Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [41]
“I’m looking to spend about half that.”
“Jeez, Lew. Who’s the lucky girl?”
“A friend,” said Lewis.
John, the house manager, lowered himself into the chair next to Lawrence, and Lewis regarded him warily. Since Lewis had joined the staff, John’s private mission, apparently, was to cut him down to size whenever possible, preferably in front of residents. John had once come up to a group and said, “Lewis, you may be one of those guys who’s just too smart to stay sober.” A few days later—similar scene, a few guys talking—John approached him again: “You know, Lewis, I was wrong. You’re not so smart, just lucky.” Then, a couple nights ago, John handed him what looked like a business card; one side said “KISS” and the other side, “Keep It Simple, Stupid.” Was this hostile or what? Yet the other guys seemed to like John. He sponsored eight or nine of them, including Lawrence.
“Is this a friend-friend,” asked Lawrence, “or a girlfriend?”
“A friend.”
“Better not be a girlfriend,” John said.
“Excuse me?” said Lewis.
John unloaded his tray and pushed it to the end of the table. “You better not be getting into a relationship so soon.”
“So soon to what?”
“Your first year of sobriety.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Hasn’t Red told you? No relationships in the first year.”
“Why would Red tell me that?” This was the first Lewis had heard of such a thing. He turned to Lawrence. “Is he making this up?”
Lawrence gave Lewis a sad, anxious look. “Don’t ask me. I haven’t had a date in five years.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news”—John’s eyes twinkled with malice—“but really, it’s in your best interest. Face it. What do you have to offer anyone, anyway? What kind of woman goes for someone who’s bankrupt—emotionally, spiritually, and financially? All I have to do is think about what I dated my first year to—”
Lewis told Lawrence, “I’m going out to dinner with a friend.”
“Good,” John said. “See that it stays that way.”
Lewis got up, shoved his plate into the bus tub by the kitchen door, and set out walking back to the office. In early June the heavy morning fogs turned dingy and yellow by mid-afternoon; if he didn’t know better, he’d say it was smog. He hadn’t made it very far when Red drove up, leaned an elbow out of the truck’s window. “Want a ride?”
Lewis scuffed around the back and climbed in.
“Want to talk about it?” Red said.
“No.”
Red drove leisurely, humming. A shiny black snake stretched out in the road, straight as a javelin. “King snake,” Red said, steering around it. “They eat ground squirrels and rattlesnakes, supposedly, although that’s hard to imagine.” He resumed humming.
Lewis looked at him. “So what’s this about no women in the first year of sobriety?”
“Says who?”
“That paragon of tact and mental health you have managing the Blue House.”
“John? He’s one to talk. He shacked up with a heroin addict his whole first year.”
“So it’s not true.”
“Nowhere is it written in stone,” Red said. “Though it’s not such a bad idea to take a break from sex until your sobriety’s stabilized. I’ve seen more guys get drunk over women than anything else. But people do what they’re going to do. I say, so long as you’re willing to observe your own behavior, do what you need to.”
“So I can take someone out to dinner Saturday night without breaking the eleventh goddamn commandment?”
“Is that what this is all about?” Red grinned. “I don’t see why not.” He gave Lewis a sidelong glance. “Although it never hurts to do a little housecleaning before inviting people over.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you might want to write that inventory before plunging into something.”
“Before one crummy date?”
“Just a suggestion,” Red said mildly. “Some light housekeeping today could prevent a big shambles down the line.”
“I know, I know….”
“On the other hand, it is possible that you can get a house so clean, you won’t want anybody coming in and messing stuff up.” Red’s voice grew even softer. “Then, I guess, the challenge is to open up, allow a little chaos in. And