All or Nothing (11 page)

He'd lost the night before to a one-eyed review of his own work. He'd actually been good at photography. It was a welcome revelation that he'd been good at something other than ticking off his father.

And he missed taking pictures, another surprise. Zach remembered an art teacher—Mr. Nicholson—telling Zach years ago that if he ever decided to give a crap about anything, he'd make something of himself, but that otherwise Zach would just be another aimless rich boy, taking up space and wasting oxygen.

For a long time, he had despised Mr. Nicholson.

Now he wondered what had ever happened to Mr. Nicholson.

Morning had brought a new sense of purpose—and a new range of color in the bruise surrounding his eye. Zach was determined to find that camera. It wasn't in any of the kitchen cupboards, or the front hall closet. He was running out of options. Had this place come with a storage locker? Zach couldn't remember. And if it did, where had he put the key?

He pulled open the louvered doors of the utility closet with some impatience. The stackable washer and dryer had never been used—Zach still frequented the same coin Laundromat he had used as a student. His rationale was that a guy could never meet women doing laundry in his own utility room, although lately the women at the Laundromat had seemed too young and too giggly to be interesting.

(Where did Jen do her laundry? He would have paid good money to know, so he could ‘accidentally' run into her and have her trapped for an hour as the laundry whirled in the dryer, compelled to talk to him. He was sure that he could make her laugh in an hour of solo time. Guaranteed.)

There was an enlarger parked on top of the washing machine, the dust on it offering evidence of how long it had been since Zach had used it, and how often he had to move it to open the lid of the washer. In fact, the manuals were still inside the respective machines, and as he stood there, he considered the merit of using them.

“I could become one of those eccentric hermits,” he suggested to Roxie, who was sniffing inside the unfamiliar territory of the closet. “Never leave the unit, have my groceries delivered. I could just sit back and watch my toenails grow longer. You and me, Roxie, we could just have each other.”

The dog snorted a dust bunny, sneezed and gave him a look.

“Right. That wouldn't work too well for you, would it?” Zach found a dirty T-shirt and cleaned the dog snot off the appliances while it was still fresh. He had learned that it was much harder to remove later. “I tell you, the prime achievement of my life was training you with six stories between us and the grass.”

Roxie stepped back and sat down, the expression on her face hinting that, given the chance, she'd contest whose achievement it had been. She trotted to the front door and returned to look at him expectantly.

“There would be the power of suggestion. Just give me a minute, Roxie. There's a box on the top shelf.” Zach didn't have a chair or a step stool—which left the mystery of how the box had gotten there in the first place—so he climbed the appliances.

He could have waited, but that wasn't his style.

He opened the dryer door and put one foot on the opening, managed to get his toes beneath the lip of the dryer and the washer above, then pulled himself up by the door frame. He nudged the box open Roxie-style (with his nose) peered into the box and shouted in triumph.

“Ha! There it is. Bonus!”

The trick was that he had to let go of the frame to reach into the box. There were, after all, limitations to how many tricks he could do with his nose. Chances were good that he'd fall.

But he wanted the camera. Now.

The sensible thing would have been to get down, to go find a chair or a step stool, but Zach had never been one for sensible responses. He liked the immediacy of surrendering to impulse.

It had led to some of his most memorable experiences. It probably was responsible for the majority of disasters he'd experienced in his life as well. On the whole, he thought the balance came out in favor of impulse.

“I don't suppose you'd spot me, Roxie?”

The dog sat below him, watching, and thumped her tail against the floor.

“No. I didn't think so. Well, here goes.”

Zach moved fast. He barely had time to reach into the box, snag the camera and clutch it to his chest before he lost his balance. He fell backward, just as he had anticipated, except that his fall was louder.

And it hurt a lot more.

“Ow!” he yelled when his butt hit the floor. His ankle banged off the dryer, his elbow hit the louvered door and sent it slamming against the wall. His shoulders hit the floor hard and he thunked his head, making the standard white ceiling with its standard cheap light fixture spin.

