Outside In (17 page)

I lift a keg onto the pushcart. “Nice to do some actual work for a change.” It’s probably the most honest statement I have made in a long while. I have pushed myself so far over the line since I got here that I don’t even know where the line is anymore. I feel
cut off from my surroundings, but I have nowhere else to go. The island is now my home. I hope the new work and the fresh start with Astrid will ground me.

At the Skyway, Bob positions the truck by the basement door. “Wait for me here. I have to go through the front to open it.” After a few minutes, his round, smiling face appears on the other side of the door. “Randy sure is an interesting bird, isn’t he? He was all a-flutter when I told him you were helping.” He walks back through the basement. “Let’s see what the cooler looks like. Sometimes those other delivery guys leave it a fucking mess.”

As predicted, food items block the entryway inside the cooler, and a stack of milk crates with assorted dairy products stands in front of Bob’s designated spot.

Bob says, “You see? Some guys just drop their stuff in here and take off. They think somebody else should arrange it for them. The way I see it, there’s only so much space in the cooler. If you don’t take care of yours, there’s no guarantee you’ll keep it.” He stands and readjusts his pants. “Why don’t you handle the Lite? I’ll straighten this and get the other stuff.”

The Skyway doesn’t sell draft beer, so only cans remain. Bob taught me that if I stack correctly, I can fit ten twelve-packs on each cartload. After my fourth load, I stop to wipe the sweat from my eyes. Randy barrels down the steps. Wearing only briefs and a kitchen apron reversed and tied around his neck as a cape, he stands confidently with both fists clenched on his hips, like a superhero. “Enough screwing around down here; let’s get some work done.”

A lady yells from the top of the stairs, “Randy, get some clothes on. What if the health inspector shows up?”

Bob restacks the beer on his cart, which he dumped due to the surprise. Still laughing, he says, “Come on, Randy, can’t you wait until we’re finished? We only have a little more to do. You’re
making us hungry. What’s for lunch today, anyway? Italian sausage, maybe bratwurst?”

Randy simply turns and bounds up the stairs.

Bob can’t help but smile and shake his head each time we pass during the remaining trips. After we finish, he pulls me aside. “You know he did that only to get a laugh out of us, right? I don’t want you to get spooked.”

“Oh, I know. It’s all about shock value. I wonder if he’s even gay.”

“You might find out. He’s never come down in his underwear for me before, or for anyone else who’s worked for me.”

My part-time job with Bob is only one of several changes that occurred after Memorial Day. Cinch’s brother recently graduated from college and wanted to come for the summer to keep his parents off his back about finding a real job. Griffin of all people probably deserves a break, though. He graduated in four years with an engineering degree while playing football each year, achieving what Cinch failed to.

It’s easy to tell that Cinch and Griffin are brothers. They share the same hairline and carefree disposition. But the more I’m around them, the more opposite I realize they are. Cinch always takes the easy route; Griffin likes a challenge. Cinch is a history teacher, Griffin an engineer. Even if they share a common interest, they hold opposing positions. Both played football because of their dad, but Cinch was a running back while Griffin was a linebacker.

I’m not sure if it’s the athletic training or the way Cinch and Griffin were raised, but Griffin handles delegation well, while Cinch is definitely in charge. An obvious respect resonates between the two brothers. Griffin is grateful for Cinch pulling
him on board and is willing to do whatever it takes to carry his share, whether in the Round House or the red barn.

What Griffin doesn’t realize is that Cinch didn’t have to pull any strings to get him a job. Actually, Griffin is better suited for the work than either Cinch or I. He is six feet two, but with a shirt on, his muscularity is well concealed, and his experience playing linebacker has taught him how to leverage bodies. The only strike against Griffin is that he’s Cinch’s brother. Everyone loves Cinch, but one is more than enough.

Griffin’s arrival has pumped energy into a situation that even after a short time has become stale. Together, Cinch and I made one trip on the roller coaster and safely arrived back to the station. I’m not completely sure I want to go again, but Griffin makes the decision for me.
Please sit back, riders, fasten your seat belts, and make sure the safety bars are pulled down and locked in a secure position
.

For Griffin’s first night on the job, Cinch makes up a new position called
floater
, which translates to
person who does anything Cinch doesn’t feel like doing
. Watching Griffin from the porch, Cinch says, “I love new employees. They’re so prompt and responsible. They come to work sober, showered, and clean-shaven. It doesn’t take long for this place to change that, though. You want to stay out here tonight?”

“For a while at least,” I say.

Cinch pats his pocket. “Well, I got something to entertain us if it’s too slow.”

“Uh-oh, I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

“You ever done Special K?” he says. “It’s liquid cat tranquilizer that is cooked down into a white powder. You do little bumps. Pretty intense. It’s like you just walked into a fun house with the floor tilting; your head and feet feel as if they’re five times their actual size. You just have to be careful you don’t do too much. It can make you sick, or knocks you into a K-hole. I saw a guy do a line of it thinking it was cocaine, and he wigged out. He was on
all fours trying to smash all these invisible ants. He kept saying ‘the ants, the ants.’”

