Archives: July 23-July 29, 2006

July 23, 2006

Jermaine stands up above me, on a rickety old ladder that I hold steady, changing a light bulb in the ceiling. It's a pretty busy Sunday, and my role is equally to keep the ladder in place and keep any careless customers from bumping into it or, worse yet, trying to use it. “So you ask Anastasia out yet?”

“What?” I ask looking up at him all at once.

“Have you made your move on Anastasia yet?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, man.”

“Here, take this.” He hands down the old, dead bulb. I hand him the new one and he turns his attention back upward. “It's clear enough you like the girl. So what are you waiting for?”

I decide not to argue the point. “I don't know. I mean, you think she'd be up for doing something?”

“Never gonna know unless you try.”

“Or I can wait it out until I know.”

Jermaine shakes his head as he screws in the new bulb. “Summertime is short, Preston . You keep waiting, you ain't gonna have any time left.”

He's got a point. I head back to school in a month. “Yeah, but maybe that means I shouldn't even bother. It's like, best case scenario, I get a good thing going with her for a month, and then we've got a long distance relationship. And I'm not gonna lie, that didn't work out so well for me the last time.”

“Don't give me that.”

“What?”

“You came in here and you hated her. Then you switched over on her. All of a sudden, every time we work together, you're asking me questions about her—and I don't even know her that well.”

“Well sorry if I've been a nuisance.”

“It's not that.” Jermaine swings shut a cover over the light and climbs down the ladder. “It's just that you gotta take some action. So what if it's just for the summer? Have some fun. Bury that Veronica chick, so you can go back to school a new man.” Jermaine closes up the ladder. “You can rationalize it any way you want. But you like this girl. So make the most of it.” He pauses, then hands off the ladder to me. “And while you're at it, carry this back to the office for me.”

July 24, 2006

“All right kids, it's been real,” Jermaine says, locking the gate on Stephon's. It's just him, me and Anastasia closing tonight. Jermaine darts me a look then heads off further into the mall so I can walk her out on my own.

We head toward the exit. “So busy night tonight, huh?” I ask.

“For a Monday,” she agrees. Pushing open the door and holding it for me.

“So where'd you park?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked where you parked,” I repeat. “I'll walk you to your car.”

“I walk. I'm only a mile away.”

We stand in the parking lot. There are less than ten cars out here—mine among those of the employees at other stores, still closing up for the night. “You're kidding me.”

“Hmm?”

“You shouldn't be walking home alone this time of night.”

“We're in Shermantown. What's going to happen?”

“I don't care where you are. Would you let your niece walk home alone?” I finish the question through gritted teeth, half testing the waters.

“My niece is only one, so no, I wouldn't really let her be alone, period,” she says, but slows down her walking pace. “But I guess if you wanted to give me a ride home, we could do that.”

So we do.

The radio's on a little too loud when I start up the car. I lower it a little, then change the station a couple times as I make my way out of the parking lot. Taking a turn out onto the road, I have to abandon the dial, and come to the conclusion there's not right station to pick anyway. I don't know what she likes. Is the pop ballad I left on too cheesy for the situation? Or does that make it perfect?

“I like this song,” she says, in that instant, making it perfect.

She directs me toward and the drive only takes a minute. I turn into her driveway, then turn the headlights down. The house is dark, and I imagine everyone inside is asleep.

“Well, thanks for the ride,” she says.

“Yeah, no problem at all.”

I should kiss her.

Anastasia flicks the door handle opening it up. She gives me the tiniest smile, then turns away.

I should walk her to her door.

I'm frozen.

“Have a good night,” I call after her.

She turns back to me and smiles again, before closing the door.

She's gone.

July 25, 2006

“Thanks, have a great day.” I say, sending a guy about my age on his way with his new pair of jeans.

“You know,” Julie says, “the official way to end an exchange with a customer is to ask them to please come again.”

“Is that so?”

“It's protocol.”

“Guess I missed that part of training.”

Julie looks past me, smiles and waves. I follow her line of vision only to find Johnny Reed in the store.

“Uh, maybe I should I go,” I start.

She turns back to me, speaking lowly. “I told you, don't worry about that.”

“All right,” I say, not sure. I can tell the exact moment when Johnny sees me as the I'm-about-to-see-my-girlfriend smile wavers, and his eyes turn to a glare.

“Hey Jay,” she says.

“Hey babe.” He turns to me. “Sup Preston .”

“Nothing much Johnny,” I say, more than a little surprised. “How you doing?”

He only nods in response, turning back to Julie, handing her a car key.. “Oil change is all set. They said there was some problem with the muffler, but I told not to worry about it.”

“Perfect.” She leans over the counter and kisses his cheek.

It looks like Julie's right that Johnny doesn't have any intentions of pulverizing me—at least not here and now. Nonetheless, I can't say I have any interest in hanging out with the guy, and so head off into the store, straightening up the racks. Johnny takes one more glance back at me, then returns his full attention to Julie.

July 26, 2006

When I get home from work around 5, I can already smell the barbecue from the back, and know Dad's home early. “ Preston ,” he says, when I head out to the porch. “Glad you came back. What can I interest you in? Hamburger? Hot dog? Chicken?”

“I'll go with a burger,” I say.

“You got it,” Dad says, and turns to the supply of meat at his side. He runs a bare forearm over his head to wipe the sweat away. The day's shirt and tie are long gone and he's down to just a wife beater, dress slacks, and Movado wristwatch.

Dad tends to grill in bulk. I go inside to change and wash up and by the time I'm out there a three burgers waiting for me, while Dad grills a set of hotdogs for himself. “So say,” he starts up while I douse my burgers in ketchup, “you didn't make any plans for the weekend of the eleventh did you?”

“I don't think so—why do you ask?”

