Chapter 1 #3
Tamsa’s at a weekly staff meeting, along with everyone else on this side of the building. No one can see my humiliation, my shame. I pack up my boombox, my Counting Crows and Soundgarden CDs, my thesaurus, my much-loved, dog-eared copy of Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style.
Before I know it, I’m sitting alone in my car, staring at the business card Kim gave me with her home phone number written on the back. “Call me if you need anything,” she said, “and when you’re ready to take that slimebag down, I’m here for you.”
Holy shit. Holy shit. I can’t believe this happened.
I pick up the checks.
I think about my current bank balance, and the fact that I’m now unemployed, and the bills waiting for me on the scratched, wobbly kitchen table my roommate Brianna found at a garage sale. I love living with Brianna, and my heart will break if I have to move back in with my parents.
I look at my paycheck, and then the second check. A shiver creeps across my skin when I focus on the dollar amount. Severance benefit. Hush money. Buying her silence.
I fold the check in half, then again, and again, until it’s a small, fat square, and I tuck it in the ashtray.
I don’t know how much time passes before I’m able to put my keys in the ignition. The engine roars to life and so does the CD player—“Waterloo” by ABBA from the Muriel’s Wedding soundtrack, depressing as hell despite the upbeat, catchy melody.
Guess I’ve met my own defeat. I slam the ashtray shut.
The drive home passes in a flash. It’s not even noon, yet the day already feels three days long. Because Brianna worked the early shift at the preschool today, she’s in the kitchen putting away groceries when I get home.
“Holy moly!” she cries when I step through the door. She’s shorter than me, slender yet muscular, with a deep tan and light brown hair that’s almost always in a ponytail. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“I… I don’t work at TC Weekly anymore.” I try out the words for the first time.
Bri’s big brown eyes go wide. “What happened?”
“I—my—I got laid off.” For some reason—embarrassment, shame, disgust, sadness, all of the above—I can’t tell her what really happened. “My position was eliminated.” There. That sounds confident and definitive, even if it’s only partially true.
“You were up for a promotion! How did that turn into a layoff?”
“I wish I knew.” The pit monster reminds me that he’s still there, and he’s hungry, so he takes a swipe and my stomach lurches. I don’t like to lie to anyone, but maybe someday, I’ll be able to convince myself of this fabrication and forget the real story.
Bri and I met in a sociology class at the University of Minnesota-Duluth.
She graduated the year before me and spent eight months as a nanny in Florida before realizing that she craved all four seasons.
She came home to Minnesota, went back to her high school job at Dayton’s department store, found a part-time job at the preschool, and needed a roommate.
This apartment at the sketchy Everly Estates—nothing stately about it—was the best we could do.
I open the refrigerator door and grab a Diet Coke. I pop the tab and take a long drink before I continue. “Instead of the meeting with Ryan and Kim, Ryan… um… informed me that I was no longer employed.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!”
“I loved working there.” My voice cracks. “I was supposed to meet Prince!”
“You were? When?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Someday.”
“Well, I can’t introduce you to The Artist formerly known as Prince, but I have something almost as good that might cheer you up.” She digs in her purse on the counter and pulls out two tickets printed on gold cardstock. “Terry got tickets to see HollowPoint tonight and can’t go!”
I snatch at the tickets. HOLLOWPOINT with Special Guests A NEW COMPLAINT * At THE GOLDEN * Minneapolis * 09/09/1996
“Unless you’re too tired or, you know, sad,” Brianna says. “I can see if—”
I cut her off. “I want to go!” HollowPoint is one of my favorite local bands. “What time will you be ready?”
She laughs. “I’m going to take a nap.”
I try to sleep, too, but the monster in the pit of my stomach keeps me awake with memories of those moments in Ryan’s office, the feel of his hand on my skin, his words—the threats—that stitch their way into my mind.
Show me what else you can do with that smart mouth of yours, or you’re done.
I launch myself from the bed into the half-bath and hover over the toilet, but there’s nothing left. I dry-heave until my abs ache, and then I lie down on my side, my knees to my chest and my cheek on the cold tile.
No. I’m not going to let Ryan Bradford and his filthy hands bring me down.
I’m going to see HollowPoint tonight, and it’s going to be awesome, and tomorrow, I’ll figure everything out.
I stand up, plug in my hot rollers, and rummage through a basket of clean laundry for my favorite jeans—light blue button flies worn through on the thigh.
“Everything’s always working out for you,” I whisper to my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door—my complexion’s still a bit gray and my hair’s matted on one side. Nothing a little concealer and Mega Spritz can’t fix. “And don’t you forget it.”