Timothy Synclair

novella

THE ASYMBOLIC

PART ONE

1

So far, I have spoken to you of ‘my country,’ and I can see how you may have thought at the beginning that my

He’s restless. He told himself he was going to wait until 6:30. He’s been restless all day. It’s not even 6:00 yet.

«Fuck it» he thinks.

He already has his trunks on. He’s been wearing them for over a day now. —ever since his aborted attempt yesterday.

“Fuck it,” he says, fully resolved.

He finishes a cup of coffee as he walks around the house shutting and locking the windows that have been letting in a cool ocean breeze on this otherwise sweltering summer day.

His wallet—which is simply a driver’s license and a debit card clamped together by a small binder clip—and his house key are sitting on the counter where a disappointed hand dropped them at about 3:30 p.m. the day before.

Next to them are a half-full bottle of tequila and a shot glass.

He grabs the key and the wallet and puts them both in the back pocket of his trunks, buttoning the little flap shut.

He pauses for a moment, stuck on the bottle.

«Should I?»

He grabs it and unscrews the cap. But still he hesitates…

«No»

“Not yet.”

He twists the cap back on.

Sets it back down.

And then he’s gone, having locked and shut the front door behind him.

The revving of engines; the screeching of tires; the honking of horns. The roads are packed, and there’s a sense of agitation in the air. It’s bumper to bumper on every route heading inland, and he knows it’s likely to stay this way for the next two hours.

«Suckers»

It’s a ten-minute walk before he has his shoes in his hands and can feel the sand between his toes. Even after heading south of the big lifeguard station, as north tends to be more crowded, still there are way more people there than he was hoping for. He realizes, however, that it was unrealistic to expect anything less on Labor Day weekend.

«At least it’s not as bad as yesterday»

And it’s not as bad as yesterday. It’s worse than it is this time of day almost any other Sunday of the year, but it’s later than when he ventured out the day before and it seems like most are already on their way home.

He finds a spot about halfway to the pier; there’s no one out in the water in front of him. He puts his wallet and his key in one of his shoes, sets his shoes down. He pulls off his shirt and with a simple spreading of his fingers lets it drop to his shoes.

This is the moment he’s been waiting for all weekend.

He digs his toes into the warm sand. He takes in a deep breath of the moist, salty air.

«That’s about perfect, isn’t it»

He shuts his eyes, feels the sun shining down on him—his face, his shoulders, his chest. He takes in another deep breath—the smell of the sea. He opens his eyes: everything seems brighter now.

«…oh so perfect»

It’s a carefree trot that takes him down to the water. A little smile on his face. —which erupts with the first cool touch of the ocean to his feet. He tries to pick up the pace, but the further out he goes the deeper he gets and the harder it is for him to move his legs forward with each stride. When the water’s at about mid-thigh, he dives into the approaching wave and cuts through the onslaught.

When he shoots back up, shaking the water from his face with a quick flick of the neck, it’s as though he’s washed away all the exertion and toil of the past month. Four and a half weeks. Not a single day off. Fourteen-, sixteen-hour days sometimes. It all just rinses away. Another month. Another magazine. —behind him.

He jumps up into the next wave right as it’s breaking. —and feels the force of the water testing his taut body. He fights his way through the powerful crash, and then dips down below the surface and takes a few strokes further from shore.

The water takes almost no getting used to. Swimming, treading water, floating. Fighting through the surf, and catching the occasional wave. He’s out there for over an hour before he comes trudging back onto the now sparsely populated shore, plops down on the sand, and then lies back with his arms behind his head and his eyes gazing aimlessly up at the clear, pale-blue sky.

He sits up just as the sun starts to dip below the visible horizon, sliding past the very edge of the bluff at the northern tip of the bay. Burning a reflection in the wet sand, the flames of a red-hot fire burst forth from the sleek blue surrounding it.

«It’s been over a month»

He hasn’t seen a sunset in some time. And as the last of it disappears behind Malibu’s Point Dume, a noticeable chill swoops in. It’s still not cold—not by any means—but the breeze no longer carries with it a welcomed relief. He feels the cool sea breath blowing over him.

But he’s not ready to be done yet.

