We melted one sugar cube in a plastic cup and diviied it up between the four of us. The sunlight poured over dad's linoleum and for a while we just chatted.
I think we were just excited for the first hour, Saul scratched his elbows and started talking about transhumanism. He had a few days' beard and hadn't really gotten clean from the bus ride, he kept feeling his stubble.
Anton was more careful at the outset, making sure he knew where a clean pair of socks were, and brushing and shaving before the experience began. He squeaked his sneakers on the floor and nodded in time.
My brother and I were quiet for the first while, just sort of smiling and talking.
Where did he get the windows for this place?
They're double paned but running in droplets, rippling, is that even possible?
Knowing him it was probably some custom thing.
'The whole thing's custom!'
yeah, you remember that fucking van?
how many movies do you think we managed to watch in it?
Like, one, I think, I think we watched Willow.
Willow and The Neverending Story, on that trip to Atlantic city to see Dylan.
Yeaaaaaah. And then a while later, after we'd tuned in for a spell to Anton relating a recent anecdote about the AK, did we see the show?
I think mom and dad did, but we stayed in the car? But how is that possible, who would leave their kids in a car in a parking lot in atlantic city for half the night?
Yeah, that can't be.... you'd get on Dateline.
Chapter 8 - The day the key is found
"We were going to visit molokai this winter"
"He loved it there," I know for a fact that she had never been, that the shared experience was something he and I would have alone.
"yeah, everywhere else we went he complained, said it was too touristy."
"he would"
"for him it wasn't a beach if other people knew about it. He took me down to northern california, when was it?" I can see even from behind that she is crying in that slow leak way some old women have.
"Two years? you visited. Two years ago on January."
"he tells me of this lovely beach, way off 101, and then we park still in the forest, just a trailhead, and we're lugging a cooler and blankets and all that up and down these hills, really schlepping, and then we get there, the wind is like fire it's so cold, and he can't enjoy it."
"he can't-"
"he can't enjoy it because there's footprints all over the dry sand, not even people! Footprints!"
I want to feel superior now, that she couldn't enjoy what must have been an endlessly calm and expansive day on the frozen coast, but it wasn't until a year or two ago that I learned any enjoyment of hiking. before that I just whined, if he made me go, and, cruelest sting, when he came out west I often made up excuses to stay away from him if it ment speending the day tramping up and down behind his untiring hams. All the while lugging a 40 year old cooler.
My father was the most practical man in the world, and there was never a better example than his kitchen. The floor was linoleum. A lot of people hear linoleum, and they think vynil, but the two have nothing to do with each other. Vynil is cheap, comes in rolls so that it goes down in one huge sheet, generally has a texture, and is soft enough to ding with a pair of high heels. Linoleum is expensive, comes in tiles, is perfectly smooth, can look only one way: those smooshed out droplets you remember from elementary school, and is nearly invincible. Cheap apartments have vynil, my father's million dollar condo just north of davis square had linoleum. stove had only two burners, for holidays he would put a pair of electric hotplates on the counter, perfect for stock and cream sauces, the rest of the time he just had those two burners and a tiny oven, enough for one loaf of bread. you should have seen his utility bills, it was a time-warp.
He listened to WBUR, public radio, morning noon and night. He had these little radios, three that plugged in and one that wound up with a big mainspring to turn the dynamo. He used that one to listen to This American Life in the tub on Sunday afternon. He put one of the plugins in the kitchen, listening to Americans all day and brits into the evening drone on about carbombs and colorful local restaurants.
There were so few ingredients in his kitchens: he never even used dry spices. But when he started whisking flour into eggs and milk I knew we'd be eating silvery crepes loaded with fresh cheese and whatever fruit was in season. He had one knife.
Now it's blaring classic rock, and my dad's wife is mixing up meatloaf for the wake with ketchup and a whole jar of garlic powder.
"He loved it there," I know for a fact that she had never been, that the shared experience was something he and I would have alone.
"yeah, everywhere else we went he complained, said it was too touristy."
