Chapter Seven
It was common knowledge to Ronald that Wednesdays typically had slow news in Washington. He wasn’t covering anything on the Hill, and no scandals erupted in the midst of politicians. So he’d convinced himself he deserved a day off. He followed up the earlier text to Shao with a notice of his day off.
Immediately, the cell phone rang. “What’s up, what are you on to?” Shao asked.
“Nothing,” Ronald said. He felt pride in the fact that she knew him well enough to know any variation to his routine meant he might have a juicy lead. “Actually, I almost got run over this morning.” He made his way into the lower level of the apartment building and up the narrow wooden steps. “A young man saved my life and moved off like it was no big deal.”
“That’s good.” Shao’s distracted voice suggested she multitasked while on the phone. “Take a couple of days off.”
“I’ll be in as soon as I change.”
“Don’t bother.” She finally addressed Ronald in a direct tone. “We’re good here. You need a few days off. You haven’t taken a vacation in three years.”
“Okay,” Ronald mumbled.
“We’re looking light on this quarter and a few days off can give us a better budget for the week.”
He said nothing. It was the first time Shao shared any inner workings of the business. He knew people stopped buying papers, but the online industry continued. “Is everything okay?” he wanted to know. He unlocked and opened the apartment door.
“Sure, sure,” she replied hurriedly. “Look, I want you to take a few days off. It’s a simple choice for a bigger issue at the office. Don’t worry. You’re job’s safe.” And the call ended.
Ronald slipped off his shoes by the door. He put down the satchel on the sofa and untucked his shirt. Random weirdness gave him a day off. He wasn’t going to knock it. And now he had the rest of the week off. News never stopped, and a few days away from the office didn’t mean Ronald had to leave his channels of live feeds alone.
As Ronald moved around the tiny apartment, he felt ill at ease. Unscheduled days off had a certain buzz that didn’t have the same structure as regular work days. Since Ronald resigned himself to be alone for the rest of his life, changes in plans sometimes just felt strange. It was September 1 and year after year, Ronald felt his last phone call with William was wasted on gratification instead of genuine devotion. He needed a distraction before he sank further into depression.
So, he cleaned the apartment. A deep cleansing that the place needed more than he realized. Sweaty and tired, Ronald lost interest the moment he found the shoebox collection of memorabilia that he kept about him and William in the back of the closet. The bobbles of a past love life that hurt like a war wound, a phantom limb that continued to ache.
One amenity the tiny apartment had was a balcony. It wasn’t very big. The glass door opened to a space large enough for a reclining lawn chair and a round glass table. On summer nights, Ronald sat watching the younger trendsetters as they meandered along the street toward their clubs and taverns. He didn’t miss those days because it required remembering his time with William, their time together. For Ronald, there wasn’t anything before William and only solitude afterward. He sipped at the tall neck bottle of beer snagged from the refrigerator before he went out to the balcony.
The name brand shoebox lasted longer than the pair of shoes that came in it. He sat the box on his lap, took another sip of beer and watched the traffic bottleneck on D Street. It didn’t matter what time of day. Washington was always congested.
A melancholy mood settled over him since finding the shoebox. It rested on his lap, unopened. He considered the contents. Whatever he deemed valuable from their relationship, anything that fitted in a shoebox, Ronald stacked inside.
When he reached for the bottle of beer on the table, it exploded before he grabbed it. Quickly, he rolled out of the lawn chair and stared at the amber liquid and foam dripping over the counter. He held the smartphone in his hand along with the shoebox of memories. But an exploding beer bottle was a strange experience, and he stood very still watching the foam drip off the table. The bottle half of the bottle remained upright.
Ronald stepped around the table, carefully negotiating the pool of beer. He moved through the open doorway back in the apartment to grab a dish towel. A spontaneous beer bottle explosion wasn’t something he’d typically write about, but Ronald thought he’d get 500 words out of an article.
The knock at the front door sounded hurried, and Ronald veered away from the balcony. Once the door opened, he saw a ghost. Trim and fit, short military-style hair and those blazing eyes of blue ice.
“Hey!” William said, out of breath. He shouldered his way into the apartment. There was something in his hand, but Ronald didn’t want to finish the thought that it was a pistol. “You look good. Listen, we got to go. How fast can you get dressed?” He sidestepped away from a direct line with the balcony and snapped closed the curtains. “What?”
“What the hell?” Ronald finally said. He hadn’t moved from the entryway.
“I know,” William said with a grin. “A lot to catch up on, but we have to go.” He saw Ronald’s laptop sitting on the small table in the kitchen. William dropped it in the well-worn satchel.