Take Me On

Chapter 20

West

A few blocks up from Haley, I lean on the glass of the pawn-shop display counter and count the wad of cash the street-hustler-owner of the joint just gave me. The owner reminds me of a fattened hog prepared especially for Christmas as the legs of the stool he sits on creak under his weight.

“You don’t trust me,” he says.

“No.” I got played on the cost of my watch, even with negotiating him much higher than his initial price. Now I have money for food, gas and a few items for school. The temptation to rent a hotel room hovers around me, but I’ve got to think further than that.

“Good,” he says. “It means you’re smart.”

The glass cases on the wall contain guns and electronics. In the display below me, a couple of old baseball players stare at me from their cards. When I count out three hundred for the second time, I shove the wad into my front pocket. An asshole pickpocket is going to have a rough time digging in the front of my jeans to get their gold.

“Anyone around here hiring?” At this point, I’ll shovel shit if it means I can have a roof over my head.

A smoker’s hack shakes his fat rolls. “Everyone’s looking for a job, boy.”

Yeah, I’m sure they are. Here’s the problem with landing a job: I need a phone and unless I plan on returning home with my tail tucked between my legs to retrieve my charger or to beg Dad to take me back, I’m SOL.

I scratch my head as I leave the shop and pause against the wall. Two skaters fly past. My stomach growls and a pang shoots through it, almost doubling me over. Hunger. It’s surreal that a few days ago I was here stalking my mother.

My temples throb, and as I spot a guy head out of the grocery store with a loaf of bread dangling from his hand, I bury the urge to snatch it from him. I’ve got money now and can buy my own loaf of bread. Maybe some meat.

Every time I came here peddling for pot, I’d mumble to some lowlife pleading for change to get a job. The pounding in my head intensifies. I’d get a job if I could. In a world that seemed black-and-white days before, now all I can see is gray.

Down the covered sidewalk, two guys stumble out of the bar, completely ripped. I used to come here to protect my mother. Each time I think of her, I feel like a frayed string is winding tightly around a nerve, cutting it off. I should find a pay phone and call her.

Gravity or just plain magnetic curiosity pulls me in the direction of the bar. There are three signs on its door and one grabs my attention. It’s not the one that indicates no one under twenty-one can be admitted nor is it the one stating motorcycle gang colors aren’t allowed. I’m interested in the help wanted sign: bartender and handyman. If I work here, I can score some cash and possibly some information on Mom.

Inside, the strong odor of spilled beer permeates from the drywall. To my right, a guy in a wifebeater breaks the balls on the pool table. The loud crack thunders in the boxed-in room and Hank Williams croons over the speakers. Neon signs advertising different beers hang on the wall and illuminate the dark dive.

My shoes stick to the concrete floor and, as I walk to the bar, I try to find one redeeming reason why my mother frequents this dump, even if it is for a fuck. Mom’s in her fifties, but she still turns the heads of guys at those charity balls. No need to lower or demean herself.

“Hey,” I call to the Vin Diesel bartender hovering over a small laptop. He’s a huge son of a bitch with a completely shaved head. “I hear you’re looking for help.”

“You a bartender?” he asks without glancing up.

I’ve mixed a few drinks at parties and nobody died. “No.”

“Then I don’t want you.”

“You should check him out, Denny,” says that same damn feminine voice that keeps popping up at the wrong times. Like the beginning of a bad dirty joke, Abby waltzes into the bar. She brushes past me and reminds me of a lazy cat as she slips onto a bar stool. “S’up, West.”

“You stalking me?”

She snorts. “You wish. I finished some business next door and saw you wander into this fine establishment.” Abby leans over the bar. “Where are the cherries?”

Denny slams his laptop shut. “I’m not a food pantry, Abby.”

“Hello, I get two of my four food groups here.” Abby lifts the bowl of peanuts and swivels it. “Protein food group and the cherries are the dessert group. You’ll feel bad if I die of malnourishment.”

My mouth waters at the sight of the peanuts and my stomach growls loud enough that Abby lifts a brow.

The Vin Diesel wannabe actually cracks a smile. He picks up a foam container and the smile fades as his eyes land on me. “What the fuck are you doing here?” His words are angry, but his tone isn’t. I have no idea what to make of him.

Abby grabs a fistful of peanuts and feeds them into her mouth, one at a time. I watch each one disappear behind her lips, almost tasting the salt on my tongue. Her eyes flicker between me and the bartender and I try to refocus on this moment, not on food. A single thought weaves through: Abby knows Mom’s secret. Is this the guy my mom is screwing?

“I’m here for the job,” I say.

Denny tosses the container at Abby and she catches it midair and immediately flips the lid to revel a half-eaten deli sandwich and chips. My knees go weak at the sight. He then crouches, fishes out a jarful of cherries, joins us at the end of the bar and slides it to Abby. She digs in and shoves a cherry in her mouth like she really is on the verge of starvation.

In slight, deliberate movements I’m not sure anyone but me notices, she edges the bowl of peanuts in my direction. I try to act casual as I approach the bar, but I’m so damn hungry it was probably a full-on run. After snatching a handful, I shove them into my mouth. My eyes close as I chew, part relieved, part devastated. How have I been reduced to such desperation?

When I open my eyes, I discover Denny staring at me. “You’re underage.”