«Not even close»

He gets up, runs back into the water, and throws himself with outstretched arms into a crashing wave. He swims out away from shore. Away from the sand, the buildings, the city. He gets out past the waves. He can barely make out his shoes and shirt on the beach—a white spot in the fading light.

The sky: a tarnished blue. The choppy water around him: gunmetal gray. No matter how many times he’s been in this same situation, still he can’t help but marvel at how happy something so simple makes him.

He spends almost another hour out there before his growing weariness finally brings him back in. He feels it throughout his body. His legs, his arms, his back, his neck. His muscles are aching. —muscles he hasn’t used in a while. He delights in finally being able to replace mental exhaustion with physical exhaustion.

«!!!!!»

It’s practically dark as he uses his white t-shirt as a towel, drying off his face, arms, torso. And then slipping the damp piece of cloth back over his head. He picks up his shoes, puts his wallet and key back in his pocket, and then starts his trek through the sand—further south towards Washington Blvd.

He sits down on the little wall at the end of the pier to brush the sand off his feet. He puts his shoes on and heads across the parking lot.

Bars and restaurants lining both sides of the street for about a quarter mile: the place is bedlam. Again—Labor Day weekend—it would have been unrealistic to expect anything less.

He chooses Hinano’s—not only because it’s one of the only places that doesn’t have a line out front to get in, but also because it’s the dirtiest spot on the strip. Live music. Sawdust on the floor. A few pool tables. And a grill right by the door.

The bouncer asks for his ID, but doesn’t even look at it. The place is packed. The grease is sizzling. And the band is wailing “Night Moves.”

After stopping at the ATM—since the place is cash-only—he makes his way back around to the pool tables, and then squeezes up to the bar. The young bartendress at the far end of the bar soon catches his eye—very tall, very pretty—but is stopped by another customer on her way down. She throws him an apologetic look as she takes the man’s order; he smiles at her.

«She really is very pretty»

She fills a pitcher, brings it to the man, takes his money, rings it up, brings him his change, and then starts heading back down the bar—when she’s accosted by another patron. Another look of apology is thrown his way. He laughs; she does too. And it’s not until she’s just about on her way back down again that the other woman behind the bar steps up to him. Middle-aged, haggard, but very friendly.

“What can I getcha?” she asks.

He orders a cheese burger and a pitcher of Budweiser.

The pitcher is ice cold and the mug is coated in a spattering of little ice chips. He fills the mug and drains it in thirty seconds flat.

«Goddamn that’s nice»

He refills the mug. And he’s got a satisfied smile on his face, when his eyes then meet back up with those of the girl behind the bar—again, she’s a ways off. He raises his mug to her, she grabs a mug of her own from the back of the bar, raises it to him, and they drink a toast to each other, to the day, the night, the season, the moment, etc.—emptying their respective mugs each in one long drink.

His burger’s long gone and he’s halfway through his second pitcher when he finally makes his move.

There’s a drunk girl a few stools down, over in the corner. He’s had his eye on her for some time. He’s watched her go from messy to sloppy, and then settle in on shit-hammered. She’s hunched over the bar, her arm propping up her head, and has her eyes about three-quarters shut in a lifeless-trashed sort of way. She’s got a loose wife-beater on over her bikini top—a bare tit practically hanging out the side. He distinctly remembers the moment when the back string of her bikini was slyly untied by one of the guys that’s been filling and refilling that mug of hers.

She’s cute—certainly. And it is one hell of a tit.

But two of the guys went out front to smoke about five minutes ago. And the third guy just finally caved and went to the bathroom, after a fidgety struggle to stay and wait for his friends to return.

He’s been keeping an eye on what he can’t help but describe as a fucking idiot.

«Easy fucking pickings»

But the other guys are finally gone and he realizes this is the moment he’s been waiting for. This is his chance. It’s time to make his move.

«Here we go»

He’s sidled up to her, and is just about to start in, when the two guys come back from out front.

They don’t seem too happy to see him sitting there.

“Hey man, she’s with us,” the obvious ringleader says.

Neither of them sit down. They both just stand there.

He looks at them. From one to the other. This is what he signed up for—he knows that. It was always going to be a possibility. He could have just let it be, he could have just walked away, he could have done a lot of things—but this is what he did. She needs to learn her lesson—that’s fucking apparent. But she doesn’t need to learn it the hard way. Shit, maybe she does—he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything about her. But it’s not going to happen tonight. —not by these assholes.

