Shooting Stars (7 page)

I turn to Eddie. “Don’t let this happen again. And if you were wondering about your first-day grade, it’s an F.” Up to that point, neither of us were aware there was grading. But his indiscretion called for it.

“I’ll do better tomorrow. I promise,” he says.

“You better.”

As I head for the door, Eddie says one more thing to me: “Are you going to happy hour?”

What the fuck is this kid talking about now?

“For Aida,” he continues. “To celebrate her promotion.”

And the icing on the cake for this totally fucked-up day is this little shit, who makes more than me, bringing up the fact I lost a promotion to a senile old woman, and he honestly wants to know if I’m going to her happy-hour promotion celebration. He has to be one of the stupidest people I’ve ever come across.

“We got an e-mail about it,” he says in an attempt to refresh my memory.

“I can’t make it. I have to take my son to wrestling practice,” I say with a straight face before I turn my back on him.

I
’m not going
to act uppity and say I’m too good for their happy hour, but I am. I don’t have time for those fucking people. Jake and I have our own get-together at the Foggy Glass Pub. The pub is a local joint that isn’t frequented by office types; so there’s no fear of running into someone from STD. I imagine none of them have even heard of this place. I also imagine the Foggy Glass Pub’s marketing department consists of a toothless man sticking up flyers at truck stops. It’s dark and basic, and everyone, from the staff to the patrons, isn’t in an outwardly festive mood. The pub smells like artery-clogging food and various brown liquors. This atmosphere suits us well and is a stark contrast from the other happy hour that’s going on simultaneously in a trendy sports bar across town. Fellow employees sit around discussing work and their personal lives, while tallying up a huge tab on pitchers of overpriced beer and appetizer samplers before the guilt sets in and they feel obligated to go home and face their families. For most of them, this is the one time they actually go out and socialize with people, which I always thought was unfortunate for a grown adult to have an exhilarating time only at a company happy hour.

We are joined by another STD co-worker, Dontrelle. He works with me in the pension department. He’s an imposing figure, a tall, stocky man, about six feet five and 265 pounds. His work attire is primarily composed of camouflage cargo pants (sometimes with one pant leg rolled up to his knee) and Timberlands, his version of business casual attire. His clothing matches his overly aggressive personality. Co-workers who don’t know him gawk at him for all of the reasons listed. Well, it’s either those reasons or his heavily tattooed forearms or the Chinese writing inked into his neck. He watches as Jake and I play an old
Street Fighter 2
arcade game, one of the perks of this fine establishment. They also feature
Frogger
and
Double Dragon
. The latter is on the fritz after an overzealous Dontrelle banged the side of the machine one too many times.

“Blanka, bitch!” Jake says as his ape-like video-game character electrically shocks my character into defeat. I reach into my pocket and give him a ten-dollar bill. “When are you gonna learn I don’t lose?” he continues to revel in his triumph.

The three of us go back to a table where our food is waiting. I look at my cheesesteak skeptically. Then, I look at Dontrelle. “Did you eat a piece of my sandwich?”

“Nah, dog,” he says. I look at him again. “Well, not on purpose. See, I thought it was mine and took a bite out of it. Then, I realized it wasn’t, so I ate the rest of the half. Didn’t want to leave a bitten sandwich just sitting there if it wasn’t mine.”

That’s Dontrelle logic. In his mind he did the right thing, because in his mind he’s always high on weed. High all day at work. High at home. Eyes forever glassy. He would’ve come to lunch with us today, but he was in his car smoking a blunt, which is usually the case when his whereabouts are in question.

I disgustedly look down at my tampered meal. “You’re pretty considerate for not eating the rest.”

“I know, right?” he says.

“Finish it off.” I slid him the plate. “I’m supposed to eat later with Alexis anyway.”

“How’s that going with the two of you?” Jake says.

“Same ol’ same.”

“She still wants you two to move in together and get a place in the city?”

I nod my head. “That’s all she talks about.” I mimic her voice: “The city this. We can get a luxury condo downtown together. Our kids can grow up living in the center of a cultural hot spot, with museums, art galleries, the theater.”

“I bet she reads all that shit in them fancy magazines, son,” Dontrelle says. “That’s why I don’t like a bitch who reads a lot, preferably not at all. Too many new ideas. Keep it basic, ma, and you’ll be good with me.”