"he would"
"for him it wasn't a beach if other people knew about it. He took me down to northern california, when was it?" I can see even from behind that she is crying in that slow leak way some old women have.
"Two years? you visited. Two years ago on January."
"he tells me of this lovely beach, way off 101, and then we park still in the forest, just a trailhead, and we're lugging a cooler and blankets and all that up and down these hills, really schlepping, and then we get there, the wind is like fire it's so cold, and he can't enjoy it."
"he can't-"
"he can't enjoy it because there's footprints all over the dry sand, not even people! Footprints!"
I want to feel superior now, that she couldn't enjoy what must have been an endlessly calm and expansive day on the frozen coast, but it wasn't until a year or two ago that I learned any enjoyment of hiking. before that I just whined, if he made me go, and, cruelest sting, when he came out west I often made up excuses to stay away from him if it ment speending the day tramping up and down behind his untiring hams. All the while lugging a 40 year old cooler.
My father was the most practical man in the world, and there was never a better example than his kitchen. The floor was linoleum. A lot of people hear linoleum, and they think vynil, but the two have nothing to do with each other. Vynil is cheap, comes in rolls so that it goes down in one huge sheet, generally has a texture, and is soft enough to ding with a pair of high heels. Linoleum is expensive, comes in tiles, is perfectly smooth, can look only one way: those smooshed out droplets you remember from elementary school, and is nearly invincible. Cheap apartments have vynil, my father's million dollar condo just north of davis square had linoleum. stove had only two burners, for holidays he would put a pair of electric hotplates on the counter, perfect for stock and cream sauces, the rest of the time he just had those two burners and a tiny oven, enough for one loaf of bread. you should have seen his utility bills, it was a time-warp.
He listened to WBUR, public radio, morning noon and night. He had these little radios, three that plugged in and one that wound up with a big mainspring to turn the dynamo. He used that one to listen to This American Life in the tub on Sunday afternon. He put one of the plugins in the kitchen, listening to Americans all day and brits into the evening drone on about carbombs and colorful local restaurants.
There were so few ingredients in his kitchens: he never even used dry spices. But when he started whisking flour into eggs and milk I knew we'd be eating silvery crepes loaded with fresh cheese and whatever fruit was in season. He had one knife.
Now it's blaring classic rock, and my dad's wife is mixing up meatloaf for the wake with ketchup and a whole jar of garlic powder.
Chapter 7 - One week before the key is found
Anton wore a tattoo of a Kalashnikov over his heart. I know for a fact that he'd never fired one, never even seen one outside of a military history museum. I figure that's probably most of the people with an automatic weapon tattoo, but his was different. It was just the silhouette, done in black, like on the flag of Mozambique, and it was small, just a bit bigger than a playing card.
He talked about it a lot, the AK, what it meant. How the soviets built them so cheap they could give them away for free to any communist-friendly army. How during the Vietnam war guerrillas could hide them under water in rice paddies and pull them out weeks later still ready to fire. How they represented a design so simple, powerful, and effective that they killed more people every year than all three atom bombs.
At my height, as he came to me first thing the morning, up before me as always, it was right at eye level as I mashed my nose against his chest.
Morning sprout.
Good morning!
You sleep okay?
I woke up for a while and read.
That bed is awful he said.
Yeah. Even though it wasn't the bed but feeling sad and strung out and adjusting to east coast time and watching my dad's wife pull her hair out and emote all over the place over a man she met four years ago.
You wanna go out and find some real coffee? I used the last of the unflavored yesterday, and I don't wanna get the stinkeye for monopolizing the machine.
Oh you know what actually hazelnut caramel sounds great, let's have that with a little titanium dioxide laced french vanilla fat free half and half creamer product.
I google mapped the starbuck's.
Good ant.
He held me against his chest again, squeezing tighter and tighter, from the sides just like I like.
Get dressed, she'll be up anytime and it'll be weirder to run out just as she's getting up.
Okay.
