Chapter 5
FIVE
ABBEY
I wait two long, lonely days for the background check results.
I lounge by the pool with a battered paperback of Then Came You by Lisa Kleypas.
When a rain shower comes through, I sit at the dining room table and plug numbers into a spreadsheet for a new monthly budget.
I call my student loan provider to arrange a deferment.
The authors of Your Money or Your Life would be so proud of me, even though there’s a good chance that when the funds from my last paycheck from TC Weekly run out, if I haven’t found a new job with a higher salary, I’ll have to ask my parents for a loan.
On the second day, I force myself to shower and leave the apartment.
I drive the few blocks to Rooted Market, a trendy, earthy grocery and health food store that’s not exactly affordable but does have the best floral department.
I’m instantly refreshed by the whoosh of cool air as I walk through the automatic doors.
It’s another hot, sticky late summer day.
I grab a cart—the wheels never squeak here—and head to floral.
I squeal when I see the big display of sunflower bouquets—buckets and buckets of them.
I don’t even have to think about it. I pull out one of the bunches and brush the soft petals against my cheek: bright, happy sunshine.
Then I look at the price tag and my heart sinks. Oh, well. What’s one last splurge?
I’ve been buying myself a small bouquet from Rooted Market every week since Brianna and I moved in together.
It’s something Mom used to do when she was a single parent, until she met Dad, who’s been more of a father to me than my biological one ever was.
That guy wasn’t around much, and my memories of him are few and hazy.
I was four when Mom remarried, and my brother Scout was eight.
Dad started buying flowers for Mom after their first date, and he hasn’t missed a single week in their twenty-one years of marriage.
There’s always a fresh bouquet on the coffee table in the living room.
Mom says buying flowers was a small thing she could do for Scout and me before she met Dad—scrape together enough to brighten our days even when money was tighter than tight.
Even though I was too young to truly understand, I knew when Mom was stressed about money.
I understood when I was given one toaster waffle for breakfast instead of two and her own breakfast was a glass of tap water, or the rare occasion when the weekly bouquet was a tumbler of dandelions I’d picked from the yard.
Once Dad started buying those flowers, I knew that everything was going to be okay, that we were safe again.
These sunflowers might be my last bouquet for a while now that I’ve taken such a big pay cut. One thing I know for sure, though: I’ll never get myself into a situation where I eat only one toaster waffle instead of two.
On my way out, I notice the rack of local newspapers and magazines, TC Weekly front and center, of course, but it’s the green scratch-and-dent newspaper box covered with bumper stickers that really catches my eye.
One of the stickers reads psycho logic – a zine.
I peer in. The bright yellow cover features a grainy black-and-white photo of HollowPoint with a headline handwritten in all caps, except for the lowercase Is and Gs. I’d know that handwriting anywhere.
I dig two quarters out of my purse. The pay slot sticks but after a couple of good shoves, the front of the box drops. I flip the zine open—it’s gotta be at least sixteen pages—and find his name on the masthead: Hal Stone, punk-in-chief, psychologiczine@.
I scan the table of contents. RIP Tupac Shakur. Punk is NOT Dead: A Preview of Bad Brains Black Dots. Bobby’s Celebrity Crush. Pipe Bomb at the Olympics.
I grin. Hal fucking Stone. Hal was undoubtedly the coolest guy I knew in college—he played guitar and drums; he wrote a column for the university newspaper: rants against Clarence Thomas, editorials about Waco and the World Trade Center bombing, and, of course, concert reviews.
I wouldn’t say we were friends, exactly—most days he intimidated the hell out of me—but we hung out at shows a few times and we worked on a group project about the coverage of the OJ Simpson white Bronco car chase. He’ll remember me.
Later that night, I log onto AOL and send an email before I can chicken out.
His reply lands in my inbox a few minutes later: Heyyyyyy Abbey, long time no see.
Yeah, send me something. We publish every other week.
We’re good on concert reviews for now but I could use some more albums and movies, even books if you want but none of that classic shit they made us read.
Speaking of Virginia Woolf, you want to write something about new feminism and the upcoming election?
I can only pay you like ten bucks an article but that’s better than nothing, right?
Send me something ASAP. We go to print in five days.
I can crank something out in two. And he’s right. Ten bucks is better than nothing.
The following Monday night, I sit in a conference room, aka the Performance Center, for Team Training, Hometown’s version of new hire orientation, with two other draft picks: Felicity from the Audio department, a young Black woman with a short pixie cut studying veterinary medicine, and a service repair tech named Ian with pale, peachy skin, lots of freckles, and spiky orange hair.
