Chapter 24
Ted
My aim is all over the place—even Olivia was better than me, but whatever, I’m having a good time, man.
“Ted the sharpshooter, ladies and gentlemen,” says Phelps dryly.
“Fuck you,” I say in a friendly way.
I pass the BB gun to Doug, who’s now had two tequila shots, to the chagrin of the poor suckers who actually believed in him.
Easy fix for that particular problem, by the way—don’t believe in anyone. Deceptively simple. Maybe one day I’ll write a book.
When Doug grasps the gun and our faces are close, I whisper, “Hey, let’s go to the Dog House and do some more lines,” and
he says, “Shut up, man, not now,” which is code for wait ten minutes.
I back away and notice Hellie is glaring at me with her arms crossed over her puffer coat, but I give her a wide grin and
a thumbs-up. I like Hellie, though I’ve always kind of pitied her. I think we could’ve gotten along. Too bad she doesn’t like
me.
People are so negative about drug usage, but as long as you have the money—and don’t get caught—I don’t see the problem.
Life sucks. It’s really fucking vicious, and if you don’t think so, it’s a function of your fucking privilege and you’ll find out eventually.
Me? I’ve known since I was a kid. Feeling like shit is man’s natural state, considering that we’re living in hell.
My whole philosophy of life is that mankind is in a perennial search for a remedy—something, anything—to minimize the amount of time you feel like shit.
I’m not here to maximize my lifespan. If I die young, who cares?
I’m here to ride as high as I can while I’m here.
I’m quite clear-sighted about big-picture stuff like this.
In a parallel world, I’m definitely a hotshot philosopher, and they pay me to think about this kind of stuff.
Publishers would be wise to approach me, actually—I could write a hell of a self-help book, if the money was good, a fresh new perspective instead of the old recycled shit they’re always putting out.
Think positive? Dear God. No good can come from encouraging people to lie to themselves at that level. But I digress.
For a while, my remedy was religion. That was middle school. My aunt drove me to the Presbyterian church in La Porte. There
was a Sunday morning class for tweens led by Mr. Max, this old guy who was really into Uno. The card game. He was always rewarding
us with candy for memorizing verses, which I was really into—speaking of which, isn’t sugar the original drug? Man, I could have riffed off that in Speech and Debate . . .
Anyway, Jenn and Bunny were in that class too—it was kind of a pre-youth group, with a corny name . . . Young Lights? Junior
Lights? We met in the smelly basement of that old church with the nasty sofas and the broken foosball table. It’s unbelievable
to think about me, Rebecca, and Jennifer together, that the three of us would be aligned for any portion of our very different
lives. Then again, isn’t that childhood when you look back on it? A big old what the fuck?
By the end of eighth grade, my aunt went off the deep end with conspiracy theories and militia shit, so my mom put the kibosh on me riding with her to church and I figured I was probably an atheist anyway.
Thankfully I was just figuring out a new way to get high: school performance.
I was starting to realize how smart I was.
School was a game I could win at with my eyes closed.
The praise, the grades, the admiration—I lived for that shit.
Fast-forward four years when it was time to graduate and I realized .
. . why the hell did I try so hard for four entire years of my life?
Take this, for example: I was a national finalist in Speech and Debate; Domestic Extemporaneous, to be exact.
Super big deal, right? But run a cost-benefit analysis there for a second.
A day or two of feeling like king of the world .
. . but it took you four fucking years of backbreaking work to get there.
Doesn’t take a genius to realize the math is off.
Now, drugs? Drop some cash, and in a matter of minutes, you can feel just as good as if you actually were king of the world.
This would be the crux of my self-help book. I’d call it The Happiness Revolution, and it would be 100 percent mindfuck. I would destroy every middle-class lie anyone has ever been told. You’d feel high
just reading it.
“Something’s wrong with this gun,” spouts Doug as he tries, unsuccessfully, to fire his second shot.
“You have to pump it, man,” I say, miming the correct motion as Doug turns the gun back and forth like it’s beyond him, as
if he hasn’t just watched all of us do this very thing. He’s never been the smartest cookie in the tin.
While Bennett helps Doug pump the gun, I notice that Allie is standing off to the side, kind of removed from the group. I
know technically she’s Phelps’s date, but since it’s nothing serious between them yet, she’s fair game.
“Hey, pretty lady,” I say, sidling up to her and stuffing my hands in my pockets.
She’s cute. Short and curvy, with thick dark hair that frames her face. “You’re Ted, right?”