He talked about it a lot, the AK, what it meant. How the soviets built them so cheap they could give them away for free to any communist-friendly army. How during the Vietnam war guerrillas could hide them under water in rice paddies and pull them out weeks later still ready to fire. How they represented a design so simple, powerful, and effective that they killed more people every year than all three atom bombs.
At my height, as he came to me first thing the morning, up before me as always, it was right at eye level as I mashed my nose against his chest.
Morning sprout.
Good morning!
You sleep okay?
I woke up for a while and read.
That bed is awful he said.
Yeah. Even though it wasn't the bed but feeling sad and strung out and adjusting to east coast time and watching my dad's wife pull her hair out and emote all over the place over a man she met four years ago.
You wanna go out and find some real coffee? I used the last of the unflavored yesterday, and I don't wanna get the stinkeye for monopolizing the machine.
Oh you know what actually hazelnut caramel sounds great, let's have that with a little titanium dioxide laced french vanilla fat free half and half creamer product.
I google mapped the starbuck's.
Good ant.
He held me against his chest again, squeezing tighter and tighter, from the sides just like I like.
Get dressed, she'll be up anytime and it'll be weirder to run out just as she's getting up.
Okay.
Chapter 6 - Two years, six months after the key is found
In the movies, masks are only on for so long. I guess not Batman's. When Batman's doing his thing right he never takes his mask off or puts it on, he just changes, off screen, from one thing to something else.
The first time I saw Saul wearing his mask it wasn't like he had changed, it was more like seeing your uncle wearing a hairpiece for the first time. The first moment I opened my hotel door I ended up spitting tea out my nose from laughing, it was just too ridiculous.
The carpet in the hallway was red, the lush, prosperous look favored by the middling hotels of Beijing.
Hey we're gonna get breakfast, they do a buffet thing down here for like-
What is that?
He tried it on for just a moment, not knowing what I was talking about, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to say 'oh this?' or any other coy bullshit
Yeah, the mask? What do you think of it?
Can you see out of it?
yeah it's molded down close to the orbital so we don't lose our peripheral vision and there's make-
Makeup, I can see that, like Batman.
In the new movies.
He was chuffed about the Batman comparison, but it's impossible to let someone you've known for ten years off the hook so easily.
So you're gonna wear that down to breakfast?
Yeah they do western food it turns out, so no baozi for us today, even coffee?
Nescafe?
I dunno it seems like they've got the stuff to make drip.
Is it crazy expensive?
No it's like twenty kuai.
Did anton make you wear that? I pointed one finger towards my cheek.
No. he said, his brow knitting up.
For a moment we were quiet, me sitting on my too-hard bed, him standing in the middle of the little room, his boots pressing deep into my grey carpet.
We're all going to be wearing them.
We?
All of us, the key men.
And Anton's not making you? You just decided to all wear masks.
It was his idea, but we all decided.
And you're gonna wear it all the time?
We'll take it off to sleep if we want to, I slept in it last night to get the fit right. he said
The mouth is so important when ever you talk to one of the key men. They get in the habit, after a while, of showing everything with lips and little pulls around the chin. At this early date, though, anton showed me only a little half smile as he fiddled with my electric kettle.
I figure I'll probably wear mine all the time, just taking it off to get clean, and I'll have it on forever, from now on.
Even after everything went bad, he kept his on, and wore it until I took it from his body. I still have it around somewhere.
The first time I saw Saul wearing his mask it wasn't like he had changed, it was more like seeing your uncle wearing a hairpiece for the first time. The first moment I opened my hotel door I ended up spitting tea out my nose from laughing, it was just too ridiculous.
The carpet in the hallway was red, the lush, prosperous look favored by the middling hotels of Beijing.
Hey we're gonna get breakfast, they do a buffet thing down here for like-
What is that?
He tried it on for just a moment, not knowing what I was talking about, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to say 'oh this?' or any other coy bullshit
Yeah, the mask? What do you think of it?
Can you see out of it?
yeah it's molded down close to the orbital so we don't lose our peripheral vision and there's make-
Makeup, I can see that, like Batman.
In the new movies.
