’m ready to go.”

  “Has Logan been coming to see you?”

  “He’s come a few times now.”

  “I talked to him the other day.”