“Can I get you anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“Coke, weed, political opinions. A good time?”
She laughs. “I hope you don’t mean you’re the good time.”
“No?” I say innocently.
“You accused someone of arson at the dinner table. Kind of a mood-kill.”
“I didn’t accuse her of arson. All I did was share the fact that, once upon a time, she asked me to commit arson on her behalf,” I correct. “Though logically, if she wanted it burned down, and then it did burn down, it leaves one to wonder . . .”
“You’re a troublemaker.” Allie purses her full lips and plants her hands on her hips. She has that hot I’m-a-teacher-and-I’m-going-to-reprimand-you
vibe. I wouldn’t mind a little reprimanding, especially if we can take off our clothes first and the reprimanding involves
some light corporal punishment. Light. I’m not talking full-on BDSM—tried that once, no thanks.
“So tell me about you,” I say in my most suave voice. “You work in town? You have your own place?”
“I work at McKinley Elementary in South Bend, where I grew up. And I’m living in my parents’ house,” she says, then adds,
“Temporarily.” Like she’s a little embarrassed.
“No shame in living at home,” I say. I’ve done it myself a few times, until Mom kicked me out again.
“I mean, I don’t live with my parents. My mom died recently. I moved back home to help Dad take care of her. Then after her death, he started declining,
so I just moved him into an assisted-living facility last month. Now I’m cleaning out their house so it can go on the market.”
“You’re not going to claim the castle for yourself?”
“We have to sell it to pay for the assisted living.”
I tsk. “Highway robbery.”
“We need nationalized health care, and elder care.”
Ooh, do I detect a little fire?
“Not happening under this president,” I say.
“No shit.”
“You’re too young for your parents to be that old,” I say.
“I was a surprise baby. Mom was fifty.”
“Damn.” Impressive, the bodies of women. “Hey, if you need help going through your parents’ stuff . . .” I may be Bad Boy Number One, but I’m into good girls. “I know a guy who does estate sales. If you give me your number, I can pass it along.”
“No thanks. I’m almost done clearing out my brother’s old room, and then the upstairs is done. Then it’s just the kitchen
and the big furniture downstairs. There isn’t anything really valuable. It’s mostly going to charity.”
“Your brother should be helping you.”
“It’s fine,” she says shortly. She tosses her head, stuffs her hands in her coat pockets, and blows out a long foggy breath.
It’s not that cold anymore, definitely above freezing, but the humidity is high. Her voice hardens. “This is what women end
up doing. Taking care of people while they get old and die and cleaning up messes afterward. It’s been that way for thousands
of years. I don’t know why I imagined my life would be different.”
Ah, a feminist.
“So . . . you didn’t particularly get along with your parents,” I hazard.
Her face takes on a guarded expression. “I never said that.”
“So what’s the attraction to Phelps? You sure cleaned his place up pretty good, for someone who hates cleaning up other people’s
messes.”
“Phelps,” she says quietly. She chews on the inside of her cheek. “Yeah. I don’t know what it is about him.”
“Isn’t he a bit old for you?”
“God! Don’t be so ageist!”
“You’re honestly telling me you want Phelps in your cute pants? No. You’d rather be out with your younger, hotter friends.”
She laughs. “I did invite Phelps out, FYI. But he was already hosting this party, so . . .” She shrugs. “I’ll take him out with my younger, cuter friends next weekend or something. Show him what a good time really means.”
“My guess is it won’t involve wiping down his toilet.”
She throws back her head and laughs. “You’re the worst, Ted.” She hits me gently on the arm. “You freaking men. The worst.”
This makes me grin.
“Do you resent all of us men, then, or just the particularly oblivious ones? Like, perhaps, this brother of yours? Or . . .
dare I say, Phelps?” I make an exaggerated Sherlock-style gesture and stroke my chin with my fingers.
Her laugh has an edge. “I was kidding. I don’t resent men at all. I resent—”
“Allie, you’re up!” It’s Phelps, damn him, interrupting us just as we were getting somewhere interesting. I love a good impassioned
chat about feminism, and her tits aren’t bad either. Tits will get their own chapter in my future book.
“Nice talk, Ted,” Allie says before heading off.
“One might even call it a TED Talk,” I joke, and she calls back an unimpressed “Ha-ha.”
Whatever. I have to take a piss, so I head toward the trees as Allie destroys her first plate. I don’t bother with my phone
flashlight to navigate away from the group and into the darkness—I actually have very good night vision. I pick a nice tall
tree. I hear the voices just as I’m unfastening my belt.