He was chuffed about the Batman comparison, but it's impossible to let someone you've known for ten years off the hook so easily.
So you're gonna wear that down to breakfast?
Yeah they do western food it turns out, so no baozi for us today, even coffee?
Nescafe?
I dunno it seems like they've got the stuff to make drip.
Is it crazy expensive?
No it's like twenty kuai.
Did anton make you wear that? I pointed one finger towards my cheek.
No. he said, his brow knitting up.
For a moment we were quiet, me sitting on my too-hard bed, him standing in the middle of the little room, his boots pressing deep into my grey carpet.
We're all going to be wearing them.
We?
All of us, the key men.
And Anton's not making you? You just decided to all wear masks.
It was his idea, but we all decided.
And you're gonna wear it all the time?
We'll take it off to sleep if we want to, I slept in it last night to get the fit right. he said
The mouth is so important when ever you talk to one of the key men. They get in the habit, after a while, of showing everything with lips and little pulls around the chin. At this early date, though, anton showed me only a little half smile as he fiddled with my electric kettle.
I figure I'll probably wear mine all the time, just taking it off to get clean, and I'll have it on forever, from now on.
Even after everything went bad, he kept his on, and wore it until I took it from his body. I still have it around somewhere.
Chapter 5-- Two Weeks Before the Key is Found
I hadn't wanted anything, really, it's just...this weakness of mine. I get anxious when I'm alone, sometimes, panicky, which is probably why I'm living with Saul in the first place, come to think of it. He hardly gives me a minute to myself. Which is how I like it. Saul's not loud or annoying, well, not usually. He's just this constant presence, drinking Pabst and smoking cigarettes and noodling around on the guitar. He plays well. He sings out of tune, but it's pleasant enough, in a Bob Dylany sort of way. Mostly he's background noise to me, and I try not to think about why he would possibly while away the hours with me, when he could be out there living, playing gigs, meeting girls. Actually I know why he spends so much time with me, and it makes me feel guilty, which I don't like, so I try not to think about it at all. Poor Saul. I wish Anton would try a little harder to make him feel included. But I shouldn't blame Anton. If anybody's inconsiderate, it's me, and if anything's wrong here, it's my fault. I just hate to be alone.
That wasn't the only reason I called him, of course. I did have an excuse. I'd have preferred it to have been Anton.
"She's crying again," I told him, feeling lame as I said it. I expected him to scowl at me, but his only expression was one of furrowed concern.
"Look, we can't keep doing this. I think I should talk to the landlord."
"And get them thrown out? That would hardly be a solution!"
"It would stop this. This is a problem. You can't even be comfortable in your own house!"
"And what about her problems?"
He walked across the room, which only took him a couple of steps. He fished out a pack of smokes, tapped one out (I have never understood why he does that) placed it loosely between his lips, and lit it. As he inhaled, he squinted out of the dingy window. He ran a hair through his hair, which was not brown, not blonde, and already greying. It fell back immediately into a heavy shelf, shiny with grease. Saul's hair was impossible. He never had taken much stock in appearances, and I had long ago given up trying to convince him of the social benefits good grooming had to offer. Shit, I was one to talk, anyway. The only body hair I really concerned myself with was that on my eyebrows, and about this, I was obsessive. I mused on this, sucking on my pipe. I often look as if I'm pondering the universes' riddles when I am in fact concerned soley with the mundane.
He sighed. I snapped back to attention.
"Does the crying bother you?"
"It bothers me." This was true. I found it impossible to do anything when I heard it. And I heard it all too frequently. Lately, it felt like any time I was alone in the apartment, it would begin, a dull wail followed by choking sobs. Sometimes they were muffled, sometimes not. Sometimes I would wake to it, and the sound would fill me with such dread that I would wonder, for the thousandth time, if the author of such profound grief could be human.
