Outside In (3 page)

I know she meant well, but she has this remarkable ability to make every situation relate back to her and make me feel like shit in the process. Just like when I told her and my dad that the
suspected cause of Barry’s death was an overdose on his mother’s pain pills. She went to the sink, picked up a dishcloth, and dried a bowl in the rack that wasn’t even wet. She said, “Oh my—I can’t imagine how she feels. To know you played a part in your own child’s death must be unbearable. You’ll understand if you ever have children.”

I didn’t need to have children to know that what happened was fucked up. But I kept my mouth closed and let the words pass unchallenged. All I said was, “I just wish I could’ve done more.” I felt like I had to remind her that it did have a little something to do with me.

My dad picked up on my jab. He said, “Knowing you, I’m sure you did everything you could’ve. Now you just have to move forward.”

Usually I’m cool with my dad. He’s the peacemaker between my mom and me, and he stays pretty neutral. But this set me off. What did he know about the situation? What did he ultimately know about me? He married my mom right out of high school and has been working the same auto mechanic job for twenty-nine years. I said, “How in the hell do you propose I do that with an empty desk glaring back at me every day? I just need to get away from everything for a few days.”

“There’s no reason to use that tone or language,” my mom said. “We’re just trying to help.”

And there we were in the same spot we always ended up: me pissed off, my mom upset, and my dad trying to fix the situation with clichéd advice. He said, “It’s only a week. A few bikinis might be exactly what you need. Just remember who you are.”

Gee, Dad, thanks for the words of wisdom. I’ll get right on that.

A shrub of a lady, much more awake and energetic than the
clerk this morning, asks for my key as I pass the front desk. “You can pick it up on your way back,” she says. “That way, you won’t lose it.”

I smile back, understanding the real reason for the precaution: Management can also keep track of who comes and goes.

I walk outside and down the porch to the Round House. I peer inside through the window on the side door. A red-and-yellow-striped parachute serves as a ceiling, concealing the dome roof. A single globe light hangs in the middle, and a ring of bulbs outlines the perimeter. The bar, which stands four feet high, almost like an altar, circles out from the back wall and around the stage toward the door.

Whiplash is on stage, but last night must’ve been a rough one. The guys are pale and scruffy and seem eager to breeze through the afternoon set. Haley and two other bartenders work in the three-foot area between the stage and the bar.

I push through the door as the band finishes the song. Why does the music always stop right when you walk in?

A look of surprise washes across Haley’s tan, round face. Her sun-streaked rusty ponytail swings back and forth as her eyes flip between the band and the crowd and eventually rest on me. She leaves her post and welcomes me with a hug. Her hugs are like a good handshake, firm and secure but not overpowering. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

I relish the contact and pull her close. “Couldn’t wait to get here, so I left early and drove all night. Came over on the first boat.”

Since Key West, it was imagining moments like this that got me through all the crap. Although Haley and I haven’t known each other long, we have become quite close. I know about her family, her numerous failed attempts to get a college degree, and her relationship difficulties. She has spent twelve summers on the island and feels a sense of belonging here, where the wind isn’t
as harsh on her face and the sun doesn’t scorch her skin as badly. Haley probably should have been a guy. She dresses like a guy, drinks like a guy, and talks like a guy. A lot of turmoil seems to reside inside her, but she rarely shows it. Her pain remains buried, only revealing itself in swift, caustic strikes.

Nothing romantic has occurred between us, but we’ve slept in the same bed twice. The first time was the night Birch and the band and I arrived in Key West. We had been on the road for twenty-two hours straight. Anyone who romanticizes life on the road for a band just needs to drive 1400 miles cooped up in a van with three other guys. On the map it looks like such an exciting journey—Nashville, Chattanooga, Atlanta, Orlando, Miami—but you don’t have the time or money to stop and enjoy any of it. And if you don’t kill each other from the forced captivity, you might die from all the noxious odors that emanate from men subsisting on fast food and gas station delicacies. Understandable why two of the guys flew down. I guess the result is either you end up with a band or a cult. Fortunately Birch and the guys have musical talent.

About the only thing all of us agreed on the last six hours of the trip to Key West was that our first stop should be Sloppy Joe’s. When we got there, Haley was working behind the bar. After Birch introduced Haley and me, her idea to get acquainted was to pick up a shaker, fill it with ice, and pour four different liquors into it, all too quickly for me to even recognize what they were. After a few shakes, in front of each of us was a perfectly poured shot.

At that point I was still angry about being squeezed to take a leave of absence and feeling worn from the long drive. I wasn’t much of a drinker, so a shot wasn’t really my first choice. Not that I was a complete teetotaler. It’s just that with teaching, coaching, and going to school, I had to give something up, and partying seemed like the most logical. Birch could tell I was uncomfortable. He said, “No pressure. I’ll do yours if you don’t want it.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “I’m on vacation.”

