Chapter 7
Doug
Doug arrived at the EdgeTech Gutters office and smiled at Molly, his boss’s wife. John and Molly had only bought EdgeTech
this calendar year, and they were a little stressed. Normally, Doug found that some light flirting helped dissipate the tension
in the air, but today he had doughnuts. He slid the box onto the reception counter.
The Franklin Street storefront that EdgeTech occupied was hideous, with its drop ceiling and fluorescent lighting. The small
Christmas tree on the reception counter only served to highlight how depressingly beige the rest of the place was.
“Happy New Year’s, don’t thank me,” said Doug.
“Oh, how nice,” said Molly, lifting the cover an inch, but somehow, she didn’t look too happy about the treat.
“You know, just something festive to mark the last day of the year,” he said. “So! What do you got for me today?” He rubbed
his hands together like he was ready for a good day’s work. He had a good grin. Phelps may have been voted Most Likely to
Be President back in high school (what a laugh), but Doug had been voted Senior Class Lady Killer, and he liked to make Molly
blush every now and then to prove he still had it.
Usually, Molly smiled and handed him his agenda for the day—all the appointments for estimates.
He’d go to the first home, take his measurements.
Then he’d sit down with the homeowners. Both, if it was a couple—that was nonnegotiable, or else they’d use the spouse excuse to put off their decision.
There was a binder, and a presentation about the gutter system.
You never presented the price up front; you had to tell the story first, so they were sold on the product but also a little anxious.
Doug had discovered, with pleasure, that he was good at selling gutters.
He’d made up a couple bullshit stories about various old ladies who didn’t clean or replace their broken
gutters and got into real trouble with colonies of bees, or mice, then he’d embellished with a nest of raccoons, and the raccoon
angle alone had made him two sales. He needed to work out a couple more stories. Gutters weren’t an exciting pleasure item
people wanted to spend money on. No, fear sold gutters.
He should remember that line. It would be funny to use tonight, at the party. He could imagine himself saying it. I’m not gonna lie; fear sells gutters, people. Make everyone laugh like he used to.
“John wants to talk to you first,” said Molly.
“Sure, no problem,” said Doug, heading back toward her husband’s office. He could hear John on the phone inside and waited
until there was silence before tapping his knuckles on the door. “John?”
“Come in.”
Doug closed the door behind him. The office was small, stuffy. If it was Doug’s office, he’d sure as hell invest in a better
chair. Goddamn John was a cheapskate.
“Your lovely wife said you wanted to talk to me? Oh, I brought doughnuts. They’re—” He jerked his thumb at the door behind
him. “Want me to get you one? I was just thinking, last day of the year, holiday spirit—”
“No, thank you, Doug, no doughnuts for me today.”
Doug thumped his stomach with both hands. “Ah, I get it, getting a jump start on those New Year’s resolutions, am I right?”
John made a pained smile. “Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” Doug planted his feet and crossed his arms, like he was ready for anything. Fear sold gutters, but confidence bought
raises, and he had been angling for one. Dropping little comments about how naturally selling gutters came to him, how much
he believed in the EdgeTech gutter system, how he could see himself doing this long-term, how it was practically a public
service.
Suddenly he realized what this would be about. The promotion. Of course—end of the year—a nice raise effective the first day
of 2020; he’d go from junior sales associate to sales associate. It came not only with a small increase in base salary, but
a bump in commission level. He’d tell Hellie—he’d tell them all tonight—and they’d toast the New Year and maybe he would see
that spark of trusting light come back into Hellie’s eyes—
“I have to let you go.”
John said the words, but they were like slow-motion bullets zooming toward Doug.
I.
Have to.
Let you.
Go.
Boom, into his chest, word by word, they hit.
Time stopped.
All of a sudden Doug’s old ear injury roared to life. A buzzy, high-pitched squeal in his right ear. He poked a finger in
and swiveled.
“What?”
“Let you go,” John repeated.
Doug’s cheeks flooded with heat. It was like a million déjà vus in an avalanche, burying him before he could catch his breath. It was a dozen managers saying, You’re fired.
We caught you taking the petty cash.
You no-call no-showed.
Your references were fake. And on and on.
“I didn’t do anything, man!” said Doug. Was he shouting? The ringing in his ear made it hard to tell.
John raised a sheaf of papers. “This came through this morning. Doug, you have a conviction for assault in Louisiana. Theft
in Kentucky. Possession with intent to sell in this very county. You’re a—a—” John looked flustered “—a walking liability!”
“I didn’t sign any background check release,” said Doug. He could deny. Deny all day. There had to be more Doug Pflugers in
this goddamn country.
“We didn’t background check you,” said John. His cheeks were pink, but his voice remained calm. “We asked you in good faith
if you had a clean record, and you said yes.”
Doug pointed to the papers. “Where did you get that?”
“Are you denying it?”
“Who sent that pack of lies to you?”
“I don’t know!” John raised innocent hands.
“This is a bunch of bullshit! You can’t fire me over this!”
“I wanted to have a calm conversation with you, Doug. Can we please—”
“Because this is illegal! You don’t even have an HR department! Molly is a joke, okay? If you guys had your shit together,
you would know that this is discrimination, and I can sue your fucking asses over this—”
John raised his voice. “Look, Doug, this showed up in my fax machine right before you got here. What do you expect me to do?