He looks at them. From one to the other. And then lightly takes hold of the girl’s arm.

“Hey…hey…hey.” He finally gets her attention. Her glossed-over eyes are looking at him with a 999-yard stare. “Do you know these guys?”

It takes a second for his question to sink in.

She turns her head, following his lead, looks at the three men, the third having just gotten back, pauses for a moment, that stare seeming to gain a couple more feet, and then turns back to him:

“Nope.”

She drops her elbow back onto the bar and throws her cheek back onto her fist, her eyelids drooping back down.

He looks at the guys. From one to the other to the next. It’s an intense look he gives them.

“Come on man,” the ringleader says “don’t cockblock me here.”

«You’ve got to be shitting me»

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he finally says. “If you’re willing to say—out loud—what it is you want to do…if you say the word…I’ll walk away.”

But he knows he’s not going to walk away. Whether they have the balls to say it or not. Just desserts and comeuppance are fine notions in theory, couched as they are in ideas of responsibility, accountability, and common sense, but there are some things he’s simply unwilling to abide.

“Because I think it’s pretty obvious,” he continues, “that she’s not in any condition to consent to anything right now. —let alone to all three of you. But, I do like to consider myself a pretty reasonable guy. So, all you have to do—any one of you—is just say the word…and I’ll walk away.”

Two of the guys have become a little nervous. But the third guy—“the ringleader”—is advertising a look of bewilderment.

No one’s buying it.

“And don’t look at me like you don’t know what word I’m talking about.”

Anger replaces ignorance.

“It starts with an R and ends with a fucking APE.”

“Fuck you,” the guy says.

“Better me than her,” is his reply. “You sleazy piece of shit.”

And that’s when a fist is hurled at his face.

He sees it coming, but doesn’t try to dodge it. He simply grabs onto the edge of the bar and braces himself.

«Should have see this one coming»

The fist cracks into the side of his face.

His head lurches with the force of the blow. But his body is held up by the arm clamped to the bar.

The guy’s gone stumbling into one of his friends. But when he regains his footing, rather than the wreck he was hoping to have leveled with a haymaker, he sees a smile. —an arrogant, asshole of a smile.

This seems to upset the guy even more. He comes barreling back.

The smirk dissipates as he then hops off the stool, dodges the guy’s grasping arms, and uses the guy’s own momentum to send him careening into the hulking bouncer who’s come charging over.

The bouncer is none too happy about this, nor at all sympathetic to the situation.

Everyone involved gets kicked out.

The three guys. Him. Even the girl.

But once out on the street, the three guys just walk away—without incident, without even saying a word. —to him. —to the girl. Nothing. Which probably has something to do with the significant police presence out there—Labor Day weekend and all.

With a little work, he gets the girl into a cab, gets her address from her driver’s license, verifies with her that it’s current, gives the cabbie 40 bucks to get her home safe—on what’s likely to be a 25-dollar cab ride—and then sends her on her way.

«Now that that’s taken care of…»

It’s still early—about 10:00. And there are a handful of other bars he can go to. But his thoughts turn to a half-full bottle of tequila he has waiting for him and a bag of ice he should probably put on his face to keep the swelling down.

«…but that’s probably about enough trouble for one night»

2

It’s a few minutes after 4:00 when he comes walking out of his house.

«Another beautiful day in paradise»

His route through the neighborhood takes him across wide streets. Roads that used to be canals. —back before Venice was annexed to L.A. eighty some years ago and the waterways were filled in to accommodate the demands required by the increasing popularity of the automobile.

It’s only about a five-minute walk before he’s standing there at a red light. Across the street he sees a large sign in the window: ALL BOOKS 50% OFF.

He also notices that the sandwich board is out on the sidewalk.

«I wonder what she’s doing this time»

He thinks back over some of the things that have been put on that sign in the past—HOLIDAY SALE: Get Your Big, Stupid Brother Something to Make Him a Little Smarter; Why Buy a Book Today, When You Can Always Not Buy One Too Tomorrow?; WARNING: READ WITH CAUTION – Side Effects May Include Sharper Conversation-Skills, Broadened Horizons, Battles with the Absurd & Other Philosophical Conundrums, Impassioned Ideas, Revolutionary Spirits & the Strange Feeling of Having Spent Your Time Wisely.