If I was going to let go, I had to be willing to do something different. I cheered with the others and drank down the red concoction, which tasted like cough medicine with a sweet aftertaste.

From there, we kept drinking … and drinking. It was one of the most drunken nights I could recall, or rather not recall, in a long time. I woke up the next morning one eye at a time, not really sure where I was or how I got there. Still fully clothed, I did the panicked pocket inventory check of phone, keys, wallet. All were there, but I still had no idea where I was. I looked to my right and saw Haley, who was also fully clothed. Together we pieced together the evening, resolving that anything we’d forgotten must not have been worthy of being remembered.

The second time that Haley and I slept in the same bed was my last night in Key West. I was so physically spent from partying that I couldn’t endure another night. I didn’t want the week to end, but the impact of the drinking and minimal sleep and knowing that my fight with the school district was waiting for me in St. Louis had put me into a foul mood. Fortunately Haley had the evening off and recognized I couldn’t be in a bar another night. During the band’s first break, she suggested we get a bottle of wine and go back to her place.

The offer sent a wave of instant relief through me. It was exactly what I needed. The rest of the evening Haley and I sat at her place retelling stories from the week, attempting to separate the blur into memorable chunks to prolong my inevitable departure.

Stretched out on the kitchen floor, I rested my head in her lap. She stroked my hair. The coolness of the tile comforted me, as did her gentle petting. I, although sad, was strangely at peace. For the first time in a long while, I felt no pressure to do anything. I wanted to lie on that kitchen floor for the rest of my
life. Nothing or no one could’ve made me leave. Tears pooled up, eventually streaming down my face. I don’t know why. It wasn’t solely because I was leaving. It was much deeper.

For nearly two hours the words and tears poured out of me. She listened in complete silence. I told her about Barry’s death and how it made me feel like a failure as a teacher. I admitted that without teaching, my existence in St. Louis would be hollow. The only other thing I had was graduate school, and I was graduating at the end of the semester. In my admission, I released all the pent-up emotion that had been building since long before that week. My work, my parents, my whole situation. If I no longer had my teaching job, what would I do? Another teaching job? After what happened and how I was being treated, the last place I wanted to be was in a classroom in front of students. But what else could I do?

Haley hadn’t said too much up to that point. But after hearing this question, she lifted my head from her lap and peered deep into my misty gaze. “Maybe you’re asking the wrong question. Maybe you shouldn’t ask what you can do, but what you want to do.”

Her words shot to my core, vibrating and sending tremors through my whole body, forcing me to realize something I had been denying all along: I had no fucking clue what the answer was.

As I contemplated her question and my emotional barrage lessened, she leaned down and whispered the epiphany that brought me here: “Fuck St. Louis. Move to Put-in-Bay.”

I nod toward the ornate display of bottles behind her. “I think this calls for a shot.”

She whisks behind the bar and scoops a shaker full of ice. “Why not? My sobriety can wait for another day. Lemon Drop?”

“Whatever. You’re the professional.” I say, still a novice at the shot game.

Birch exits the stage. On Put-in-Bay, Whiplash is pretty universally regarded as the “island band.” There are bands equally as talented, but Whiplash has endured, and that means something. Loyalty is still respected on this island. While it’s easy to make friends here, time spent on the island is a valuable commodity, and Birch has put in his time. He says, “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Key West roadie.” His black curly hair stands six inches high and falls to the middle of his back. Black, crescent-shaped lines extend under his eyes. “When did you get in?”

“From the looks of you,” I say, “probably when you were getting to bed.”

He pushes down the top of his rising mane. “How are we? Too loud?”

Haley removes a yellow foam earplug. “You’re always too loud, Birch.” Haley can say whatever she wants to people, and they’re never offended by any of it. Her consistently rough exterior and sarcastic tone make everyone think she’s always joking because no one could be as bitter as she always seems to be. She swirls the shaker. “Hair of the dog?”

He forms a cross with his fingers. “No way. I’m not ready to get on that bus again. I’ll catch up with you later. I need to sneak in a shower during the break.”

“Don’t be late for the last set, slacker.” She removes a piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. “You can always work security here, but I gathered some information on other places that are hiring. You got here early, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find work.”

Afraid that one shot may lead to five, I glance down at the list
that Haley gave me. “Let’s continue this reunion later. I gotta find something to keep me out of trouble. First stop, the Boat House.”

She says, “I’m off tonight. Let’s meet here at eight.”

“Deal.” I lean across the bar and kiss her on the cheek. “So good to see you.”

I exit through the front door onto the porch. The rays of the sun weave down through the leaves and speckle the ground across the street in the park. The sticky air feels like jelly on my skin, but the sight of the water, now a royal blue, refreshes me as if I’ve been dropped in it.