“Kids?” Jake says. “You better watch her ass. I always knew she was trouble. She’ll marry you. You’ll have kids. Then, she’ll divorce you and take half. And you’ll be paying child support out the ass. My friend Javier had that same shit happen to him. His wife left him and took more than half—seventy-five percent of his monthly salary. He has to live in an efficiency apartment. Cooking Hot Pockets every night in a small-ass microwave ‘cuz the wiring is tricky in that little shithole and can’t handle all the wattage of a regular microwave. He ended up running away. Couldn’t deal with it. I think he’s a hobo or some shit now. Riding the rails. Poor Javier.”

“Watch out for her? Now you say this.” I say. “You introduced us.”

“That’s because you were too scared to talk. I had to step up for you and break the ice, as I always end up doing with chicks.”

“It wasn’t like that. Anyway, it might be time for kids and a wife,” I say. “She makes a compelling argument all the time. I’m a better person because of her. I know that for a fact. I need to grow up. Being the old guy in the club is a bad look.”

“You keep telling yourself that. I’m a ride out with mine. Mr. Solo Dolo.” Jake gives Dontrelle a pound.

“Hell yeah, hell yeah,” Dontrelle says.

Dontrelle looks at both of us and says, “Man, fuck all this soft-ass relationship talk. I didn’t come here to talk about bitches. Damn, there gotta be something else popping off in your lives. For example, why is there only three of us here? You didn’t bring your apprentice, Mr. Trump?” He looks at me. And the two of them bust out laughing.

“Fuck you, D,” I say as I can’t even keep a straight face.

“That lil’ nigga look like he’s running for junior-high-school class president. Pinstripe suit on for his first day. I came in today, thought someone was having their first communion,” Dontrelle continues. “Ring-bearer-ass mofo.”

I have no comebacks for him, not that I would defend Eddie if I did.

“Why does that lil’ shit have a briefcase? I mean, seriously?” Jake says.

I was wondering that too. “Maybe it’s filled with Lunchables and Capri Suns,” I say.

“You think being nice to him is going to get you a promotion?” Jake says.

“Floyd put his word on it.”

“‘Word’? Fuck that, he gave his word for Robot Day too, and I’m still waiting that. Hell yeah, hell yeah.”

“I agree with D. You can’t rely on his word. You need more than that. Get something in writing,” Jake says. “And don’t you think he’s a racist? Why would he help you?”

I shrug my shoulders because they’re right. Floyd’s never done anything for me to earn my trust in him. “Well, just in case, I’ll pick up my performance. He said the other managers didn’t think I was dependable and that I’m not better than Chloe. I’ll prove them wrong.”

Jake and Dontrelle look at each other.

“But you’re not better than her,” Jake says.

“Cosign,” Dontrelle says.

“At least I have a great support system,” I say. They not having faith in me is nothing new, but they have no idea what I’m capable of. It’s the whole crabs-in-the-bucket thing.

“I’m only keeping it real. If you can’t trust your friends to tell you the truth, who can you trust?” Jake says.

My cellphone rings. I look at the caller ID: Alexis.

“Hello, sweetheart. I’m still at work, trying to get this overtime. . . . Yep, we’re still on for movie night at my place. Any ideas yet on what you want to eat? . . . Okay, we’ll figure it out later. I gotta get back to work. See you in an hour.” I hang up the phone.

Jake and Dontrelle both have the same disappointed look on their faces.

“What?” I say.

“You can’t even go have a drink after work? That’s what you want the rest of your life to be like?” Jake says.

“I can, but it’s better this way. She even commended me for my hard work.” I hope the call was a good enough distraction to stop them from asking me about the promotion. I don’t want to talk about it right now.

“You want this promotion, right?” Jake says. He has a knack of knowing exactly what I don’t want to discuss and forcing me to answer questions about it.

“‘Want’? I need this so I can propose and move in with Alexis,” I say.

“You’re gonna have to do something extra to make sure you get it. Not show you’re better than Chloe, but not as bad as her,” Jake says.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I say.

“Hell yeah, hell yeah, I get it. That’s some mastermind shit right there. Next level,“ Dontrelle says. “I told you last summer about my cousin, Lorenzo, who went to court to get custody of his daughter?”

