Chapter seven:

 

 

“Need you to lock up tonight,” Charlie says.

“Sure thing,” I reply as I look up from my mopping with a smile.

And I don’t mind. I honestly don’t.

I know I should be paid extra for it, but I find it comforting, the fact that he trusts me enough to lock up for him. I mean this is his business, his livelihood. In many ways, this is more important than his kids and wife, because they don’t provide him with the things he needs more than anything else—money. And I know he needs money by the way he’s been swearing at his computer screen all day.

Online gambling. It’s the fucking future.

He smiles and pats my hand. “You’re a good boy,” he says, and then he goes back into his office and shuts the door. Charlie has his bad habits, but he’s good at heart, and I honestly think that’s all we can ever hope for in this life.

Work is busy today, with a big shipment of meat going out for the first time in a long time. And I’m a little surprised that Charlie isn’t more hands-on with it because I know he’s broke right now. He knows that his guys fuck things up if they’re left to their own devices. He’s seen it himself. But still he stays in his office, the orange glow of his screen reflecting off of his sweaty face.

But I don’t say anything to him, or them.

It’s not my place to lecture anyone.

I know when to keep my mouth shut. I’ve learned that over the years. Besides, after mouthing off yesterday it’s probably best to keep my head in the sand for a while because I really need this job. My parole officer would be pissed if I lost my job.

So I go back to mopping and disinfecting and I help out when they need me to carry some of the heavy boxes, because I’m a pretty strong man, not a weedy little boy like I used to be. There’s some good men working here, but I don’t mix too much with them. Or maybe they don’t mix too much with me. Either way, it works, and I’m good with it.

I don’t need to make any friends.

I like my solitude.

I like my space.

I like my routine.

I’m a little pissed off, though, when it comes to quitting time and I realize that I’m actually the only one still here. Charlie left several hours ago, and the other guys, I have no idea when they went.

I’m normally very observant too, so it’s strange that I didn’t notice.

I clean down everyone’s workstations and I finish up my job, and then I finish up theirs because although they don’t care, I do. And then I go around and I do the usual routine of turning off lights and locking doors and making sure everything is where it should be and safe and secure.

I need to know that things will be exactly where I left them when I come back in tomorrow.

I need to know that things aren’t just going to disappear on me.

Not ever again.

It’s late when I finish, and of course it’s fucking raining again. It never seems to stop raining lately. It’s driving me nuts. I like early autumn best of all because it’s nice to see the leaves change color and fall from the trees. Everything is dying, and yet it all seems so alive. It’s kind of perfect really.

But spring sucks.

All it does is fucking rain.

I head to the bus stop and I sit and I wait. And it’s not too bad at first. I get to think by myself for a little while.

But then I get cold, and then I think about everyone else—including Charlie—who is probably all sitting at home right now fucking their wives, bathing their kids, or watching their flat-screens while they eat their microwaved food on their TV trays.

And I can’t help it.

I start to feel a little resentment toward them all.

A little resentment and anger that slowly bubbles to the surface.

Because really, it’s a shitty thing for them to do to leave me to clean up everything. And I guess I’m a little jealous because my life really shouldn’t be like this. It was supposed to be better. So much better. And sometimes, when I get stressed or anxious, I can’t help thinking about how it should have been.

I know, I know, you shouldn’t ever do the whole shoulda, woulda, coulda thing, but it’s hard sometimes. Right now I’m sick of sitting in this stupid rain at this stupid stop with no shelter. And I’m tired, and it’s dark, and I’m getting pretty hungry too, if I really want to be a pussy about it.

I hear a whistle and look across the road and see the same businessman I’ve seen for the past couple of days hailing down a bright yellow cab. The cab stands out vividly, illuminating the dull and graying evening.

He’s not on his own today; he has someone with him, though I can’t see what the other person looks like because of the umbrella shielding them from the driving rain. I’m impressed by the fact that he’s actually holding the umbrella out for them, allowing whoever it is some shelter from the rain.

What a good guy.

And it’s funny how people can surprise you just when you think you have them pegged as a fancy asshole who doesn’t give a shit about other people. How you can think you know what they’re all about, when really they’re the sort of person that holds an umbrella above their friends’ heads while it rains.

The cab pulls up, and he even opens the door for them—another small act of kindness that makes me smile—and I feel the anxiety and simmering anger in my gut ease.

And maybe the rain isn’t so bad; it helps plants to grow, after all.

And maybe I should be grateful that the bus even stops here at all.

And the dark ain’t so bad, really.

I like people being nice, considerate. We should all try to be that; if we do nothing else with our miserable existences, we should at least be considerate to each other.

Light spills from the cab doorway, and the man steps back to allow the woman to get into the cab first. I realize it’s a woman with legs that go on for miles, and I want to laugh because now it makes sense why he’s being polite. He wants to fuck her. Ain’t that always the way?

A man’s never a gent unless he wants to get into a woman’s panties. I’ve learned that over the years too. He climbs in after her, shutting the door behind him and closing the world out.

I wonder if the woman is his wife. Or maybe she’s his secretary and they’re having an affair. He’s probably taking her to a seedy motel to fuck while his wife looks after their children at home, wondering why her husband is always working late.

And he’ll tell her that he’s chasing a promotion.

Trying to earn more money so he can buy her nice things, so he can pay for the new car she wanted, or the pearl necklace he got her for their wedding anniversary.

And he’ll make her feel bad, feel guilty for even complaining, when all the while he’s sticking his dick into another woman.

Right now I hate this man, and I hate this woman even more. Because she knows he’s married. She picks out the flowers he sends to his wife and the necklace she received for their anniversary.

This woman, his secretary, she picked it all out. And she didn’t even get the expensive ones. She picked the shitty ones, because she’s jealous of this asshole’s wife and the life she lives.

And all the while she fucks her boss and she moves herself into his life, slowly pushing his beautiful wife out of the picture, making her feel bad, making her feel that it’s all her fault.

And a snarl rises to my lips and I stand up, because I can’t sit still.

The resentment and hate I feel makes me shiver so hard that all I can think about is walking across the road and dragging them from the car and—

It’s only been a split second while all of these dark and bloody thoughts run through my mind. Thoughts I try to control, to stop in their tracks. I breathe hard and think of my calming techniques, letting the words play on my lips.

One African Elephant Walking Very Nicely. Two Australian Coyotes Prowling Through The Night. Three Jungle Cats Slinking Through The Dark. Four Busy Beavers Building Their—

I start to calm down as the woman’s face turns to the window, and in that split second—right before the light inside the cab blinks out, plunging her beauty back into darkness, and before the cab is swallowed up by the deep ocean of the night—I see her perfect face.

Carrie.

My Carrie.

Ain’t that always the way? I think as the cab pulls away.