Keep you on, wait for—”
“Oh, so some rando just sent it to you?”
“It appears so.”
“And you believe them?”
“I made some calls and—”
Nope. Hell to the nope.
“This is some goddamn bullshit, and you know it, John! I’ve sold your fucking gutters all over town and there is no one better than me! You think you can replace me? Guess again. I’m going to tarnish your fucking business all over the internet
for this. And get a lawyer. Oh, and also? Fuck you, and fuck your fat, ugly wife.”
He stormed out. As he passed reception, he slammed a fist into the doughnuts. He heard Molly gasp as he blew through the front
door. He barely felt the cold, that’s how hot he was inside. There was a little bar across the street. He was eighty-nine
days sober, and you know what, every day had been a fucking trial, no one knew how hard it was to stay clean, but now they had bullied him and provoked him and pushed him right to the edge—
Doug stormed into the bar.
“We’re not open,” said a young woman—a girl, really—who was polishing cups.
“I need a drink.”
He needed way more than a drink, but he would start there. Eighty-nine days of denying himself—for what?
The bartender didn’t seem alarmed as Doug sat down and leaned heavily on the bar. His heartbeat was slowing down a little.
The world, which had stopped for a few seconds, then sped into a frenzy, was now slowing back down, finally operating at something
closer to a normal speed again.
He groaned.
Hellie.
Hellie in the sparkling green dress tonight, greeting him with her sweet smile, thinking all was well.
He could lie tonight. How was work? she’d say. Oh, you know . . . work. A nonchalant grin, one bullshit story about a customer just crazy enough to be true . . .
But tomorrow, could he keep pretending? And the next day? He’d done it before. Eventually, she’d notice the paycheck hadn’t
come. There would be questions. He could feign indignation. Those fuckers didn’t pay me? Pretend to quit over it. The problem is, he’d used this bag of tricks before. And not just once.
“Are you okay?” said a tentative voice. The girl at the bar. So damn sweet. So damn nice. With no idea what a backstabbing
fuck of a world it was.
“My marriage is over,” he said, rubbing his face.
Fuck. His marriage was over. He and Hellie had been together since they were seventeen. She’d put up with his shit, he’d put
up with hers. One more chance, she had said, her pale face set. She’d never given him ultimatums before, and he knew she was serious.
He was so fucked. Even if he told her this wasn’t his fault, what were the chances she’d believe him? He could lay out the
real, actual goddamn truth and she’d think it was a lie.
The bartender poured him a shot. “Here. It’s on me. But then you have to go. We really are closed. I just forgot to lock the
front, okay?”
“I’ll do one if you do one.” Now that he was doing this, he was so damn thirsty he could hardly wait. His entire body was
pounding for it, and why resist? Why fucking fight when he couldn’t win, when the entire world was stacked against him?
The bartender grinned, shaking her head as she ducked behind the bar. Doug pulled out his phone while she got out the glasses.
He couldn’t go home to Hellie now. He had to stay out as long as he would have been at work. He shot off a text to the one
person who’d probably be home right now: Ted Kristos. His old high school buddy, never a part of the OG Four, but always kind
of lingering around the edges.
The bartender poured. “Cheers,” she said. They clinked their glasses and swallowed. Doug barely felt it go down, that’s how easy it was to slip right off the edge. The warmth of the liquor spread through him. God it felt good. It shouldn’t be this easy to fuck up.
What wouldn’t be so easy was tonight. New Year’s. Everyone back together. Everyone wanting updates, assessing how he was doing.
Well, there was only one fucking option, wasn’t there? Tell them all, Hellie included, that he’d gotten promoted, which was
supposed to happen anyway, which he actually deserved based on his actual performance at that fucking job. He’d lie one more
time, because the last thing he wanted was to look like a fuckup in front of all his friends during their first reunion in
five years. They’d sing “Auld Lang Syne” at the top of their lungs and smoke a joint in the Dog House and then, in the morning,
he’d rip off the Band-Aid and tell Hellie the truth.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just drive away instead. It’s not like Granny would miss her car—or him.
Or maybe he’d kill himself.
Maybe he should do that.
But not until tomorrow. There would be something poetic about killing himself in the New Year, and Doug had always had a weakness
for poetry, which is why he loved rock ’n’ roll so much.
His phone dinged. It was Ted. Sure man come on over
Ted Kristos’s house it was. He wouldn’t use, of course . . . He’d just crash on Ted’s couch for a few hours . . . if Ted had
a couch these days, since with Ted it was feast or famine. Maybe help himself to a beer or something.
“Thanks,” he said to the bartender. He slapped the counter twice. “Really. Thanks, I mean it.”
“Take care of yourself,” she said.
He pulled the hood of his coat up and left.
Maybe he’d do it while the sun came up, he thought as he climbed into his car.
Not near Hellie—God, he wouldn’t want to put her through that—maybe in Phelps’s shed.
Phelps could find him. Phelps could take it.
He’d be good at breaking it to Hellie too.
Compassionate. Maybe Phelps would even sleep with Hellie.
Poor Hellie. That would be good for her, wouldn’t it?
A moment in the sack to forget about Doug?
The thought ripped him apart. He leaned his head down over the steering wheel and felt tears on the back of his hands.
Thankfully he already had a gun.