He’s the spitting image of Beaker from The Muppets.
He previously worked for Hometown during college, he’s a Leo, he lives in “the cool part” of Minneapolis (Uptown), and his favorite movie is Highlander.
I learn all of this in the three minutes before orientation starts.
Training is conducted by team captains and assistant managers who cycle in and out, but Wil is not one of them. I’m both disappointed and relieved.
When we’re left to fill out more paperwork, Ian says, “So, ladies, join me for a drink after?”
“Oh, I wish I could!” Felicity says. “I have an exam tomorrow. Plus, I’m not twenty-one yet.”
“Abbey? Want to go out for a drink?”
I do, but now that my expenses are in glaring black and white in my new budgeting spreadsheet, I know I should focus on my car payment and rent, not drinks after work. “I have to work early tomorrow morning—”
He holds up his hand. “Weak. Come on, it’ll be fun. You’ll meet a bunch of Hometowners before you even work your first shift! And it’s the Ground Round! Free popcorn, bitches!”
He has a point. So what if I have to work before the sun rises?
“I’m in. Free popcorn, bitches.” I’m not sure who the bitches are in this scenario, but I might adopt that as my new life motto. Everything’s always working out for me hasn’t really been working out lately.
When Ian and I walk into the hazy bar of the Ground Round fifteen minutes later, I discover why Wil wasn’t at Team Training. He sits at a high top with three other guys. He tilts his head and raises one eyebrow in my direction.
Woohoo. I love that trick.
Ian bumps fists with one of the guys at Wil’s table and high-fives the Hometown “teammates” at another table, all repair techs by the looks of their black Hometown polos. He sits down with them. “It’s official, dudes. I got redrafted by the Hometown Team! Everybody, meet Abbey.”
“Well, well, well,” Wil says to me. He’s wearing a Soundgarden T-shirt tonight—I like it. “Didn’t take you long to make friends.”
I shrug and smile. “What can I say? I’m friendly.”
“You gonna introduce us?” The white guy next to Wil with a horseshoe mustache like Hulk Hogan looks me up and down, and not subtly. I don’t like it, or the feeling I get when the pit monster stirs and takes a swipe like it did in Ryan’s office. I make a mental note to avoid this guy, whoever he is.
“Abbey’s a new media employee,” Wil says. “Abbey, meet John Langhorn, Loss Prevention. Eric Diaz and Sam Hawkins, warehouse.” He gestures as he introduces them.
“He means inventory.” Eric stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray. He’s got long, frizzy brown hair, light brown skin, and crooked teeth. “Warehouse is a place. Inventory is a discipline.”
I recognize Sam as Wil’s friend from the HollowPoint show. “Hi! How’s the baby?”
“Much better, thanks.” He smiles and stands. “You can have my seat. Early morning tomorrow.”
Eric and Wil stand, too, their stools scraping on the wood floor.
“Don’t go! I just got here!” It slips out and I’m not sure who I’m addressing, except I know that I don’t want to be left alone with John/Hulk Hogan.
“Eight a.m. comes pretty early,” Sam says, “especially when I’m on call for the baby’s two o’clock feeding.”
“Aw,” I coo. “How old is she?”
“Four months.”
“No wonder you were so worried the other night.”
“Let me show you a picture.” Sam pulls out his wallet, but Eric grabs him by the wrist.
“No way, man,” Eric says. “We’ll never get out of here if you start showing her pictures of la princesa. Eight a.m., remember?”
“I’m working at six,” I say. “I got you beat by two hours.”
“You are?” Wil asks. “Who put you on the early shift?”
“I think her name is Crystal. The operations manager?”
“Jesus,” he says. “She will never learn. Could you come in at ten? Media’s behind on cycle, and—”
“What’s cycle?” I interrupt.
“A shipment of totes and boxes filled with music and movies that need to be sorted alphabetically by artist and category and then merchandised,” Eric offers.
“Thank you, Eric,” Wil says dryly. “I can train my own employee.”
“Except you don’t even want her to come in to get trained. How will you train her when the store’s open and she’s helping customers?”
“Ooh, snap,” John says. One more reason to not like the guy. Nobody says “ooh, snap” anymore, at least not anyone trustworthy.
“Fans, Eric,” Sam reminds him.
“Jesus,” Wil says again. “Let me run my own department.”
Eric doesn’t let up. “Maybe you should’ve gone to your new hire’s Team Training tonight instead of the bar.”