“So’s she.” I tilt my head at Abby.

“I just feed her.”

“It’s true.” She tears a hunk out of the sandwich. “See, if you had listened to my story on Saturday morning instead of cutting me off, you’d know that. By the way—” she glances at Denny “—this is West Young. We go to school together.” Her forehead wrinkles as she chews. “I think. I didn’t go today.”

Denny crosses his arms over his chest. “Abby...”

She waves him off. “Yeah, whatever. I get it. I’m going to end up dead and pregnant then dead again by the age of eighteen. Then I’ll have thirty venereal diseases and end up pregnant again before I’ll die in a fiery car crash. Do you have those tiny pretzels? No? Damn.”

Giving up on her, he cocks a hip against the bar and assesses me. “I’ve not seen you around. Are you new to the area?”

I don’t know why, but part of me is disappointed. I hoped his initial reaction meant he knew who I was and therefore he would be the reason why my mother frequented this place, but no go. He could still be the fuck, he just might not be familiar with her children. “Yeah.”

“I meant what I said earlier. I’m looking for a bartender—a legal one.”

“What about the handyman job?” I snag another handful of peanuts. “I’m eighteen.” I’m not, but I will be soon. “And as long as I don’t serve drinks, I can work here.”

“I’m searching for someone to fix things and clean. Are you going to do that?” There’s a clear challenge in his voice.

Last week, hell no. Today? “I’m handy.” It’s true. Rachel’s the car freak, but I’m the one who fixes odd things in the house: loose doorknobs, leaky faucets, dripping toilets. I learned early because Dad was never around and the people Mom hired to do the shit never did it right. “What’s the pay?”

“Ten dollars an hour.”

Abby chokes and pounds a fist into her chest. “My bad. Go on.”

Denny scratches his jaw. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll vouch for him,” Abby says. “He’s a stupid teenager who knows nothing looking for a job. He’s obviously hungry and he’s as naive as the day he was born. I think that screams employment.”

My head snaps to Abby, but before I can tell her where to shove her vouching, she winks at me. “Denny has a soft spot for lost puppies. Trust me—no one else could give you a better recommendation.”

Denny looks me over again, then does the same to Abby. The doubt is etched on his face and I consider begging. My mind begins to section off between sanity and crazy and crazy is pulling ahead for the win.

How can I exist without food? Food means money and money means a job and a job application means a phone and an address. It’s an endless loop where if I don’t have one, then I can’t have the other.

“I could hire him.” Abby tosses a chip into her mouth. “I’ve been considering expanding the business.”

What? Haley said she was a drug dealer. No longer able to stand, I drop to a stool. Buying it is one thing. Selling it...

“You can’t feed yourself,” Denny reminds her.

The glare Abby sends him prickles the skin on the back of my neck. “My assets are continually tied up, but I know people who can pay him.”

Silence before he addresses me. “I’ve got one stall down in the men’s bathroom. If you can fix it, the job is yours.”

“Give me tools and show me the way.” My older brother Jack constantly clogged his toilet.

“Tomorrow,” he responds.

“Now that this is all Brady Bunchesque, I’m thinking finder’s fee.” That damn evil grin crosses Abby’s face.

“Haven’t you ever heard of not biting the hand that feeds you?”

“No, that would have required me to go to school regularly. The way I see it, you were looking for something and I helped you find it. I deserve some appreciation.”

They stare at each other like both of them are contemplating hitting the button that results in nuclear war. Frightening how neither one of them flinches.

“You didn’t find anything,” I say. “I came in here myself.”

Denny pulls his wallet from his back pocket and slams several bills that include zeros in front of Abby. She tucks the cash down her shirt and begins eating again like the whole exchange never happened.

“Tomorrow after school,” says Denny.

When he walks into the back, I steal the rest of the peanuts. “Want to tell me what that was about?”

“No,” she says between bites.

“Is he the reason my mom comes in here?”

She demolishes her sandwich and dusts off her hands. It’s like a curtain shade descends over an open pane and the fallen fabric produces an intricate, sad design. For a few seconds, Abby isn’t the girl I hate. She’s a girl whose outside mirrors my inside. “Has there ever been anything in your life you’ve learned that you wish you could take back knowing?”

A sickeningly sharp pain slices through my stomach, the ache worse than hunger. The serious set of Dad’s face while he told me to get the hell out and the bitter cold and loneliness of three in the morning in the car—I could do without those memories. “Yeah.”

“This is one of those things, okay? Work here, but kill your curiosity. If you can’t, then I suggest the Laundromat. I hear they need an attendant.”

It’s a numbing confession. Could the truth be that bad? “My mom’s having an affair with someone here. Maybe that guy. I can handle it.”

“If it were that easy, I would have dragged you in here last Saturday and introduced you to the issue myself. Leave it alone.”

Abby hops off the stool and steps into me. There’s nothing seductive about it unless you’re the kind of guy that likes to have your dick ripped off and handed back to you. “Tell anyone that Denny gives me food and I swear to God I’ll have you screaming like a little girl.”

I smile because I can tell she means it. “And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

“I’m lethal. Never forget it.”

Abby leaves with as much flair as when she’d traipsed in. Who knows if anything out of her mouth today was the truth, but her last statement... Abby probably has never uttered truer words.