The light turns green, the walk signal clicks on, and it’s not until he’s roughly two-thirds of the way across the street that he’s finally able to see what it says this time: ALL BOOKS 50% OFF – You Choose the Half You Want, We’ll Throw in the Other Half for Free.

«Not bad»

He heads past the yoga/spinning center there at the corner, sweat and dubstep leeching out onto the sidewalk from the poorly lit interior.

«You choose the half you want, we’ll throw in the other half for free—that’s actually pretty good»

He comes walking through the open double-doors of Laurent’s Librairie. Mikey and Milan both turn their heads and look at him. —he sees the eyes of each light up.

“What happened to your face?” Mikey asks. “—another misunderstanding?”

“Something like that.”

“Have you ever thought about taking some kind of communications class?” Milan laughs.

He laughs too.

“We weren’t sure if you were gonna come in today,” Mikey says, at about the same time that Milan asks him, “How’d the magazine turn out?”

“Good,” he tells her. “It turned out good.”

“I thought we should just call and ask if you were coming in,” Mikey continues, “but Alyssa didn’t want to.”

“Shut up,” Milan tells him.

“What? I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Yeah, but now he knows there’s something to tell.”

“What are you guys talking about?” he asks them.

“Nothing,” Mikey says.

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it,” Milan fires off at him.

“What is it?” he asks.

Neither of them want to say a thing.

“If you don’t want to tell me, it’s fine, you don’t have to tell me,” he tells them.

“It’s just Alyssa wanted to be the one to tell you,” Milan says.

“Then we’ll just let Alyssa tell me. Where is she?”

“She went to grab some food,” Mikey says.

He’s fine waiting to hear whatever it is Alyssa has to tell him. But after about thirty seconds Mikey and Milan have both reached their limit.

“How is this not killing you?” Mikey asks, right as Milan blurts out, “Alyssa’s leaving.”

“Where’s she going?” he asks.

He doesn’t see what the big deal is. This won’t be the first time something has come up on a Monday night and Alyssa’s had to leave. Although he only works at the bookstore once a week, and only during those months he doesn’t take off to work on the magazine—and still only then if he’s available—he’s still technically a manager, still has keys, was previously an actual manager for about four years, and even ran the place himself for a few months a couple years back before Alyssa took over. He also doesn’t know why she didn’t just call him. She’s called before to make sure he can come in.

«Whatever’s going on, it must not be very important»

“And if she’s leaving,” he asks “why did she go get food right now?”

“No, she’s not going anywhere tonight,” Mikey tells him.

“She finally sold the building,” Milan says. “She’s leaving for New York at the end of the week.”

“What the fuck guys?”

All three turn. Alyssa’s standing in the doorway.

“I leave for fifteen minutes,” she says as she comes walking in, “and you do the one thing I told you not to do?”

“Fucking busted!” Mickey admits.

“What the fuck?”

“We didn’t mean to,” Milan tells her. “It just sort of happened.”

Alyssa turns to him. Gives a little shrug, with a little smile.

“Well…I’m doing it.”

“Finally,” he says, through a little smirk.

She nods her head:

“I’m finally doing it.”

“So this is the last week, huh?”

“Friday night we shut the doors for good,” she says.

“It’s First Friday.”

“Yep.”

“Are we doing it up?” he asks.

“We better,” Mickey throws in.

“Come oooonn,” Milan pleads.

Everyone’s looking at Alyssa.

A smile slips out.

“Oh, we’re doing it up,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to go out any other way.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he chuckles.

“It should be fun,” she says. “Gael’s band’s going to play.”

“Even though we’re not supposed to have live music?” Milan asks.

“Even though we’re not supposed to have live music,” Alyssa confirms. “It’s the last night—why not.”

She finally sits down, and unwraps her sandwich.

“So, are you going to tell us about the magazine,” she asks, “or what? Do you think we’re all just eager to see you?”

He laughs.

“Right to business—I like it.”

Alyssa smiles through a mouth full of food.

“RANK! number eight,” he says. “There’s quite a few new people. Probably the most exciting is Ira Chernova—a cute, tattooed chick who takes super cool pictures. She did a photo for the cover, and then has a spread inside. I met her through Delia, Delia Sanders…you know Delia Sanders, right?”

