The Job (8 page)

Still,
I don’t call her back to tell her not to come by.

Whatever
the reason, part of me wants someone close by to tell me all kinds of wondrous
lies like, “It’s going to be okay,” and “Things will get better.”

The
doorbell rings about half an hour after the phone call and, as soon as I open
the door and see my sister standing there, I start crying again.

She
comes in and gives me a hug, telling me, “It sounds like we need to go out and
get drunk.”

“No,”
I tell her. “I haven’t been drunk in years, and I’m not about to fall into that
now.”

“Well,
I know you’ve always got a bottle on hand,” she says, knowing me well enough to
know that my gripe isn’t with throwing back a few drinks, but with going out in
public when I’m feeling like this. “Why don’t we crack it open and—”

I’m
already on my way to the kitchen.

So,
we drink and we talk. We talk about our mom mostly, but as the alcohol starts
to set in, the conversation shifts.

“You
know, Jed and I were talking,” she says.

“Oh
god, here it comes.”

“What?”
she asks.

“Nothing,”
I tell her. “What were you and Jed talking about?”

“Well,
we were talking about you, actually, and how much I want to see you find
someone that can be there for you when you come home and when things start
going to shit. Did you ever send a message to that guy I was telling you
about?”

“I
hate being set up,” I tell her. “It’s never worked out for me. The last time
someone talked me into meeting someone, I ended up watching a movie, sitting on
his futon and neither of us said one damn word to each other after the first
five minutes I was there.”

“Yeah,
that sounds pretty bleak,” Kristin says.

Now
she’s going to try to convince me that all of my problems can be solved by
finding Mr. Right-Dick.

“I
think the only reason I’ve been able to hold it together is because I have Jed
to lean on right now.”

“You
should really think before you speak,” I tell her and take another shot.

I’m
still just scratching the surface of buzzed, but that’s the way I like to keep
it. Getting drunk is annoying.

Maybe
I’m in the minority on that one.

“Send
him a message,” she says. “If nothing else, he’ll be someone you can talk to.
Even if you don’t ever decide to meet him, at least you two can talk. Sometimes
getting to know someone, hearing a new perspective on things is just what you
need to get through a hard time.”

“Nope,”
I tell her. “I’m way too busy to start something, and I’m really not looking
for a
casual
relationship with someone, either. What
I want is…”

I
don’t know what I want.

“Mind
if I use your bathroom?” she asks.

“Go
ahead,” I tell her. “You know where it is.”

“Thanks,”
she says and gets up.

It
should be some kind of signal that she’s asking me if she can use my bathroom,
as she hasn’t done that since I moved into my first apartment, but it doesn’t
hit me until it’s too late and she’s already running to the back with my phone
in her hand.

I
chase her, but she locks the bathroom door before I’m even close.

“What
are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m
helping you make that first step,” she answers through the door.

“Whatever
you’re doing, stop,” I tell her. “I don’t want to talk to some stranger about
the inner workings of my psyche and all the ways in which my life isn’t what I
want it to be.”

There’s
silence for a minute. The door opens.

“Is
that how you really feel?” she asks. “That your life isn’t what you want it to
be?”

“Right
now, kind of, yeah,” I tell her. “I don’t always feel like this, but you’ve got
to admit things are pretty messed up right now and not just for me. Anyway,
thanks for not sending him a message.”

“Oh,
I sent the message,” she says. “Why do you think I opened the door?”

I
glare at her.

“I
thought you opened the door because you gave a shit about what I was saying. It
didn’t occur to me that you only came out because you’d successfully gotten
away with doing exactly what I told you not to do.”

The
phone beeps and Kristin jumps excitedly.

“Ooh,
he sent you a message!”

“Give
me the phone,” I tell her.

“Hold
on, I want to see what he said.”

“No,
give me the phone,” I tell her and try to grab it from her hand.

She
pulls away, but I crowd her so she can’t pull it toward her body.

“Give
me the phone,” I tell her again.

“Hold
on!” she says. “I just want to see this one message, and then I’ll give it
back.”

“That’s
it,” I tell her and proceed to do the one thing that I know will work: I start
tickling her sides.

“Stop
it!” she wheezes through her laughter, her body doubling up. “Stop it!”

“Give
me the phone,” I tell her.

“Never!”
she shouts.

“Give
me the fucking phone!”

Finally,
I manage to pry the cellphone from her fingers and I run back to the living
room.

Stupid
diversion or not, at least I’ve finally got a smile back on my face.

“Fine,”
she says. “But I bet you’re going to tell me what he said anyway.”

“I’m
not checking it,” I tell her. “I don’t even know this person.”

“Well,
he’s already got your phone number, so that’s about the closest you’ve been to
a real date in a few years. You’re welcome,” Kristin responds.

“How
did you get to be so smug?” I ask her.

“It
runs in the family,” she says.

“You
know, you’re never going to believe what happened today,” I start and proceed
to tell her about the worker who broke into my store and the resulting shouting
match I got into with the contractor.

“Huh,”
she says. “That guy sounds like a jerk. You should have kicked him in the
balls.”

That’s
her answer to everything.

“You
know, there are other ways to make a point,” I inform her.

“Yeah,
but there’s no
better
way of making a
point than that,” she rejoins. “Read the text.”