I used to think it was a child, until one rainy afternoon when I was carrying groceries up the narrow, putrid hallway, trying unsuccessfully not to touch the walls, as I was convinced that they would give me a disease. What was I afraid of catching? Poverty? Despair? Whatever it was, I was completely resigned to it now, and neither walls nor carpet nor kitchen bothered me. Or, they continued to bother me, but I had successfully squelched most feelings of fear and revulsion. I wasn't ahppy with it, but I'd accepted it. There's a lot to be said for acceptance. It makes everything easier, when you lead a miserable existence. I saw her in the stairwell. She wasn't shouting then, or pleading, as I'd heard her so often through the walls. She was just standing there, in the doorway, crying, and wearing a nightgown. Her face was unmade and her hair uncombed, and I felt somehow that it was obscene, so I turned away and continued up the stairs. A man brushed past me on his way down, so average I barely remember him. He was wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, neither particularly new, and he was of average height, definitely under six feet, probably brown, thinning hair, probably medium build. I say probably because I am guessing, because I wasn't paying much attention. I didn't realize until I got into the apartment and put the grocery bag on the counter that she was crying for him, that the unassuming man on the stairwell was the reason I was up so many nights. He hadn't looked like anything. I couldntve picked him out of a lineup.
I wished I'd known in that moment in the stairwell, wish I'd looked closer, into his face, into his eyes. If I had, I would have something to picture all of those late nights, something besides her face, raw, pathetic, and streaked with tears.
"We could call the cops," Saul was saying.
I shook my head.
"They won't do anything unless she stands up for herself, and I don't think that's very likely."
"Well, what do you want to do? Find a new apartment?" He said this out of frustration, I knew, but it wasn't a real question. Neither of us could afford anything more that what we were paying for already, not unless it we got something even further out, in an even rougher neighborhood. My busride was already an hour. No way.
"I don't know," I admitted, "I don't have a solution. It's just driving me nuts."
He looked at me with frustration, but his expression immediately melted into sympathy when he saw the tears in my eyes. He hugged me again, a bit closer this time, and again, I allowed myself to enjoy it.
"Don't worry," he told me, "we'll think of something." His phone rang, and, with a sigh, he pulled away. He has a habit of screening his calls, so that I could read the name before he answered it, even if it was upside down.
"Anton," he said, sounding a bit more cheerful than I guessed he was, "hello."
That wasn't the only reason I called him, of course. I did have an excuse. I'd have preferred it to have been Anton.
"She's crying again," I told him, feeling lame as I said it. I expected him to scowl at me, but his only expression was one of furrowed concern.
"Look, we can't keep doing this. I think I should talk to the landlord."
"And get them thrown out? That would hardly be a solution!"
"It would stop this. This is a problem. You can't even be comfortable in your own house!"
"And what about her problems?"
He walked across the room, which only took him a couple of steps. He fished out a pack of smokes, tapped one out (I have never understood why he does that) placed it loosely between his lips, and lit it. As he inhaled, he squinted out of the dingy window. He ran a hair through his hair, which was not brown, not blonde, and already greying. It fell back immediately into a heavy shelf, shiny with grease. Saul's hair was impossible. He never had taken much stock in appearances, and I had long ago given up trying to convince him of the social benefits good grooming had to offer. Shit, I was one to talk, anyway. The only body hair I really concerned myself with was that on my eyebrows, and about this, I was obsessive. I mused on this, sucking on my pipe. I often look as if I'm pondering the universes' riddles when I am in fact concerned soley with the mundane.
He sighed. I snapped back to attention.
"Does the crying bother you?"
"It bothers me." This was true. I found it impossible to do anything when I heard it. And I heard it all too frequently. Lately, it felt like any time I was alone in the apartment, it would begin, a dull wail followed by choking sobs. Sometimes they were muffled, sometimes not. Sometimes I would wake to it, and the sound would fill me with such dread that I would wonder, for the thousandth time, if the author of such profound grief could be human.