“Yeah,” Alyssa says.

“She’s Andrew Harper’s art dealer, isn’t she?” Milan asks.

“Yeah, she is,” he says, a little perplexed. “But uh…” he shrugs it off, “Andrew also has four paintings in there.”

“Yeah, he showed me them,” Milan says. “They’re pretty good, huh?”

Again, he’s a little surprised by Milan’s comment. He looks over at Alyssa, who then explains:

“She and Andrew have been hanging out.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, as he looks back at Milan.

She’s a little fidgety. A hint of pink flushing her milk-chocolate cheeks.

“But Ira Chernova, she’s going to be showing at Delia’s gallery later this month—Salon, Saloon, whatever it’s called—so that’s going to work out nice,” he says. “What else…oh, there’s the second part of The Touch Stone. Which I didn’t finish till about a week ago. —which added a whole other aspect of urgency to the whole thing.”

“I wasn’t sure The Touch Stone was going to even end up actually having five parts,” Alyssa says. “I thought subtitling it Part One of Five might just be it, and that you were going to have it be part of a series that didn’t exist.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” Milan says.

“I am planning to make all five parts,” he says. “But as of right now I can only guarantee the two. So, who knows—maybe I’ll still end up stealing your idea and skip out on finishing the thing.”

“Who’d you interview this time?” Mikey asks.

“Anais Yossarian. And I’ve got another story of hers in there.”

“Awesome!” Milan says. “I love her stuff.”

“You’re going to like this one too,” he tells her. “It’s probably the best story in there.”

“Anything from Timothy Synclair?” Alyssa asks.

“No. I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“What’s going on with him?”

“I don’t know. He just stopped sending me stuff.”

“Brin has some pictures in there, doesn’t he?” Mikey asks.

“Yeah. He has a photo series—Staring at the Sea, Staring at the Sand. It’s from when, I think, you were assisting for him.”

“Yeah, in the beginning of July,” Mikey says. “When we were out on Catalina for a Surfist shoot. It was only supposed to be Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. But then Brin got the idea for Staring at the Sea, Staring at the Sand, and got one of the models to stay until Friday so he could do it. And so I ended up having to call and tell Alyssa I was going to miss another day of work.”

“That girl was pretty cute, huh?” he says.

Alyssa smacks his arm.

Mikey smiles: “And she was in a bikini the whole time.”

He shoots Mikey a smirk.

“Except, of course,” Mikey adds, “when Brin had her take it off.”

“Yeah, I saw,” he laughs.

“Is it four thirty yet?” Milan grumbles.

Alyssa shoots him a dirty look as she finishes chewing.

“Yes, Milan, you can leave.”

Milan grabs her skateboard from the backroom, heads out. Mikey watches her go.

He looks from Mikey to Alyssa, who gives him another scowl and another smack to the arm.

3

“So,” she asks, “what happened this time?”

“Stuck my nose in someone else’s business again.”

“Sometimes you have to.”

“Still, it could have been handled a little better.”

“What was it?” Alyssa asks.

“Another damsel in distress,” is his reply.

“Drunk girl at a bar?”

“Shit-hammered girl at a bar,” he tells her. “As close to passed out as you can get without quite having passed out yet. And then three guys who just kept feeding her booze. Kept touching her…and rubbing up on her—getting progressively bolder. I’m not saying they went in there intending to do anything bad, but by the end, even though she was obliterated, you could tell they weren’t ready to stop. Things were going to get much worse before they ever got better.”

“What the fuck?!” Alyssa says, disgusted.

“I know,” he says. “I don’t get it. Why would you ever want to do that to someone?”

“Fuck the guys,” she says. “Yeah, they’re pieces of shit. But who the fuck is this girl? Why would you ever want to do that to yourself.”

“I have no idea.”

“I know it sucks, but it’s a fact of life,” she says, “there are creepy people out there. What I don’t get is why this girl would put herself in that situation.”

“Just like it’s a fact of life that there are creeps out there,” he tells her, “it’s a fact of life that there are idiots out there too.”

“It just sucks that your face has to get bruised for a fucking idiot.”

“At least it doesn’t hurt.”