I don’t pay attention to 98 percent of the things he says. It’s always some ridiculous story that ends with the cops or some shit. But if he asks me, I recite the same response: “Yeah, I remember that.”

“He took her to court and lied and shit about his baby’s moms. Had pictures of nunchucks, guns, weed, fireworks, porno movies, all types of shit lying around her crib. Paid witnesses too that made up foul shit she does, like assaults, hosting underground poker games, dog fighting, and running a small-time prostitution ring out of her place,” Dontrelle says.

“Umm . . . exactly,” Jake says.

“Pretty extreme, don’t you think? That’s not really my style anyway,” I say.

Jake makes a face as if he can’t believe what I’m saying. “What is your style really? ‘Cuz it’s not working hard. You’ll always be someone who’s going to half ass it.”

“What do you mean, ‘half ass’?” I say.

“Don’t pull that dumb shit with me. You know what I’m talking about. You’re not necessarily a model employee. And every time you’ve tried to go the hard-work route you’ve failed. It’s not who you are. That’s why it lasts two days, three tops. That’s why you haven’t been able to get a new job with all them interviews you go on,” Jake says.

“I haven’t been trying that long.”

“Two years?” Jake says.

“That’s a long-ass time, dog,” Dontrelle says.

“Not really.”

“Every few months you’ve set a deadline for leaving STD,” Jake says.

“How many interviews have you gone on?” Dontrelle says.

They’re really ganging up on me now. “I’ve lost count. What do you guys know? I mean, really. They haven’t been the right jobs for me. Plus, there are so many variables that go into this job-search shit. In order to find the right place where you’re happy, you have to take into account all of these factors.”

“Man, you sound like a brochure for a career-placement service. What’s wrong with all of these places then?” Jake says.

I think about it for a split second. I’m not too sure I want to get into this with them. What’s the chance they’ll know what I’m talking about? But I throw all better judgment aside and commence to entertain them with my tales of job hunting.

“Well, this one place was too small of a company. I could tell from the pathetic-looking three-floored building. It kinda looked like an old schoolhouse. When I walked in, everyone was sitting all close together, and everything was on one floor. They shared the building with an animal shelter and a beauty salon. I asked the dude interviewing me where everyone was at. He told me this was the whole department. It was about eight people. Can’t have everyone up in my business. I need to be able to stretch out. Make a phone call. Do what I gotta do.”

Jake and Dontrelle both shake their heads at my excuse, which I thought was a valid one.

I continue, “And this other place. I didn’t like the looks of the boss either. He had a ponytail and a sweater vest on. And in all of the pictures in his office, he had a sweater vest on too. You know how I feel about sweater vests.” I look at Jake.

“Yeah, I do, and it’s very odd. But I doubt your feelings are strong to where you would turn down a job for it, though,” Jake says.

“You’d be amazed how strongly I believe in my convictions,” I say.

“Last month alone, you had a lot of sick days. So exactly how many interviews did you go on in January?” Jake says.

I try to remember. I must go on a lot of interviews if I forget. . . . “Four.”

Jake’s eyebrows rise.

“Okay, six. Damn, you remember everything.”

“Cot damn!” Dontrelle says. “And you didn’t get one?”

I immediately come to my own defense. “But there were other reasons I didn’t like those jobs. One place had bad vending machines.”

“What?” Dontrelle says.

“Vending machines. First, they were only on the seventh floor. And that was impractical in itself. Say I want a snack, and I’m about to die of low blood sugar or some shit. Then, I have to maneuver to the elevator. Now, what if it’s broken or down for maintenance? I’m not walking up the steps seven flights, because I’m about to go into diabetic shock. Then, I try to walk up the steps anyway, ‘cuz I feel the end coming near. It only ends with the janitor finding me in a coma in the stairwell and foaming at the mouth. And on top of that, when I actually found the vending machine, the snacks were weak. Poor variety and even worse quality. The CEO is some type of health nut. No Snickers, no Reese’s, no cupcakes. I can’t work at a place where I can’t get cupcakes at any given moment. They had trail mix and peanut-butter crackers and shit. No thank you. I’m not four. Who needs full access to crackers? I’ll pass on that shit,” I say.