I used to think it was a child, until one rainy afternoon when I was carrying groceries up the narrow, putrid hallway, trying unsuccessfully not to touch the walls, as I was convinced that they would give me a disease. What was I afraid of catching? Poverty? Despair? Whatever it was, I was completely resigned to it now, and neither walls nor carpet nor kitchen bothered me. Or, they continued to bother me, but I had successfully squelched most feelings of fear and revulsion. I wasn't ahppy with it, but I'd accepted it. There's a lot to be said for acceptance. It makes everything easier, when you lead a miserable existence. I saw her in the stairwell. She wasn't shouting then, or pleading, as I'd heard her so often through the walls. She was just standing there, in the doorway, crying, and wearing a nightgown. Her face was unmade and her hair uncombed, and I felt somehow that it was obscene, so I turned away and continued up the stairs. A man brushed past me on his way down, so average I barely remember him. He was wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, neither particularly new, and he was of average height, definitely under six feet, probably brown, thinning hair, probably medium build. I say probably because I am guessing, because I wasn't paying much attention. I didn't realize until I got into the apartment and put the grocery bag on the counter that she was crying for him, that the unassuming man on the stairwell was the reason I was up so many nights. He hadn't looked like anything. I couldntve picked him out of a lineup.
I wished I'd known in that moment in the stairwell, wish I'd looked closer, into his face, into his eyes. If I had, I would have something to picture all of those late nights, something besides her face, raw, pathetic, and streaked with tears.
"We could call the cops," Saul was saying.
I shook my head.
"They won't do anything unless she stands up for herself, and I don't think that's very likely."
"Well, what do you want to do? Find a new apartment?" He said this out of frustration, I knew, but it wasn't a real question. Neither of us could afford anything more that what we were paying for already, not unless it we got something even further out, in an even rougher neighborhood. My busride was already an hour. No way.
"I don't know," I admitted, "I don't have a solution. It's just driving me nuts."
He looked at me with frustration, but his expression immediately melted into sympathy when he saw the tears in my eyes. He hugged me again, a bit closer this time, and again, I allowed myself to enjoy it.
"Don't worry," he told me, "we'll think of something." His phone rang, and, with a sigh, he pulled away. He has a habit of screening his calls, so that I could read the name before he answered it, even if it was upside down.
"Anton," he said, sounding a bit more cheerful than I guessed he was, "hello."
Chapter 4 - two weeks before the key is found
Anton was the first person I called, but Saul was the first one to show up. I don't blame Anton, or I didn't then, for failing to climb down out of his bucket truck to answer the cell phone in the cab, or abandoning his post out on the lines as soon as he got the message, but Saul answered emails for a living so he was less concerned about ditching out at a moments notice.
I was in that ugly ugly apartment, the one we had together, with him in the second bedroom, carpetting everywhere that we were sure they had never pulled up but just added another layer every few years. The floor felt soupy in every room but the kitchen where the vynil was scared and pitted and the pits filled with blackened grease no matter how you scrub.
Dark grease or no the kitchen has always been the most comfortable room in any house I've been in so that's where was, having an out-of-character smoke when Saul ran up the stairs.
"Oh man," he said, "oh man,"and rushed me, half stooping, his arms outstretched like he was rushing a pass.
I let him hold me, then. his touch was light and didn't press on any part of me. I liked it, liked that he didn't talk or say he was sorry, or whatever. The trouble with a dog would have been that it didn't understand. I let him hold me until my eye couldn't stop following a fruit fly in the sunbeam from the kitchen's lone window.
Pipe tobacco has a way of going out if you're not puffing away at it, the little cherry bowl in my left seemed to be petering out, I slipped back and put it back in my mouth.
"What do you want?" he said, grabbing both my forearms, still crunched down on the floor to face me while I sat in the chair.
It's the purest thing, a question like that. It wasn't the ideal moment for wish fulfullment, but it was the best thing that anyone could have said.
"Could you light this again for me?"
I was in that ugly ugly apartment, the one we had together, with him in the second bedroom, carpetting everywhere that we were sure they had never pulled up but just added another layer every few years. The floor felt soupy in every room but the kitchen where the vynil was scared and pitted and the pits filled with blackened grease no matter how you scrub.
Dark grease or no the kitchen has always been the most comfortable room in any house I've been in so that's where was, having an out-of-character smoke when Saul ran up the stairs.