“I was thinking we might revive the old father-son camping trip tradition.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well we used to do that for Ray's birthday, because he liked doing it. And even then, we stopped the summer before he left for college.”

“I know,” Dad says, grabbing the tongs from the side of the grill. “But I was thinking that we hardly ever see each other anymore—and that's while you are home. We should really take advantage of this time more—get out there and put work aside for a weekend. What do you say?”

I'm not wild about the idea. Camping was never really my thing. But then, I appreciate what Dad is saying, and it's not as though he's really asked a lot of me since I got back. And he gave me the car.

“Tell you what,” I say, “I'll request off from work. As long as they don't need me, let's do it.”

“That's my boy,” Dad says with a laugh, expertly laying the hotdogs into the three buns he has lined up on his plate. “We're gonna have a good time, Preston , I guarantee it.”

I nod.

“By the way, you make any headway on cleaning up the office yet?”

I forgot about that. When I got home from visiting Matt, Dad asked me to clean up his home office, a small room he used to work out of when Ray and I were both still in the house. I guess he's thinking about starting to use it again. “I'll get on it this week,” I say. “You can count on it.”

July 27, 2006

From the second I hear it, I know that there's something off about Dave's voice. "How you doing?" I ask over the phone, closing up the curtains in my bedroom. It's just past 11, and I'm thinking about calling it an early night.

Dave laughs. "Shit, Preston , things are good. How about you?"

"I'm doing all right, man." Neither of us say anything for a moment, so I go on, "What are you up to tonight?"

"Went to another open mic. Was playing this U2 song—went over large. So then these people asked me if I wanted to hang out after. So I figured, what the fuck?" He trails off, laughing again.

"Dave, is everything all right?"

"Everything's fucking awesome."I've only heard Dave like this a couple times, and decide to cut to the chase. "I thought you weren't going to be smoking after what happened the last time."

" Preston , I smoke every day."

"I'm not talking about that."

"You were always on my case about smoking. Remember—especially before the basketball tournament—"

"Dave, what did you smoke tonight?"

He laughs again. "Always a boy scout, Preston . I'll catch you later, buddy." With that he hangs up.

I think about calling him back, but it's not as though it would do any good. He's hours away, and not about to listen to me on the phone. Maybe it's just one night—one open mic, hanging out with those people one time. I let it go.

July 28, 2006

My father never used his home office all that regularly. He's a workaholic by nature, and the idea behind setting up the office was for so he could be a family man and hard at work all at once. In reality, though, the bulk of his work has always been in the office, and the space at home was more for show, and maybe storage.

It's a mess. There are papers from ten years ago littering his desk—personal correspondence and old bills, alongside faxes from other attorneys, and pages upon yellow pages ripped from legal pads, covered in my father's scrawl.

I throw away most of it, as my father instructed me to do, feeding anything that might be confidential through the little home shredder.

When the desktop is clear, I begin working through drawers, which are in a little better order, with labeled file folders—even if some of the labels are wrong. Sandwiched between “McDurney Case” and “Office Rental Info” is file marked “Family”—a strange departure from an otherwise all-business place. There are photos inside—family portraits, a grainy old picture of my mother. I find newspaper clippings too—his uncle's obituary, engagement announcements, announcements of the births of me, Ray, and our cousins—and of Derek O'Malley.

At first, I set aside as a notice about some distant relative. But we're a pretty small family. I think she must be a friend, or maybe even a client. I put the file aside, but can't help reopening it and turning back to that clipping.

Derek O'Malley, son of Katherine O'Malley, born September 24, 1987 in the Shermantown General Hospital —exactly ten days after me, and in the same place. If it is a family a friend, I wonder why I haven't heard any story about that.

It's probably nothing.

Still, I find myself stuck on it.

July 29, 2006

When we leave work, heading out of the mall, Anastasia and I head directly to my car. I like that we've progressed to this point over the last week—that I don't have to offer anymore, and she doesn't have to do anything more than walk along to the same area of the parking lot where I park most nights.

I still haven't made a move.

As I turn on the car, Anastasia rolls down her power window, letting in some of the chill night air. I steal a glance at her before turning to my rearview mirror, popping the car into reverse.

There are only a few weeks left of summer. Matt will be home before long. Then I'll be back to college a few days after that. My mind turns to what Jermaine said about making the most of a situation—about doing something about Anastasia.

“Why don't we go somewhere?” I ask, not daring to take my eyes off the road.

“Like where?”

I swallow. “How about The Palace?”

“We're not going to get into a bar, Preston .”

“You ever tried at The Palace?”

“I don't even have a fake.”

“Don't worry about it.”

In ten minutes we're there. My fake gets me through the door, then I meet Anastasia at the side door, where I've seen people slipping in all the time. It's a Saturday night, and the place it too crowded for anyone to notice.

I get myself a beer and buy her a Smirnoff. Julie's here with Johnny Reed. I give them a friendly nod, and Johnny turns away, while Julie smiles when she sees who I'm with. Anastasia just looks all around her, not noticing Julie, or not acknowledging her if she does. Anastasia never went away to college, and lives with a baby niece. I wonder if she's been in a bar before.

We sit in a corner table. “I don't know how you drink that,” she scowls as I sip from my bottle.

“It's an acquired taste. Acquired through a year of college.”

She shakes her head. “I'll pass on that,” she says, drinking from her own bottle. “What's the point in acquiring a taste when there's something that actually tastes good from the beginning?”

“You know, I've never actually tried one of those.”

Anastasia slides the bottle toward me. It's cold to the touch, and in a second, I feel her fingers, just a shave warmer, touching the back of my hand. I take the bottle in my left hand—my other hand—as I lock fingers with her.

The Smirnoff is sweet enough to sting my tongue as I sip it. Anastasia's eyes gleam.