Slide - Kyle Beachy [16]
At some point that night at school, when we were too tired to go on, all the fuck and yous changed to sorry. It made sense; the fight was doomed from the start, constrained and defeated by its own parameters. We screamed and screamed, then crumpled on the bed like two dirty tissues. For a while, neither of us was willing to make a move. Then I touched a single finger to one of her toes.
“I am,” I said. “I am sorry.”
“Now what?” she asked. “What's left? Who's the asshole?”
“Come here. Just here.”
“No. No. You come here,” she said. “You come closer.”
One of the teenagers spotted me and communicated with the others in a signal I didn't catch, but slowly the rolls of toilet paper came to rest. There were only four of them, four boys, though with their efficiency it had seemed twice as many. They exchanged nervous looks and it occurred to me that they'd come here because of the youngest Hoyne, the neighbor daughter who by now must have been in high school. I approached the closest kid and saw a face equal parts wholesome rebellion and magnificent fear. For a second I seriously considered punching him, to see if the other three would rush to his aid and beat me enough that I'd finally get some rest. The kid breathed loudly through a mouth ruled by braces. I reached out and we engaged in a prolonged handshake, long enough that by its end rolls of toilet paper flew again, leaving hygienic white trails that scaled trees and striped across the yard. I crossed back to my parents’ driveway and sat with my back against a tire of the 4Runner, hoping the kids would keep going through the night.
The lack of worthwhile rest began to complicate my interactions with the world. At times I delved into a fugue state and corners went fuzzy, objects floated by with no apparent destination. I grew suspicious of just about everything, including the queasy awareness that somebody knew me well enough to forecast within seconds when I'd want to eat breakfast. I began instituting little tests of my mother's timing. One morning I stalled upstairs after brushing my teeth. This was no problem for her. The following morning I essentially sprinted from my bed to the kitchen, only to find her at the stove, angling the frying pan, toast-eggs sliding onto a plate. She was unflappable.
I waited until she was outside in her garden, then began searching through the cabinets below the phone. I moved my search outward, eventually going through every cabinet in the kitchen. I wanted the Yellow Pages, and this much was good: to want. Frustrated, I moved to the new computer room. And there it was on the desk, displayed as if the Yellow Pages were the whole purpose for building the new room. I split it open and turned to temporary employment, picked the largest ad, then called a small one next to it.
“We accept walk-ins any day of the week,” the woman explained. “We're here ‘til five.”
“You mean today? I expected some sort of wait. Maybe I should make an appointment for later in the week.”
“Walk-in only. Thank you for choosing ProTemps.”
I dug through a still-unpacked duffel to find my olive-green pants, a wrinkled white shirt, and the cleaner of the two ties I owned. I found my dress shoes and a pair of black socks from my father's dresser. It took six tries to get the tie right.
Stuart phoned during my drive. “What is the worst injury either of you sustained in the presence of the other?”
“I broke a finger one night. Tripped over a bush.”
“Broken finger. Good. Afterward, did she care for you: A, tenderly; B, fairly; C, politely; or D, rudely?”
“She said I was an idiot for trying to steal a security golf cart. Then I don't know. B? Which one was B?”
“Very good, Poot. That's all I need for now.”
A woman behind glass slid me a clipboard with a pen attached by twine. I dropped it, picked it up, and took a seat between a teenage Latino kid with slick hair and a thirty-something black woman in purple stockings.