CHAPTER 2 #3
Back in the living room I rifle through my suitcase until I find my toiletries bag and beach towel. Then I wash the last twenty-four hours off of me with one of the mini bottles of shampoo I took with me from Sunrise Kingdom.
I smell way too strongly of frangipanis when I get out but I feel clean, and that means, regardless of whether I visit Teken Ink, I need to go to town. Because I’m not sleeping on that dusty old futon again without sheets.
I put on a chocolate brown pair of baggy chords, my black Chucks, and a stripe knit sweater, then venture back into Eden’s room.
Bypassing the pile of flannels still strewn across the floor, I head to the closet.
One at a time, I push the jackets aside on the pole until I settle on an oversized black bomber with orange lining.
I grab my backpack, skateboard, and—surprisingly unbroken—phone, and slam the apartment door.
Outside, the ever looming winter fog still hasn't cleared enough for the sun to shine properly through. But at least it’s not raining, and thank Christ the snow hasn’t started yet.
With my backpack on, I push off the sidewalk and skate towards the town center.
Broadrock looks smaller than I remember. Most of the ride is street after street of houses, the mountains getting further away behind me as I fly nearer to the coast until abruptly I’m at Main Street. And it feels like every person in town is here, right now, with me.
Out of courtesy, I step to the side and strap my board to my backpack before getting my bearings.
I hit the general store first. Watersons’ is Broadrock’s excuse for a Walmart—or I guess, Fred Meyer, in this part of the country—at one-tenth the size and zero percent of the feigned hospitality.
“I need a chair and table,” I tell the old man behind the counter when I enter. He gives me the once over and points me towards the camping supplies.
“All we’ve got are fold-ups,” he calls after me.
“That’s perfect,” I say, grabbing the cheapest camp chair and a kid-sized card table with cartoon fish printed on the plastic. I consider buying a knife and other cutlery, but decide I’ll just keep whatever comes with my takeout tonight for the time being.
I gather some body wash, a sleeve of solo cups, and a double-sized sheet set, and make my way to the register.
“Oh. A blanket. Or a quilt. I didn’t see any with the sheets,” I say to the old man.
“Last row. End of the aisle.” He jerks his head without looking at me and pushes up out of his chair with a groan.
I tell him thanks and jog to the back of the store.
The selection is slim and I end up choosing one of those soft minky ones people use as sofa throws because if Eden is going to leave me to my own devices, then he can also pay for me to keep the apartment warm enough that I don’t need anything else.
I strap the rolled up blanket to my backpack on top of my board, and stuff everything but the chair and table inside it.
“You got a car, son?”
“No,” I answer as the old man slides the table towards me. “I’ll just carry them.”
He quirks an eyebrow and looks me over again. “I haven’t seen you around.”
I take the table and camping chair and put them under my arm like I carry my surfboard. “That’s because I haven’t lived here in years.”
“So what brings you back?”
“Is this how you question all visitors?”
“Those aren’t visitor’s supplies.” He gestures to my haul. “Are you squatting somewhere?”
“Excuse me?” I half snort, half laugh. “If I was gonna live somewhere illegally, I’d choose a better place than Broadrock.”
“Don’t talk about my home like that, son.”
“You just accused me of being a squatter—” I shake my head. “Never mind. I’m Eden’s brother. From across the—”
The old man interrupts me with a joyous belly laugh.
“Oh. Tuesday afternoon was very entertaining.” He steps out from behind the counter and walks over to the large window at the front of the shop.
“He was right out here,” he says, pointing to the road in front of the tattoo shop.
“Yelling. Throwing things onto the street in front of cars. I even watched him bop the young-fellow with the shaved head right in the nose.” He turns back to me.
“Let me guess. The girl they were fighting over cleaned his place out, oooorr… The crybaby ran away leaving you high and dry?”
I run my free hand through my hair, then pull on it. “Both, actually.”
The old man shakes his head as if he’s saying, of course that’s what happened, and shuffles back behind the counter.
“Look, son,” he says as he takes his seat again.
“If you have any questions about anyone in this town, you just come and ask me. I’ll tell you the truth. I know everything that goes on.”
I give him an awkward salute because I think he's being nice, and drag my haul outside.
Across the street is Teken Ink. Through the big window, I see Tek. He’s hunched over a client, sleeves rolled up. His hair is bleached, just like in the latest bunch of pictures I've seen him tagged in on Instagram.
I stand, watching him for way too long.
I consider going in, but my feet won’t do it. Instead, I drag my new furniture down the block to the grocery store.