I tell him to go up to the barn and serve it up. Instead he reveals a small glass vial with a rounded red plastic top. “Why leave when we can do it right here with this bullet?” He cups the vial in his palm. “See this little handle? Turn it so the arrow is down to open the chamber. Now flip it over, bang it a few times until the chamber is filled, turn the handle a quarter turn to lock in the hit, and flip it back over. When the coast is clear, turn the handle so it’s pointing up, place your finger over the carburetor, put the rounded part in your nostril, and inhale, taking your finger off the carb to allow air through so it pushes the hit into your nose.”

With the bullet in his right hand between his index finger and thumb, Cinch lifts it to his right nostril, inhales, and then releases his thumb, allowing air to whistle through.

I mimic the stealth technique, only I inhale with much greater force.

“You don’t have to suck that hard,” he says. “Takes a few seconds to absorb into your system.” His stare lengthens. He looks like he’s in a trance. “Oh fuck, here I go.”

A few seconds later, everything slows down for me, too. I stand on the steps in front of the bar and lean back, squeezing the railing to keep me upright. I’m stoic but erupting on the inside. I focus on the people coming across the street toward us, thinking it might help to reattach my legs, which feel as if they’re floating beside me. Cinch, having both more experience with the drug and a head start, regains his composure and performs our duties.

The evening passes quickly as we take turns administering doses of the cat tranquilizer. It ends slightly before the band does, providing just enough time for us to organize the closing.

After work, we again choose the boat ramp for Griffin’s christening, expanding it from a seasonal kickoff to a ritual for all new hires. Many names exist for what we are attempting to form.
Some call it a fraternity, some call it a club, some call it a gang; to me, it’s a family.

At the boat ramp the wind off the lake swirls, seemingly unsure of whether to push us back or pull us into the water. Cinch serves up a blaster to each of us. Griffin passes one of the bottles of wine. Stein crouches down with his head between his knees, trying to light a joint. He says, “Come on, man, you got to hit this. Tonight’s about brotherhood.”

I don’t know if it’s the sharing, the forbidden quality, or the chemical effects of our actions that pull us together, but on the ramp in the moonlight, fears and doubts fade. Silence paralyzes us. They must feel it, too. They have to. How else could everyone be so quiet?

We all plunge into the water then reconvene on the ramp. Stein and Griffin go for a second dip. I stare out over the water, waiting for them to emerge. The moonlight reflects off the water on their skin, radiating a soft glow.

We pledge to stay until the wine is gone. The conversation bounces from work to women to stories from our pasts. I gaze wistfully at each face as the words and underlying promises flow. All that remains is to forge the commitment. Regardless of how right everything feels, words never last.

I walk down by the water and watch the waves wash onto the ramp. Tomorrow our words must become actions. I whisper, “Please, don’t let me down. I need you guys. I have nobody else.”

The next morning after helping Bob, I return to a locked door at the red barn. I shake the handle and pound a few times. Cinch peeks through the blinds. Opening the door, he ushers me inside and locks it. The lock box is open on the table with the digital
scale and empty bags next to it. He reaches in his pocket and hands me a wad of cash. “This is for all the help lately.”

“No way.” I extend it back toward him. “Between what I flushed and what I’ve used, we’re even.”

“Consider it an advance,” he says. “Things are going to start getting busy.”

I thumb through the money. “There’s two hundred bucks here. That’s way too much. I just busted my ass for three hours for fifty.”

“What can I say? Life isn’t fair.” Cinch sits down and scoops a spoonful of coke onto the scale. “Also, I think I need another favor. I have to go to the mainland to meet my guy, and Haley has me booked all week.”

“Why doesn’t he just come here?”

“He doesn’t deliver,” Cinch says. “I was hoping you could make the run for me. It’s just in Cleveland. Would have Griffin do it, but I need someone I can trust. He always seems to fuck things like this up.”

His vote of confidence does little for my apprehension. I survived one scare. Do I want to go deeper so soon? I say, “I have to work all weekend, and I’m supposed to go out with Astrid Sunday night.”

Cinch counts the full packages next to him. “We’re good through the weekend. You can leave Monday morning and come back that night or Tuesday.”

I remain silent. This is a whole other level.

“I already checked with my guy. He’s totally cool with it.” He scrapes the last spoonful out of the bag onto the scale. “If it’s too much to ask, I understand.”

My gut tells me no, but I feel obligated. Right or wrong, we’re in this together. I nod at him. “I can do it. Might be good to get off the island for a day.”

“Exactly. You’re new to the area. No one will suspect anything.” Cinch flips me a package. “For the weekend.”

Two days of thirteen-hour shifts with no breaks, six to seven hours of partying, and four hours of sleep elevate the already accelerated pace we have set all summer long. Cinch knows only one speed, and that is Go. Griffin came at the perfect time. I’m not sure we could’ve made it through the weekend without him. So much for slowing down and taking it easy.