“That’s James Duchaine’s car,” Clint said, nodding toward the store.
Marty turned toward the cruiser. “He here askin after Ben?”
Clint grunted. “I would be very surprised to learn that was the case. He thinks that Ben had something to do with what happened to Eric. He never said it, but he thinks it. And here he is. Another one of my boys missin, and…” Clint slammed the side of his fist against the truck.
Marty pulled on his cigarette and squinted at the horizon opposite the store, searching for the boy with the yellow hair. Finally, he found him moving slowly along the tree line, encumbered by his cargo. It was strange. Curious, that was all. This wandering boy who’d walked right out of the parking lot and onto the sprawling dirt, away from the store and toward nothing at all. Marty wondered where he might be heading. And when the boy fed himself to the trees and disappeared from sight, Marty turned back toward Clint, words perched on his tongue.
Marty thought to speak, but Clint was in another world, staring with red-rimmed eyes back at Earth, studying the great mural of smiling children just outside the store’s entrance. In and out, customers and workers filed, lost in conversations, lost in thought. Like a little boy, Clint appeared to be trying to will the world to his preferences, to will these people to stop and turn for just a second. To just look at the goddamn board.
But they didn’t look.
No one ever does.
Author’s Note
About twelve years ago, I graduated from college and couldn’t find work. While I subjected myself to bad interviews for bad jobs, most of my friends were skipping town, bound for better days in bigger cities. Eventually, I got tired of looking, so I jammed my degrees into my filing cabinet and took an overnight job at a grocery store while I tried to figure my life out.
The job itself was bullshit. I mean it was tedious beyond belief. Reading barcodes. Stacking cans and boxes. That’s it. Forever. The end. Even better: you’re out of sync with everyone in town, tucking yourself into bed while they’re ordering lunch, shotgunning cans of Steel Reserve in the parking lot while they’re sipping coffee. It was a one-two punch of terrible hours and unfulfilling tasks.
Of course, I didn’t know any of this going in. All I knew was that I needed cash and that the guy who was supposed to show me the ropes was some dude named Brian.
There wasn’t really that much for Brian to show me (“Where’s this box go?” “Here.” “Oh, okay.”), so we spent most of that first night talking. He was a couple years younger than me. Still in college, he was studying to be an accountant, despite hating it, while working at the grocery store, despite hating that too. Brian was loud, prone to mock incredulity, and crass. He dressed like a runner, which I thought was dumb, until he told me that he ran cross-country for the university in all his abundant free time—when he wasn’t studying, or in class, or working ten-hour night shifts. What an asshole. He smiled with his whole face and laughed with his whole body. I liked him right away.
For over a year and a half we worked together almost every night. By all rights, that should have gotten pretty old pretty quick. But it never did. Just one of those things, I guess. I liked Brian all the time. Our breaks were so long they bordered on paid vacations. We talked and laughed, shared books and movies, argued. We made each other smarter, better. We helped each other, covered for each other, and competed with each other. He bet me I couldn’t smoke a loaf of French bread like a cigar. I won (if you can call it that). And I bet him that he couldn’t eat that whole seven-layer bean dip with an expiration date that, while hard to read, had certainly long since passed. He won (if you can call it that).
Amid the ebb and flow of new coworkers, Brian was one of the few bright spots in a sea of dim weirdos. There were others too, of course. And if they’re reading this, they know who they are. It wasn’t often, but sometimes it was perfect. Sometimes just shooting the shit outside in the sticky air turned a place where I had to be into one where I wanted to be. Turned what I thought was a slump into one of the best times of my life.
Brian helped me edit the paper that I submitted with my grad school applications, telling me that commas weren’t a garnish and to just get to the point. I’m not sure I’ll ever master either of those things, but that paper got me a scholarship offer. When I put in my notice at the store, Brian said that it was “about fuckin time.”
We stayed in touch after I moved away—not as much as we could have, but then it never is. That’s the wrong way to think about it anyway.
We finally caught up a few years ago, a proper hangout face-to-face. It turned out Brian didn’t hate grocery; he hated the managers. So he just got himself promoted above them all until he was running his own store, one of the youngest in the company’s history. He looked good. Happy. We didn’t talk much about the old days. We didn’t need them anymore, I guess.
The night ended with Brian singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” at a karaoke bar. That was the last time I saw him, sometime around Christmas of 2015.
In April of 2017, Brian was killed in a traffic accident.
The book you’re holding draws heavily from that time in my life twelve years ago, and the personality of the character Marty shares a lot of qualities with my friend Brian. He helped me edit my first book, Penpal, so I had hoped that he would read this one and see flashes of himself and get a kick out of it. I never got to tell him that he was in this story, so I’m telling all of you. He was one of my favorite people. A great friend. And a great man.
I miss you, Brian. I liked you all the time. Easiest thing I’ve ever done.
This book is for you.
Acknowledgments
Jamie Stephens, for your unwavering support and patience during the three years it took me to finish this book. Listening to my ideas, even when I haven’t quite worked them out, is probably less fun than it sounds—and it doesn’t sound that fun! You helped me every step of the way. This book wouldn’t exist without you. You’re amazing.
DeLana Allen, for always having productive things to say, even after reading this book way too many times. I mean, it was just absurd, right? You were the first person to ever see this story, and your encouragement was truly indispensable. You helped me get this to a place where I felt comfortable showing it to a publisher, and that was no easy task. Thank you for that. And you don’t have to worry anymore; from here on out I pro,mise my punctuation’ will; be perfect-
Jocelyn Michaud, for your suggestions, feedback, and willingness to work with me again. I was just as surprised that you agreed as you must have been that I dared to ask. Even though you dodged the bullet when I found a publisher, just say the word, and I’ll send you over as many last-minute edits as you want. I’m only kidding; it’ll be way, way more.
Jan and Lee Wasdin, for supporting me in everything I’ve ever done, except for that time I wanted to watch Cube in the living room while you were watching Survivor—I’ll never forgive you for that. You were always there for me and made me feel like I could do anything. I couldn’t ask for better parents.
And Tim O’Connell, my editor, for helping me find my way to a better book. Editors talk a lot about how you sometimes have to kill your darlings. If that’s part of what makes a good editor, then Tim might just be great, because he straight up murdered some of mine. Thanks, buddy. The story was made better for it.
About the Author
DATHAN AUERBACH was born in the southern United States and has lived there for most of his life. He is the author of Penpal.
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Dathan Auerbach, Bad Man
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