Know Not Why: A Novel (3 page)

See? I, too, can function as a normal human
being. And I can sell you some yarn like a motherfucking badass.
Pretty soon, I’m gonna be doing just fine.

Heartened by the thought, I gather everyone’s
attention – Mitch has shoved a whole piece of cake into his mouth
at once; Amber’s about to roll her eyes out of her head – and, in
the spirit of the evening, relate the tale of getting interviewed
by Artie Kraft II, Fist Bump That Wasn’t and all. Everyone gets a
real kick out of that. Mitch, who’s like the human embodiment of
Easily Amused, almost busts a gut laughing. Amber starts trying to
remember stuff about Arthur from her high school music adventures,
and it’s pretty heartwarming to see everyone pounce on the idea of
this stupid guy like vultures on a carcass. Pouncy vultures.

I sit there, and take a third piece of cake, and
bask. One last
Ha ha to you, fucker
feels pretty damn
good.

+

I get there twenty minutes early on my first
day, because it worked out so well the last time.

It doesn’t this time: the store’s dark and
locked up. Nobody’s even here yet. Shouldn’t my good buddy The
Second be here by now? What kind of a boss is he, anyway?

I get back into my car and turn it on, even
though it seems pretty indulgent to waste gas just sitting in the
parking lot. I don’t really like the quiet, though, and I’ve got
the Violent Femmes in the stereo. There’s no resisting
m’Femmes.

I’m drumming my fingers against the wheel,
singing along low to
Gone Daddy Gone
, when a car pulls up in
the spot next to mine. It pisses me off a little, to be honest. The
car’s just getting warm again, and I don’t really want to step back
out into the early-November misery. This weather’s a bitch.

And speaking of bitches! Arthur gets out of the
passenger’s side. He slams the door shut, which catches my
interest. Arthur Kraft the Second is
not
a door-slammer,
like, you can tell by looking at the guy. He closes doors carefully
and considerately, and then probably takes the time to ask them,
‘Was that all right? I
do
hope it wasn’t too startling for
you’ afterwards. So the fact that he’s slammin’ car doors like some
crazy-ass motherfucker: interesting.

The car zooms out of the parking lot.

I bop my head along to one last Gano warble,
then turn the car off and climb out. Arthur’s at the front door,
unlocking it. He drops the keys and mumbles something that is in
all likelihood swear word-y, then bends down to scour the ground
for them. He keeps muttering angrily to himself. What now? This is
awesome.

“Good morning,” I say amiably. All of a sudden,
I feel pretty on top of the world.
I
got here on time. I’m
not dropping stuff and (more or less) screaming out swearwords,
being a general nuisance to humanity. My pal Arthur Kraft the
Second, on the other hand …

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking up from where he’s
hands-and-knees-ing it on the pavement, “hello, Howard.”

Howard.
Howard.
Seriously? Nobody gets to
call me Howard anymore. I don’t even let my grandma call me
Howard.

“It’s Howie, actually,” I tell him. “Always
Howie. Never Howard.”

“Yes, certainly, okay,” Arthur says
distractedly. He’s
still
looking around for the keys, like,
how far could they have possibly fallen? I take a few more steps,
getting a better look at him. Upon closer examination, I realize
that his hair is wet. It’s already starting to freeze, all glinty
with ice. Arthur Kraft the Second’s hair is freezing. Scratch any
prior anguish on my part. This is shaping up to be the best day
ever.

“Having trouble there, Arthur?” I ask him
oh-so-courteously.

“I can’t seem to find the keys.” Duh. Thanks for
the recap, sport. “I had a chaotic morning. I didn’t have a chance
to put my contact lenses in, and my glasses are upstairs in my
office.”

Overwhelmed by a charitable sense of mercy, I
spot the keys lying on the pavement right in front of the door and
snatch them up. Arthur watches me blearily; when he realizes what
I’m doing, he stands up.

“Here ya go,” I say, giving him a great big
grin. Employee of the
Year
, bitches. I hand him the keys.
His hands are like ice; I can feel how cold they are even through
my gloves. Poor sorry bastard. It really isn’t his day.

Heeheehee.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“No problem, boss.”

He goes back to the front door. I follow him, my
step decidedly springy. He takes another stab at unlocking it, but
he’s shivering like crazy and he winds up dropping the keys again.
Who knew? Winter’s this total badass that can cripple even
unendurable douches in two seconds flat. Maybe I’m down with a
cruel climate after all.