Roxie barked at the noise and ran around him.

“You're a big help,” he told her and she licked his face. “You're probably just relieved that I'm not dead. That way there's hope of my opening the kibble bag tonight.”

The dog barked again, then ran to the front door. She returned, proudly bearing her leash and dropped it onto Zach's chest. The metal clip missed the camera lens, which was a major stroke of luck.

“If you had opposable thumbs, Roxie, you wouldn't have any need for me at all.”

She licked his face again, indicating that she had other reasons for putting up with him. She made him smile, she always did, but a dog's affection didn't quite seem like enough any more.

He laid there for a minute and considered the plain box of his apartment—albeit an inverted, spinning version—and knew it wasn't like the homes of any of his buddies. They had moved on from under grad minimalism. Most of them had houses, with furniture and rugs and paintings and actual food in the fridge.

They had committed to staying, to putting down roots. But if he wasn't committing himself to this place and this life, then where was he going?

Or was it just that he didn't want to be tied down, in case he decided to go somewhere or do something?

That sounded pretty lame, even to a guy who had hit his head, never mind one laying on the floor and talking to his dog. Zach got up and put the camera on the kitchen counter. He got the box from the bedroom full of prints and film and contact sheets, and rummaged in it for a minute. The dog tap-danced in the foyer.

“Give me a minute, Roxie,” he said just as he found the print he wanted. Just the sight of it made his pulse leap. It was a color shot he'd taken in the rain of the Bridge of Sighs in Venice, but the image was virtually black and white. It was awash in tones of grey with a whisper of blue and green. It was moody and evocative and perfectly echoed his sense of Venice in the winter.

This was one time that he'd nailed an image perfectly and he stared at it, surprised that it was as good as he'd remembered, Zach knew that this was the only time that he'd felt any satisfaction in any of his achievements. He'd had it blown up, once upon a time, in honor of that, but had never managed to mount and hang it.

That would have put his pride in his accomplishment in full view, and would have provided the opportunity for his family to mock what was important to him.

Zach decided that it was past time he stopped worrying about family response to his actions. He slid the print into an envelope with a piece of cardboard to keep it from bending, tucked the envelope under his arm and took Roxie for a walk.

He'd stop at the framing store around the corner when he was out, get an acid-free mat and a frame. Then he'd have art on his wall, not some homogenized image out of the Ethan Allen catalog. Ha. And he'd pick up some film, too.

He would take more pictures, and not just of Jen. He'd rediscover the world around him, through the lens of his camera. He didn't have to travel far to look at the world his own way.

“We'll do a couple of road trips, Roxie,” he told the dog, who was more interested in a more immediate exploration of the outdoor world. “We'll go up the coast, Nantucket, Cape Cod, Provincetown, even back to Rosemount, and blow off a bunch of film. You can check out the beaches or roll in dead fish if you'd rather. It'll be fun.”

Just talking about it put a bounce in Zach's step. He'd felt this way when he'd gone off to Europe in pursuit of beauty, but not since. That was such a good thing that he wasn't going to think about it any further. He'd just enjoy it.

He'd just go with it.

Although it would be more fun to do those road trips with someone who would keep up their side of the conversation. As a bonus, next Thursday he'd be seeing Jen again. Maybe in a week, he'd think of a way to make her smile.

Lawyer jokes, after all, just weren't going to cut it.

* * *

By the following Wednesday, Jen had run the entire gamut of possible responses and tactics. She'd quickly resolved not to ask anyone else out—because her luck was such that as soon as she did, Zach would show up, asking directions. She'd end up with two dates for Thanksgiving dinner, which wouldn't please anyone.

She'd worked up the nerve to call Zach twice, but had gotten his answering machine both times. (She hadn't worked up the nerve to leave a message.) She'd just happened to walk in the vicinity of his condo building, purportedly on other missions, but hadn't caught a glimpse of him. She'd lingered at Mulligan's before and after her shift, as well as working extra hours, hoping he'd turn up.