"Oh man," he said, "oh man,"and rushed me, half stooping, his arms outstretched like he was rushing a pass.
I let him hold me, then. his touch was light and didn't press on any part of me. I liked it, liked that he didn't talk or say he was sorry, or whatever. The trouble with a dog would have been that it didn't understand. I let him hold me until my eye couldn't stop following a fruit fly in the sunbeam from the kitchen's lone window.
Pipe tobacco has a way of going out if you're not puffing away at it, the little cherry bowl in my left seemed to be petering out, I slipped back and put it back in my mouth.
"What do you want?" he said, grabbing both my forearms, still crunched down on the floor to face me while I sat in the chair.
It's the purest thing, a question like that. It wasn't the ideal moment for wish fulfullment, but it was the best thing that anyone could have said.
"Could you light this again for me?"
Chapter 3 - two weeks before the key is found
Pulling drinks at Starbucks isn't anyone's dream, but after seven weeks sleeping on a kind-of friend's couch, looking for jobs all over the city under creepy, edgy managers and guys who interview you in shorts, it can feel like a rope. Save up and you can pay for the doctor, and they pay for dental cleanings.
It messes up your feet. They give you these short little shifts, if they've got enough people working, but still after four hours the little drips from the steam nozzles get down through the vents in your shoes and the skin swells and gets soft.
There's this guy working there, his name's dean. He's got no plans for college and I figure he's 19 at the oldest, but he's got this thick, fine hair and these big white teeth. It's unfortunate, thinking about a guy you'd like to have sucking your toes while you know that your feet at this moment are covered in skin like the inside of tangarine peels.
The rule is that your not supposed to keep a cell phone in your pocket at work. I guess most of the people here just graduated from high school, and people like that tend to have a lot friends around their hometown. I guess, from the scene right outside the door when they get off shift, the teenage girls I work with get hundreds of messages a day and their phone would be ringing all the time after twelve. But once in a while Anton calls me at work about picking me up, or maybe Erin calls on a friday to see if I want to play squash on Saturday, and that's about it. My boss, or supervisor, or whatever, lets me keep my phone while I'm on shift. I don't know if the fact that she's two years younger than me and that supervisors are allowed to keep their phones has any weight, but I get to keep my phone.
That meant there were no tearful voicemails, no guilt about not checking my messages sooner, no timezoned waiting till next morning to return my dad's wife's call.
No, I got the call with water dripping on my feet, and some solicitous asshole wearing a fleece vest smiling over the pastry case at me preparing his lame flirtatious comment while his wife gets their two kids settled.
It messes up your feet. They give you these short little shifts, if they've got enough people working, but still after four hours the little drips from the steam nozzles get down through the vents in your shoes and the skin swells and gets soft.
There's this guy working there, his name's dean. He's got no plans for college and I figure he's 19 at the oldest, but he's got this thick, fine hair and these big white teeth. It's unfortunate, thinking about a guy you'd like to have sucking your toes while you know that your feet at this moment are covered in skin like the inside of tangarine peels.
The rule is that your not supposed to keep a cell phone in your pocket at work. I guess most of the people here just graduated from high school, and people like that tend to have a lot friends around their hometown. I guess, from the scene right outside the door when they get off shift, the teenage girls I work with get hundreds of messages a day and their phone would be ringing all the time after twelve. But once in a while Anton calls me at work about picking me up, or maybe Erin calls on a friday to see if I want to play squash on Saturday, and that's about it. My boss, or supervisor, or whatever, lets me keep my phone while I'm on shift. I don't know if the fact that she's two years younger than me and that supervisors are allowed to keep their phones has any weight, but I get to keep my phone.
That meant there were no tearful voicemails, no guilt about not checking my messages sooner, no timezoned waiting till next morning to return my dad's wife's call.
No, I got the call with water dripping on my feet, and some solicitous asshole wearing a fleece vest smiling over the pastry case at me preparing his lame flirtatious comment while his wife gets their two kids settled.
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