“Look for yourself.” It’s Bunny’s voice, with her fake Southern twang like she’s trying to make people think she’s from Nashville.
I can’t stand posers like that. There’s a sound of crinkling paper. A light blinks in the near distance.
“Dear Rebecca . . .” It’s Will’s voice, but it moves into an indistinct murmur as he reads what seems to be a letter. “What?”
“I know.” Bunny snatches the letter back. “That’s what I said. So, William. You’re the only person I told about my decision. Explain.”
Oooh, this is pretty interesting. I don’t want to make any noise, so I keep holding my belt.
“Bunny, I—I didn’t tell him about your abortion. I don’t even know your grandpa! Why would I go behind your back like that?”
“What about Nathan? Did you tell him? Be honest, Will. This was my inheritance, this was my future, my everything, and it’s gone, but I deserve to know—”
“No—I would never tell—”
“Then how, Will?” Her voice is loud, angry. “How the fuck did he find out?”
Mmmm. I get a shivery feeling up my spine, and it’s not just the slightly sexy violence in Bunny’s tone. I used to love a
good, satisfying mystery. I’m pretty sure that between third and fourth grade, I read every Encyclopedia Brown book in existence.
“I mean . . . did anyone see you at the clinic?” Will says. “Maybe someone who knew your grandpa?”
“I barely knew anyone in Nashville! I’d just moved there!”
They argue back and forth for a while in a pointless, stupid kind of way.
Ugh—the pieces to this little “puzzle” aren’t that complicated to fit together. Just like the plate problem on the picnic
table—so simple—though it was amusing to watch people struggle. If Will didn’t tell, who might have overheard him, or seen
a text on his phone? Not hard, people. Not hard. People are so dumb.
It can be fun to watch them struggle, but this time, shock value will be more fun. They’re only about fifteen feet away, but
I project my voice because there’s nothing more annoying than a mumbler.
“Have you considered your wife, Will?”
Bunny yelps and Will makes a sharp intake of breath. Another plate explodes in the distance.
“You do live with her, right?” I say. Fuck it, I’ll even spell it out for him. “Could she have overheard your so-called private
conversations? Seen some texts, perhaps?”
“Ted?” Will finally says, peering toward me.
“Don’t mind me. Just taking a piss.” At this moment, I do actually pull out my dick and start pissing. I pity them, if I’m
honest, and I’m always honest—Will, Bunny, Nathan and his refusal to accept how the fire happened—all of them. They can’t
see what’s in front of them without a classic deus ex machina. I suppose this makes me the deus.
And just like your average, classic Bible story, even when deus speaks, the humans . . . well, they just don’t listen.
“Why would Jenn do something like that?” says Bunny. “I barely know her, except for a few parties we were both at!”
“She seems to enjoy destroying things,” I observe, and I don’t just mean Phelps’s restaurant. The year I spent in prison after
getting dragged away from her house . . . wasn’t my favorite. “And you did know her, Bunny. When you were both younger. She also knew your grandfather. Mr. Max. The Junior Lights?”
Bunny and Will are both silent for a minute.
“Or maybe it was you, asshole,” Bunny launches back. “You knew Grandpa Max too. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Sure, it could have been,” I say easily. “However, I stopped going to church, youth group included, when I was in eighth
grade. Pretty sure Jenn went there all the way up until college. I’m also on the left. Very pro-choice. However, Christians
seem to care very much about the unborn. Right?”
Neither answers.
But I’m not interested in their problem anymore—too simple. It was Jenn. End of story. Now that the puzzle-loving segment of my brain has been activated, what I find myself suddenly interested in is Allie.
Up until a few minutes ago, I honestly didn’t give her much thought. I figured she was just into older single dads with culinary
expertise.
Now I’m trying to figure out how someone with the strong, slightly ragey feminist feelings Allie exhibited would come and,
for no particular reason, clean the house of a paunchy dad who’s ten years older than her and lives next to a cornfield. She hates the women-cleaning-up-men’s-messes thing. So why wipe down Phelps’s nasty-ass toilets? What does she get out of it?
I’m thinking we might be in sexual-kink territory, but . . . the night is too early to come to any hasty conclusions.
Could be a fun challenge to figure her out. Could help pass the time.
I give myself a shake and put everything back in its place.
Ah. Nothing like emptying the old bladder alfresco.