No luck.

And now it was Wednesday, the day before the big day, and she had no answers. The only thing Jen knew was that Cin would call Zach tonight.

Unless she called him first. That afternoon, on her way to work, she'd decided to give him one last chance to show up—and if he didn't come in for dinner, she'd call him after the dinner rush. Cin was working until nine, so Jen figured she had a small window of opportunity left.

Maybe.

It was enough of a concern to distract her from the prospect of finishing the knitted avocado at work tonight. She wanted to finish it before Thanksgiving, so she could show it to her Gran, but it had given her nothing but trouble. For all she knew, she'd be up half the night, trying to get the silly thing done.

It was snowing like crazy when Jen headed to work, and had been snowing all day. Cars were mired in the unplowed snow at the curb and the world was painted with swirling white. Jen walked from the T, her shoulders hunched against the cold, and was surprised to find her mood lightening. The snow was so pretty, and all of the people out shoveling their walks and driveways greeted her—as they never would when it wasn't snowing. Bad weather seemed to bring out the best in people.

Although that almost certainly wouldn't be true at the airport, where thousands of anxious travelers were trying to get to Thanksgiving dinner on time. She was glad her family was pretty close together. They could all take public transit the next day.

Jen was startled from her thoughts by the new sign on the cleared sidewalk in front of Mulligan's.

 

KARAOKE! EVERY WEDNESDAY NIGHT AT SEVEN.

 

“Karaoke? Be serious,” Jen said to no one in particular when she stepped inside. Lucy grinned and Kathy, another waitress, shook her head. No one apparently had any doubt what Jen was talking about.

But they left it to the boss man to explain.

Once upon a time, Murray had bought a karaoke machine at a sale of another bar's chattels. He was convinced it was a prize, but it had proven to be so well used that it was uncooperative about ever working again.

Experts—mostly regular patrons falsely convinced they could fix anything, either independent of the influence of alcohol or because of it—had fiddled with the machine without result. Lucy and Jen had joked that if Murray ever got it working, it would be a miracle. Ultimately, the machine had been retired to a corner to collect dust.

Until now.

Murray was whistling as he polished the karaoke machine which had been set up at the end of the bar since Jen's last shift. It was as large and ugly as only old technology can be. “I
am
serious. This thing is going to be a gold mine for us.” The small stage that never hosted bar bands anymore had been cleared and one of the bar televisions had been pressed into service on the wall behind it.

Lucy rolled her eyes as she marched from the kitchen to her section. “A gold mine. Like the glitter disco ball. That brought them in, didn't it?”

“Until the Smithsonian came and commandeered it for their collection,” Jen said, shedding her coat.

“I've still got bruises from that 20th century curator,” Kathy interjected, looking up from setting her tables.

“She was one mean piece of business,” Lucy agreed.

“And she took my mood ring, too,” Jen complained.

Lucy and Kathy laughed together, but Murray wasn't amused. “You three can yuck it up, but you'll see. I'm on to something here. Retro is in right now. Everyone's reliving the past. This is going to be a huge hit. You'll see. Tonight we won't be able to keep up with the crowd.”

“If that Smithsonian chick comes back, don't seat her in my section,” Jen warned.

“Ha!” Kathy agreed. “I'll pop her one before she gets the jump on me again.”

“No abuse of the customers!” Murray called after her. “It's bad for the insurance rates.”

Lucy came to look at the machine and gave it a little poke. Something rattled deep in its belly, behind the smoked plastic cover. “Is the music on eight-tracks?”

“LPs?” Kathy suggested.

“It's been updated to CD's,” Murray informed them huffily.

Lucy peered at it. “What music is on there? Handel's Water Music?”

“Worse,” Kathy said. “Duran Duran.”

“Men Without Hats,” Jen said. “The Police. Devo.”

Lucy brightened. “Hey, maybe the Eurythmics.”

Murray shook his head and patted his new baby. “It's loaded up with classics, so everyone will know the words.”