"Why is it that when you walked into my office, I noticed a powerful smell of alcohol on you? Your records indicate that you have never been a drinker, and in fact, have less than one drink a month. Has something changed?"
"Yes, it has." I feel as though I can speak freely without judgment. I'm not committing a crime. "I have been drinking, so I know what it feels like to devote myself to a lifeless, unfulfilling, meaningless beverage. I feel it will help me understand this screwed up world."
Chapter Fifteen
Chance
These pop-up stormshere are making it hard to get my work done, but at least I got a few hours in today. I thought I'd get the whole job done in one day because it's just a split level ranch that didn't need the old shingles stripped.
"You're here early," Luke says. "It's only five, ain't it?"
"Yeah, but the rain won't quit."
"Yeah, I heard something about back to back storms brewing up the shore. Do you want your burger?"
"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks," I tell Luke.
"Dude, Annabelle was going on and on about that chick, August, last night—asking questions as if I know her better than the few times she's been in here."
"She jealous?" I ask. Annabelle isn't the type to get jealous. Plus, she's so used to Luke working in bars that she hardly ever says a word about the people who come in.
"Oh God, no. She's worried after everything she heard and saw."
I shrug and steal a coaster. "What does Annabelle want you to do about it?"
"I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't be serving August."
"That's discrimination, bro. You can't just tell someone they can't drink at your bar."
I wonder how many people are like me, avoiding their life. I'd like to believe that people who are living have chosen that lifestyle. After everything I went through growing up, I thought I was that person wishing more than anything to be by myself. Then I realized being alone isn't that much better.
Twenty-two years ago, when I was eight years old, I sat on a twin size bed, covered with an army green polyester comforter that irritated my skin. Three other beds mirrored mine in the small space.
The walls were made of wooden planks, making the bedroom hard to illuminate with just the two lamps we had.
After spending years in an orphanage, a foster family finally decided I was worthy enough to take home. It seemed like my wish was coming true. Someone wanted me. Foolishly, I thought all foster parents wanted to give a kid in need a home, love, and a family.
As an adult, I know this isn't always the case. I also see the difference between selfish and selfless. The foster family who took me in was purely selfish.
The Johnsons took me in between second and fourth grade. Because the town had a track record for poor academics (or so they told me), they decided to homeschool three other children and me. The other children were younger, between the ages of four and six, but since Mrs. Johnson taught us simultaneously, we focused on their skill level, not mine.
To me, the other children were babies who still found enjoyment in playing with stuffed animals or junky plastic toys. They seemed to be innocent and free from the truth that would eventually find them.
I wanted to be outside, running and playing, but we weren't allowed outside because we lived on a busy street. That's what Mr. and Mrs. Johnson told us.
Most days, outside of the hours when we were learning about letters and numbers, I would sit on my bed and read whatever I had been able to get my hands on. I found books in the basement, most of them were old thrillers or sci-fi, but it gave my mind a place to run free.
My imagination was the only part of me that wasn't lonely. I kept to myself and didn't speak unless someone asked me a question. The department of child services warned me it was the best way to act if I wanted hope of being adopted, but as each year went by, I lost hope of finding a "forever home." I could never understand what it was about me that no one wanted.
Just as Luke was talking about whatever trouble August might be in, she walks through the front door as if she knew we were talking about her.
She's dressed casually today, unlike anything I've seen her wearing until now. Torn jeans and a semi-sheer white tee that accentuates the dark-colored bra she is wearing underneath. I don't know why I'm relieved to see her wearing flat shoes after witnessing the pain her heels were causing her yesterday.
August's casual cross-body purse gets caught on the lock of the door, yanking her backward as she attempts to continue her forward stride. "Jesus," she grunts, freeing herself from the lock.
Her eyes gloss over as she glances past me to the empty seats at the bar. No hello, no wave, no acknowledgment that I'm alive or tried to help her yesterday.
She stumbles awkwardly to her seat, grabbing the backs of a few bar stools on the way to steady herself.