“No,”
I tell her. “I’m serious. I don’t have time to start—”

“Oh,
will you just shut up and read the stupid text? We both know it’s going to
happen sooner or later, and I don’t have all day to wait around for it.”

“Actually,”
I smile, “judging by the way you’re swaying back and forth just standing there,
I’d say you’re going to be here for quite a while.”

“Nah,”
she says, “I’ll just have Jed pick me up when I get sick of you.”

“You
want another shot?” I ask.

I’m
not going to have one, but seeing as I don’t want to see, talk to or otherwise
encounter Jed, I’m going to get my sister drunk enough that she’ll forget about
calling her stupid boyfriend and just stay here until she’s safe to drive.

“Sure,”
she says.

In
our family, we all have our particular addictions, and we all have more than
one. Kristin’s addictions are torrid love affairs, every one of which is with
the latest “one and only;” her other addiction is alcohol. When played right,
that second addiction wins out almost every time.

So,
I pour my sister a shot and I pour one into the shot glass that I was using. I
hold up the latter and clink glasses with her.

She
immediately takes her shot, but I just set mine back down on the counter.

When
she’s done with hers, she wipes her mouth and says, “You know that it’s bad
luck to toast and not drink.”

“I
think I’m full up on bad luck,” I tell her. “I’m not too worried about it. This
one’s for you.”

I
pick up the shot glass and hand it to her.

“All
right,” she says, “but I know what you’re doing…”

She
takes the shot.

“…and
it’s not going to work.”

Judging
by the increase in her topside lateral motion, I’d say it’s already working
pretty well.

I
manage to talk her into one more shot, after which, she tries to talk me into
letting her have another, but I’m very familiar with her stages of drunkenness
and she’s about to cross over into whiny sick girl and I just don’t have the
patience for that right now.

A
few minutes later, we’re on the couch with a movie on the television and she’s
snoring loudly beside me. I hadn’t figured on her passing out so quickly, but
those are the breaks.

As
I sit here, I find myself feeling a little curious.

I
fight the urge at first, but it’s not long before my inebriated state, however
slight in comparison to my passed out sibling’s, manages to convince me that
it’s all right if I just take a look at what he wrote.

Kristin’s
message is, well, exactly what I would expect from her.

It
reads, “Hey there! My beautiful, talented sister gave me your number and said
we should talk. What’s up?”

All
things considered, it could have been worse.

His
reply says, “Not much. Having a bit of a day, but I’m glad to hear from you.
Sorry I haven’t gotten in touch before now. Work’s crazy.”

Before
I even think about what I’m doing, I’m typing a reply.

“I
know what that’s like. What do you do?”

I
send the message and force myself to watch the movie in order to distract
myself from overthinking this whole thing.

My
phone beeps and I check the message.

“I’d
rather not talk about work right now. I hope that’s not rude of me.”

On
most days, I’d find his message shallow: After all, who doesn’t like talking
about work? (Okay, work is one of my addictions.)

Luckily
for him, he caught me on the right day.

“I
totally get that. Things are pretty messed up where I work, too. Do you live in
the city?”

There
is an odd thrill to being able to have a kind-of conversation with someone I’ve
never met and probably never will meet. Obviously the conversation is of little
substance, but it’s a nice outlet. Maybe this is why people used to go into
chat rooms.

My
phone goes off again.

The
message says, “Yeah. I’ve lived here all my life. I don’t know if that’s
because I actually like it here or just that I don’t have any real basis for
comparison. You?”

I
respond, “Not the city itself, but I’ve always lived in the state. What are you
doing right now?”

Then,
realizing that my previous message could easily be misconstrued as some kind of
invitation that I’m certainly not offering, I send another one.

I
write, “I’m taking care of my drunk-ass sister and watching Goonies.”

If
ever there were a text that would convince a guy not to want to invite me
anywhere or himself over here, it’d be that one.

 
My phone beeps a few seconds later.

“Sounds
like a blast. I’m getting ready to move.”

“Where
are you moving?” I write back.

A
minute or so passes and he responds, “Just a few blocks from where I’m at now.
New apartment.”

Then
it starts to occur to me: This is someone that I’m never going to meet. I can
ask him anything, tell him—okay, I can’t really tell him anything as my sister
is apparently friends with one of his friends, but there’s a lot more I can do
with this than just trudge through the usual small talk.

“If
you could have the one thing you want most in life, would you give up
everything else to get it?” I write.

It’s
not exactly the kind of thing that I want to ask, but it should be a pretty
good barometer of whether I’ll be able to get away with more interesting
topics.

The
phone beeps and I read, “I don’t know that there’s only one thing that I want
most in life. If anything, I want too many things out of life and I seem to
always be sacrificing
everythin
”

The
phone beeps again a moment later.

The
rest of his message reads, “
g
for things I don’t end
up wanting anyway. So yeah, I guess if I found something that I wanted more
than anything, I’d probably give up anything to have it.”

That’s
a lot of honesty from a stranger. It’s actually kind of arousing in a weird way
that I don’t begin to understand.

I
answer, “I used to think I already did, but then, seemingly through no action
of my own, I found more things to want.”

I
write, “What makes you get out of bed in the morning?”