“Stupid motherfucker,” Little Dick said.Expensive shoes clicked on the showroom floor, and a moment later, Little Dick was poking his head into Jem’s cubicle.“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Office Jem took over.He held up the mug of coffee and smiled.“Nothing a few cups of this won’t fix.”
Little Dick stared at him.There was something lagging in his expression, like the smaller man was trying to figure out how to turn what Jem said into an argument or an insult.But finally he said simply, “Did you put up those balloons like I told you?”
Office Jem was about to spout some line of bullshit—being busy with a customer usually worked—but before he could open his mouth, Brian popped his head over the partition.In a bad attempt at an English accent, he said, “I shall do it, sire!”
He waited for a moment, probably hoping Little Dick would laugh, but instead, Little Dick just glared at him.After another moment, Little Dick barked, “Then do it!”
Brian ran.
“That guy is such a fucking pussy,” Little Dick said to Jem.“I get so fucking tired of him.”
“He sure seems like he likes you.”
“He’s a loser.”Little Dick waited, and when Jem didn’t take the bait, he said, “Sell me some fucking cars today.”
And then he drifted away, his fancy shoes clicking with each step.
Office Jem didn’t groan.Office Jem didn’t put his head down.Office Jem just stared at the screen, where the half-finished game of solitaire waited, and hunkered down inside himself.It was like somebody walking around inside his skull, turning down some of the lights, putting out others.Like they were at emergency power, and they couldn’t keep everything running.
Outside, Brian was running around in a sports coat and chinos, carrying weighted balloons in each hand—the balloons Jem had been supposed to set out.Under those thick, rumpled clouds, the light was colorless and weak, and Brian’s skin was the color of paper mâché as he scurried the length of the lot, stopping at regular intervals to set up the balloons, looking back to check his handiwork.He looked like he was whistling.
That’s going to be you.
The thought was so clear, soloud, that Jem almost looked around.He tried to ignore the words.He turned down the lights in his head a little more.It was like back when he’d been in care.Some of the families had wanted to eat dinner together.Some of them had wanted to go to church together.Some had wanted to have long talks with Jem, telling him everything he’d fucked up, or how not to fuck up, or why people—specifically, Jem—were such fuckups.And so he’d learned to turn off.Sometimes, he’d watch something in there, like his own private theater.Darkwing Duckhad frequent showings.
Five years, tops.That’s going to be you.FuckingBrian, man.
It was themanat the end that made him take a pained breath.
Brian had stopped to take a selfie with Little Dick’s Chevrolet in the background.He was giving the camera a huge thumbs-up.
Five years.That number didn’t seem real to Jem.He’d never been anywhere, done anything for five years.Except take care of Benny.Before this house, he’d moved whenever he had to—squatting in abandoned apartments, couch-surfing, occasionally sleeping rough if the weather allowed.He’d run games.And when the games stopped working, or the cops showed up, he’d switch over to something new.Even taking care of Benny hadn’t been full time.Sometimes, Benny got into one of those nicer facilities for a while.Sometimes, Benny didn’t want Jem coming around.
Five fucking years of this.Of showing up at Little Dick’s Chevrolet every day, on time, to do the same fucking thing with the same fucking people.To eat the same fucking shit.Listening to Little Dick talk about how hescored, having to smile and nod at the giant turd, ducking his head and rolling over when Little Dick wanted to push someone around just to remind everybody who was boss.Brian had been doing it for twelve years.How had he not blown his brains out?
Brian went home to his wife and kids, though.That was the tradeoff.Brian spent his whole day sucking ass.That was pretty much his full-time job.Sure, Brian sold cars.Not as many as Jem, but he sold them.And Brian did his paperwork and shuffled cars around and hell, put out the balloons.But Brian’s major contribution to Little Dick’s Chevrolet was sucking ass.For fuck’s sake, one time, he’d gone out to buy Little Dick lunch—with his own money—and on his way out the door, he’d shouted,The king’s gotta eat.
But Brian had a family.Brian had responsibilities.Brian had people to take care of.You did what you had to.And that was true for Jem, too.There was the mortgage.There were bills.Sure, Tean made a good living, but not enough for them to stay where they were, not without Jem’s income.
But for a moment, the vision rose in front of Jem.He’d start wearing his hair differently—hell, he’d probably start tolosehis hair.And he’d wear a sports coat and chinos, and they’d always look baggy, not quite right, because he was buying them off the sale rack and they weren’t the right size.One day, he’d need something—a raise, or an advance on a paycheck, or vacation days—and he’d laugh at some stupid fuck-off comment Little Dick made.And it would be easier to do the next time.And the next.And the next.He wouldn’t be Office Jem anymore.Because Office Jem was a suit of clothes he could put on and take off.But this would be permanent.This would be real.
Because what other choice did he have?He wouldn’t go back.He couldn’t go back.That world, that life, there wasn’t any place for Tean there.Climbing up fire escapes, crawling through windows, hiding in the dark when the security guard came to check out a strange sound, because you forgot, for one second, you weren’t supposed to be there, and you peed too loudly.The places that didn’t have heat.The places that didn’t have water.Hauling in buckets.Getting one of those ten-dollar gym memberships to shower.Cooking over a little fire near the window, hoping it wouldn’t make too much smoke, because you can’t get the power turned on.
Jem pushed back from the desk and got out of the chair; the chair kept rolling, and it thumped into the wall of the cubicle behind him, and the calendar that was thumbtacked to the partition swung side to side.Jem wasn’t really sure where he was going.The front of the showroom, all that glass, fresh air on the other side.He was halfway to the doors, hand on his throat, when the shapes in front of him swam together, and he recognized the people he was looking at.
Trevino and Van Cleave looked the way they always did: SBI windbreakers, polos, khakis, boots.Trevino’s dark hair was in a small bun.Van Cleave looked like he’d given the chin puff extra attention with a comb.When Trevino caught his eye, she nodded.Van Cleave put his hands on his hips, and the windbreaker bulged over his gun.
Jem slowed, but he kept walking toward them.
“Morning, Mr.Berger,” Trevino said.
Van Cleave was giving him tough-guy eyes.“Going somewhere?”
“I was supposed to set up the balloons,” Jem said.“Brian’s doing it for me, but I should get out there and help him.”
“He’s got it,” Van Cleave said.