Charlie is twenty-eight. He will probably be retired by the time Dad stops calling him kiddo. He gets it. He has got a boyish face. Thin with round cheeks and a smattering of charming freckles. And he has never left home. Too needed around here. Except when conversations turn to finances, clearly, judging by the hole the foreclosure notice is burning in his back pocket.
“No worries,” Charlie says, running through a list of ways to transition into this impossible conversation.
“Loving the new hair. Blue looks good on you,” Mom says from the passenger seat, sounding tired. Her own hair is pulled up in a ponytail, which draws attention to the dark bags under her eyes. Their hours are long in that flat, windowless building several towns over, but at least they ride to work together. Country music—their favorite—spills out of the pickup truck’s radio.
“They’re cutting hours again, so we’re trying to stay a little after our shifts to show some initiative,” Dad says. Even in a senior position, he still gets paid by the hour. They live at the mercy of a time card and a changing schedule. Life can be unfair and unpredictable.
“Want a ride?” Dad asks, already reaching for the door handle.
Charlie waves him off. They can’t have this conversation about losing the house over a quick ride in the car. And, what? Was he supposed to leave the foreclosure notice for them to find in the center of the kitchen table as if it were a surprise bouquet of flowers from a secret admirer?
No, he will hold on to it.
At least for the night.
What can his parents do about it now when the bank is already closed?
Tomorrow, in the light of another sweltering summer day, things will be clearer, and he will know what to say. How to fix this. They can carry the burden together.
“Okay. Be safe,” Mom says, blowing him a kiss.
On the other side of trickling Trout Creek, Slatington stands stilled in a different decade. When the slate industry and opportunity up and left, so did advancement, modernity. Hope, too. At least that’s how it currently feels.
Past a gas station in a more open parking lot is an industrial space reminiscent of an auto body shop. It’s called Drink Dash. The road sign is partially burnt out but everybody who wants to find it already knows where it is. Charlie has not seen a new customer in nearly eight months.
Drink Dash is a drive-through liquor store. Because nothing goes together better than drinking and driving.
The same folks roll through like clockwork buying their Jim Beam and their Sam Adams. Charlie wonders if these men’s names are used to make the consumption of alcohol feel more personal. Especially if you’re doing it alone and in a high volume.
He veers up the center drive, kicking at a stray rock with his orange high-top sneakers. He pretends the rock is a miserly banker running scared from him and his inevitable, fantastic solution to this foreclosure fiasco.
After clocking in with his old-timey punch card—cha-ching—he takes his seat inside his glass booth with the sliding window. Beside him are the frozen cocktail machines, the munchy snacks and the cash register.
From his backpack, he pulls out his tiny sketchbook. Ever since his school days, Charlie has drawn illustrations he thinks would make sick tattoos. Everything from his sardonic cartoons to lifelike interpretations of animals or people. Today, he uses the sketchbook for something entirely different—a list of ideas for saving his family home.
1. Get a second job
No, that won’t work. Caring for his grandparents takes up all his daylight hours. Even if he got a work-from-home gig, their internet service is spotty at best. He could never get any work done with all the outages and breaks he would have to take.
2. Start an OnlyFans
While Charlie likes sex, and showing off his inked-up body when the occasion arises, he shares a house with his parents and grandparents. Completely unsexy. Besides, privacy is in short supply. Nobody is going to pay premium prices for shoddily lit bathroom nudes.
3. Win the lottery
He makes tips here. They sell scratch-offs. If he did one a shift, the odds might be…pretty good?
4. Sell an inessential organ
He has at least one or two parts pumping away in there that he could give up for the right price. Speaking of parts…
5. Sell my sperm
Charlie bangs his head on the table, feeling lower than low and hoping the impact might pound a good idea into his brain. Somebody clears their throat. Charlie looks up to find a customer waiting to pay.
Not just any customer, either.
It’s Dennis, forty-two, from two miles away.