Artie lets out a long, weary sigh. It warms me
heart and soul. “Would you mind …?”

“’Course.” I bend down, all dexterous and
unfrozen (although, honestly, if we stay out here much longer, that
might change), pick the keys up, and unlock the door, easy as pie.
Dare I even say:
easy-peasy
.

I hold the door open for Arthur, and he slips
past with another mumbled thank you. He manages, in his crippling
blindness, to find the light switch and hit it. And then there is
light, illuminating the place where I will be spending my
thirty-plus hours a week for the foreseeable future.

Honestly, I didn’t look at it much when I was
here the first time. I was a little too busy looking at other
stuff, namely Kristy.

I didn’t miss a whole lot.

The whole place somehow exudes the air of an old
armchair. You know: comfy, nice, but inescapably shabby. The aisles
are labeled with signs no doubt crafted by a feminine hand (or
maybe an Artie hand;
zing!
): ‘YARN!’; ‘FAKE FLOWERS!’; ‘PUFF
PAINT!’ Ooh, puff paint. It’s enough to make anybody get all
tingly.

“Aprons are hanging up in the kitchen,” Arthur
tells me, and my soul wilts and dies. “You can pick out whichever
one you like. We don’t have a nametag for you yet, but Kristy
should be able to whip one up today. Mondays tend to be a little
slow.”

“Great,” I say, finding it suddenly harder to be
Golly Gee, The Greatest And Chipperest Employee Ever.

“I’m just going to head upstairs, and—” Arthur
pauses at the storage room door. I take a better look at him, now
that we’re in the light, and for the tiniest flicker of a moment, I
feel nothing besides bad for him. In addition to having messy,
frozen hair, he’s got big circles under his eyes, and he’s rocking
some too-anguished-to-shave stubble. Arthur Kraft the Second with
stubble seems wrong, inherently wrong. It’s all topped off by the
fact that I can tell he’s just sort of staring in my general
direction, and, to him, I’m this vague pinkish blob with no
recognizable facial features.

Then I realize that I’m feeling bad for him, and
it flares up into this big raging feeling:
hatehatehatehate
hate
, motherfucker.

“Would you be so kind,” he says, crisp and
composed, “as to lead me upstairs?”

What? “What?”

“The stairs are narrow, and there’s no light
switch,” Arthur explains. He doesn’t even have the decency to sound
ashamed of himself for asking something so, I don’t know, invasive
and
weird
and maybe a little bit faggy. “Considering the
morning I’ve had, I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if I fell and
broke my neck.”

What, like that’s something I would want to
prevent?

But the sick sad truth is that he’s my boss, and
I can’t exactly say no. I’m his bitch now. Professionally. His
apron-wearing, puff paint-selling bitch.

“Yeah, sure,” I say miserably.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Sure, whatever.” I’m pretty sure ‘whatever’’s
not a word you’re supposed to let slip in front of your boss,
unless you’re saying it enthusiastically and following it with ‘you
want,’ but I haven’t been up this early in months, and he’s making
me wear an apron. I can suck at this a little.

God, I wish Kristy would get here already.

I follow him through the storage room, which is
full of precariously stacked boxes.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a little distracted
lately,” Arthur says, like he’s reading my mind. “Kristy and Cora
aren’t exactly pinnacles of neatness.” (Pinnacle? Who says
pinnacle?) “In fact, that might be a good way for you to start off
the day. Get things organized in here.”

Organizing? By myself? Hours and hours in this
dank little
cupboard
? Gee, thanks, Aunt Petunia.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. Somewhere in my soul, it
starts raining.

The raining turns to pouring, because we’re
through the storage closet and at the foot of the stairs. Sure
enough, it’s pretty damn dark; the dim light from the closet only
casts its glow to about stair number four, and then it’s darkness,
darkness, darkness. Lie back and think of paychecks.

I offer my arm, feeling so far beyond
ridiculous, and Artie latches onto it. His hands are still
freezing. I try not to shudder.

We tackle the first step. Thennnn the second.
Thennnn the third. It’s a narrow, rickety staircase, one that
clearly wasn’t designed with this idea in mind. God, this is
fucking weird.