“Still, it’s not fair. This shouldn’t happen to you because of a stupid girl. Who’s probably just going to keep putting herself in the same shitty situation. And eventually there won’t be someone like you there to step in and stop it.”

 “You get into the whole thing about giving a man a fish. Although it’s definitely better to teach him…you can’t teach them all. Sometimes you just have to give the guy the fish and hope he learns to catch them himself before he starves to death—HEY!”

Mikey’s over at the register with a customer, who’s taken advantage of the sale and picked out seven books—half-price and all. Having chosen to haphazardly stack the books on the counter after ringing each up, Mikey has since been struggling to keep the stack from tipping over. The first time the tower tumbled, a noticeable spike of annoyance ripped through him. The second time it went down, the bludgeon of aggravation was unignorable. And when the top book slides off again, for the third time, knocking the book below it off as well, which then sends the rest of the stack heading down in what seems like slow motion, Mikey finds himself on the verge of a frustrated explosion.

“—HEY!”

Mikey looks over at him.

They look at each other for a second or two.

“Don’t get mad at physics,” he calmly tells him.

“I know,” Mikey says, calming down. “I know.”

He walks over:

“Just restack the books. —or don’t stack them at all. It doesn’t really matter.”

“I know,” Mikey says, as he stacks the books up in a solid stack.

“What was that you said?” the customer asks.

He smiles.

“I said Don’t get mad at physics,” he says. “It’s just another way of saying that you shouldn’t let things you can’t control upset you.”

“Physics is perfect,” Mikey says. “Always has been. Always will be. I can’t get mad at the books for falling. I’m the one who stacked them like that. They’re just doing what gravity tells them to do. And I can’t very well change gravity, can I? If I don’t want them to fall, I should’ve stacked them better. And anyway, getting mad’s not going to accomplish anything.”

“No, yeah, I get it,” the customer says. “I like it—Don’t get mad at physics.”

The customer grabs the seven books off the counter and walks away.

«Let’s see if we can’t get to the bottom of this»

As soon as he sees a foot hit the pavement outside, he tosses Mikey a question: “So, what are you so upset about?”

He can feel Alyssa’s eyes burning into him.

“Nothing,” Mikey says.

“Seriously?” he smiles. “You were just about to beat the fuck out of a stack of books.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he tells him. “You’re bummed because this is the last week you’re going to be working with Milan.”

Mikey starts getting fidgety.

“And that’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he tells him. “Milan’s a very pretty girl, and a really cool chick. It would be much easier to do worse than it would be to do better. Never mind the fact that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about anything—ever. If there’s something you don’t like about yourself, you change it. If you can’t change it, then don’t worry about it. And everything else…you should be proud of,” he tells him. “And you know this.”

“I know,” Mikey says. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m just…  I just…  I don’t know what to do. I don’t want this to happen. I mean, I’m happy for you,” he says to Alyssa, “one hundred percent. I know this is what you want to do, what you have to do. I honestly wouldn’t change it if I could. I want you to do this; I do. Completely. It’s just I don’t like the idea of never seeing Milan again.”

“It’s not like you’re never going to see her again,” Alyssa says. “You guys are friends.”

“Work friends,” Mikey says, “aren’t the same as real friends.”

“He’s got you there,” he smiles at Alyssa. Then looks back to Mikey: “You’re in a tough spot. You can try to stay friends, and keep hanging out, which—in all honesty—probably won’t work out. Or you can tell her how you feel. Which—again, in all honesty—probably won’t work out.”

“But I can’t just do nothing.”

“That’s why it’s a tough spot,” he tells him. “What’s Milan doing after this, anyway?”

“She got a job,” Alyssa says to Mikey, “at a clothing shop, right?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “At a custom printing shop down by the beach.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

“Hopefully I can get enough assisting work,” Mikey says. “There are a few people I’ve worked with a couple times now that seem to like me. Brin, and a few people a buddy of mine’s hooked me up with.”

“You’ve actually been working pretty regularly recently,” Alyssa says. “I had to switch the schedule around twice this past month for you.”

“So, hopefully that’ll work out,” Mikey says. “And if not, I do have a little money saved up. I can also always just go get a shit job at Albertson’s, or El Pollo Loco, or wherever I can, until something better

comes up. Either way, I’m not too worried about it.”  

…