Game On(2)

“No,” I said between gritted teeth. “You know what’s not working. You. You haven’t had a job since you moved in three months ago. Who is going to pay your rent, Nick? Who is going to pay for gas so you can get to your rehearsals and gigs? Who is going to buy you the peanut butter you can’t find even though it’s on the same f*cking shelf every f*cking time?”

His struggling artist thing had been appealing when we first met. Before landing my job at the paper, I had been freelance writing and working nights at the coffee shop he frequented. He played with his band, but also worked at the hardware store, which I had found really attractive. Nothing like a guy who can hang a shelf for you. And that’s what he would do. At first. He repaired everything in my shoddy apartment when he had his own place; it was only after he moved in, after I got a desk at the Register, that he quit the hardware store to focus on his music full time.

“Your negativity is really impacting my work,” he said.

“Fine,” I said, my head now aching. I didn’t have the time or the energy to argue with him. “But you better be out of the apartment when I get back.”

“About that,” he said. “You’re being evicted.”

“What?!” Half the lobby turned in the direction of my shriek. I yanked my suitcase closer to me and crouched closer to the plant. “Evicted?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“Yeah.” I could hear the snap of a lighter and then the deep inhale that indicated he was smoking. Of course. Of course he was high right now. That was another thing that had changed when he moved in. Guess it had been easier to ignore how often he was high when I only saw him after shows.

“Nick!” I snarled. “Why am I being evicted?”

“Some guy came by and said you hadn’t paid rent in like, three months.”

“What? That’s impossible. I give you the rent check every month…” Fuck. Of course. I had given Nick one responsibility in our relationship—to walk the rent to the landlord’s apartment by the first of the month—and he had apparently failed to do that. I had wondered why my bank account had seemed unusually robust. The checks were probably sitting next to the door or, knowing Nick, covered in bong water on the coffee table somewhere. He had never really understood the purpose of the coasters I owned.

“He said you have to be out by the 15th of next month.”

I rubbed my temple. It was the 20th. The last game before the MLB draft was in just over a week. Maybe I could call my landlord and explain, but then I remembered that he had told me about the noise complaints from the other neighbors, as well as the lingering scent of pot that hovered around our apartment. No doubt he was eager for me to be out.

“Fine,” I said, realizing I would probably have to move back in with my mom for a while. The pain in my temple bloomed into a full-on headache. “Just make sure you’re out of there when I get back.”

“It’s cool,” he said. “Anne Marie is letting me stay with her.”

“Of course.” Anne Marie was the only girl in their five-person band. She played the tambourine and was sleeping her way through the group. I couldn’t blame her, though. She was terribly attractive and not very musically talented. Use what you got, right? Guess she saw potential in Nick. Just like I had. “Use protection,” I said and hung up.

I took a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm myself. This was just a minor setback. I was here to do a job and that’s what I was going to do. Nothing else mattered right now. I could do this. I was smart and capable and resourceful. Squaring my shoulders, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and pulled it towards the welcome desk. But it got stuck around the potted plant, so I gave it a firm yank, which freed it, not only from the plant, but also from my grasp. I could only watch as my duct-taped suitcase flew through the air, hit the smooth, perfect floor, and promptly exploded in the middle of the busy lobby.

***

“Thank you so much,” I said to the very kind bellboy that had helped sweep my scattered clothes into my busted suitcase and get both it and me out of the lobby and up to my room in an incredibly short amount of time. I dug into my pockets for a tip, grateful to find a five-dollar bill even though it was a wadded up sweaty mess.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wishing I could explain how I had ended up in this situation, but that was a long story, starting with the poor decisions made in my adolescent and teen years, and this poor kid was already politely nodding his way out the door. The minute the door closed, I kicked my suitcase. Whatever delicate balance the bellboy had managed in order to get it into the room was immediately disrupted as the top popped open and my clothes spilled out onto the floor.

“I guess I’ll unpack, then,” I said, scowling at my completely broken piece of luggage. The only one that I owned. Guess I would be buying a new one no matter what. Unless I wanted to carry my clothes back to Houston in a garbage bag. I shivered. It had happened before and while it wasn’t the most embarrassing part of my childhood, it was pretty high up there.

I hung my clothes onto the hangers provided by the hotel, even folded up my panties and shirts and put them in the drawer. Then, when it was empty, I kicked my suitcase across the room like it was a stupid, awful, broken soccer ball. I just wanted it somewhere that I wouldn’t be able to look at it. It went under the bed. I hoped to forget about it.