“So,” I say, because I can’t take the
creeeeeak!
, silence,
creeeeak!
anymore, and his
fingers are so cold that I can feel each one individually against
my arm through my clothes, “bad morning?”

“Obviously.”

“What happened?” I’ll admit it, I’m curious.

“It’s a personal matter. I prefer not to discuss
personal matters at work. I’d recommend that you try to do the
same, although I suppose I can’t insist upon it.”

Damn right you can’t, Sir Sucks-A-Lot.

“Okay,” I say. Maybe I drag it out in that
‘you’re crazy’ way, so it’s a little less ‘Okay’ and a little more
‘Ooookay.’ Oh, sweet small rebellion.

I’m too busy being pissed off to look where I’m
going, and all of a sudden, there’s nothing under my foot where the
stair’s supposed to be. Oh, shit. Thanks to some fancy footwork, I
regain my balance and don’t go tumbling down to my death, but I do
have to sort of throw myself into my stair-climbing companion. I
let out a stupid little “oof!” noise as my shoulder collides with
his.

“You all right there?” Arthur asks.

“Just peachy, thanks,” I snarl. I know right
away that that’s not gonna fly, so I throw in a much pleasanter,
“Didn’t mean to stumble on you there, sorry!” and hope it does the
trick.

Arthur seems pretty jaunty the rest of the way
up. For someone unshaven and blind.

We’re just hitting step number nine when I hear:
“Morninggg!”

We turn, and there’s Kristy standing at the foot
of the steps, bathed in residual storage room light. She’s like an
angel. An angel of
hot
.

I’m not very religious or anything, but I
immediately feel a little bad for thinking that one.

“What’s goin’ on, you two?” she asks brightly as
I hurry to disentangle my arm from Arthur’s.

“Arthur’s blind,” I report before he can open
his mouth. Who the hell knows how
he’d
tell the story? “I
just offered to help him up the stairs.”

“Aw, Howie, that was so nice of you!” beams
Kristy. “See, Arthur, you
totally
made the right choice
hiring him.”

What?? Like there was actual deliberation on the
matter? I whip my head around to look at Arthur, but it’s so dark
that I can’t tell if he’s making a Face of Shame. He better be, the
sonuvabitch.

“You’d better get the register set up, Kristy.
Show Howard how to do it while you’re at it.”

Seriously,
WHAT IS THIS DUDE’S
PROBLEM.

“I can work a cash register,” I let him know
with a little more edge than necessary.

“All right,” says Arthur. “Good.” He starts off
toward the door of his office. “Thank you for the help.” After he
says it, he reaches over and absently pats me on the shoulder. It’s
not even notable in any way, just your average ‘thanks, man’
gesture, but, I don’t know, something about it makes me feel all
hyperaware and squirmy. I didn’t get this job so I could engage in
excessive touching with
Arthur
. Besides, Kristy’s
watching.

I blame Amber. I’m still stressing over that
stupid gay thing she said. I like to think that it’s obvious that
I’m not, but getting caught all cozy in the dark with another dude
doesn’t do the best job backing that up.

Of course, if Kristy needs any assurance where
my Not Gayness is concerned, well – she won’t for long. That’s all
I’m sayin’.

“Seriously, that was really nice of you to help
out Arthur like that,” she tells me, looping her arm through mine
as we walk back out. Really? Arm-in-arm action already? We’re on
like 1/4
^th
Base and my first day hasn’t even technically
started.
Who’s gay now, Amber?
“He’s been going through a
terrible time lately.”

“Really? What’s up?”

“Relationship on the rocks. I think he’s been
trying to salvage things, but they are so totally headed for
Splitsville.”

“That’s a bummer,” I say, but what I’m really
thinking is,
Lucky her.

“Yup,” Kristy agrees. “Hey!” She gives my arm a
light, enthusiastic slap. “Go pick your apron out, and then I’ll
show you how to get the register ready! Isn’t touching money gross?
Like, when you stop and think about it? But whatever, I’m used to
it now, this job has me so totally jaded. Go hurry and pick one and
come back!”

Ah, yes. My nemesis awaits.

+

The whole apron thing isn’t as bad as I’d
anticipated. Well, no, the apron itself is as bad as bad can be.
It’s like every patchwork square defies my manliness in its own
special, wicked, cutesy way. But Kristy ties it for me when I ask
her to (suave or what?), and the brush of her fingers against my
back reminds me that my cause is a noble one.