Then Kiss Me (3 page)

Before that, though, I sat there in awe of nature, feeling even more helpless in my own existence.  But I did some thinking and some superficial soul searching (yes, I assure you—there
is
such a thing), and I vowed to myself that I would get a job—
any job
—so I could move to my own place.  I guessed what people had always said was true—you can never go home again.

After the sun was full on the horizon, I got up out of the chair, feeling quite a bit better, clearer, purer, and—as I mentioned—hopeful.  I went back in the house and found everyone up.  I smelled freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon, and my mouth started watering.  Dad had the newspaper on the table.  He glanced up from the front page. 
“Morning, honey.”

“Hey, dad.”
  I hugged him.  Dad had light brown, almost blonde hair, just like Karen, but I had his nose.  My nose, like
dad’s
, was just a little too big…like it was one size too large.  It was like wearing a pair of size ten pants when your body’s a size eight.  You look like you’re swimming.  Well, I looked like
I was breathing too much.  T
he nose…it looked good on dad.  It still looked large, but he was tall and striking, and he could pull it off.  I couldn’t.

Well, maybe that was my confidence issues talking.

Karen’s two kids were playing on the floor just outside the dining area in the living room.  “Karen spent the night?” I asked dad.

“Yes, honey.  She does at least once a week.”

Trouble in paradise?
  Why else wouldn’t she be home with her hot hubby?  I bit my tongue, though, and walked over to Mac and Jack.  I forced my mind to stop trying to come up with a smartass name to call the two little guys, but weird funny rhymes kept drifting through my head.  Some were obvious (
“
Mac and Jack Attack
”
) and others were just fucking bizarre (
“
Mac and Jack chow a short stack like it’s made of crack.
”
 
Like I said, fucking bizarre).
  I patted Mac on the head while he pushed around a red plastic truck
.  Jack lay in a bouncer, playing with little toys that dangled just within his reach.  Jack had just a little peach fuzz on his cap, but he looked like a mini-version of Mac.  In fact, I knew if I looked at Mac’s baby pictures, I would probably swear it was Jack.  They were like twins born three years apart.

Then I went in the kitchen.  I told my mom and sister good morning and asked if I could help with breakfast.  It was the least I could do after being such a bitch last night.

“The kitchen’s too small for all of us, honey,” mom said, polite and loving—quite out of character.  “Why don’t you just grab a cup of coffee and sit in the dining room?  Breakfast will be ready soon.”

So I did.  No sense arguing.  I rejoined dad at the table.
  Dad was a retired accountant (or, as he’d often remind me, CPA).  In spite of the fact that he’d worked one of the most boring jobs I could ever imagine, he had few lines on his face.  And even though he hadn’t worked in three or
four years, he still rose early every morning to read the paper.  In fact, I was surprised I’d gotten out of bed before he had.

I lit a cigarette and slowly sipped my coffee, glancing out the sliding door
at the scenery to amuse myself
.  After drinking half the cup, I asked dad to hand me the want ads.  He happily obliged.  I could look online later
, check out the Workforce Center,
and would probably even start pounding the pavement, but I had to start somewhere, and considering I was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, the want ads were the best
way to job seek
at the moment.

I glanced at the few listings looking for workers.  What a fucking
podunk
, backwoods, piece
-
of
-
shit town.  At least in Denver, the listings were plenty.  There were only a couple of columns
in the Winchester paper
devoted to help wanted, and most of them were for food service and tourist traps. 
“
Puh
-lease,” I said, disgusted.

Dad looked up from the article he was reading.  His smile was warm.  “It’s a small town, honey—partly retirement community, partly people wanting away from the big city.  You could always look for work in Colorado Springs.  You’d be commuting, but you’d have more choices and I’m sure the pay would be better.”

I sighed.  He was right, of course, but one of the reasons I was glad to leave Denver was I didn’t want to commute.  I wanted to get to work fast.  Life is short.  I did
not
want to spend it on the road.  I’d read at least three books a week on the bus rides to and from work when I lived in Denver.  I didn’t want to spend that kind of time commuting anymore.  If I got a job in the
Springs
, I’d move there.  “Where’s your phone book?”  Might as well see what else was out there.

Dad pointed to a small white tucked-away desk in the living room.  My parents had cell
phones, that
much I knew, but they still had the landline.  I guessed the phone book would be inside the top drawer of the desk.  Like most utilitarian furniture in my mother’s house, it was sparsely populated, meaning only what was necessary was on the surface.  Everything else was hidden—
neatly
—out of sight.  In this case, that meant only the computer and the
phone inhabited the desktop.  There wasn’t even a notepad or pen on top, and I knew if I left one, it would drive my mother mad.

Seeing the desk that I hadn’t even noticed before, I felt like a stranger in my parents’ house (and I was).  I didn’t know where to find anything, even when it should have been obvious to me.

I opened the top drawer and there it was—a phone book so small, it could’ve been a coloring book.  Okay, so it wasn’t
that
small, but if the Denver Metro area phone book is a set of encyclopedias, Winchester’s is one of those romance novels you can read in a few hours.  
Seriously
.

I slipped to the yellow pages.  Fuck finding a job.  I wanted to see if there was a place that could make this a home for me.  So I went to the
A
s
and looked for
art gallery
listings.
  There was
one
listed.  One!  I wish I was kidding you. 
“One art gallery, dad?
  That’s all you guys have?”

Across the room, dad looked up from the paper.  “Oh, uh…yes.  But there’s also the Winchester Center for the Arts.  Oh, and a few of the restaurants downtown have galleries of sorts inside where they display local artists’ works.”

I nodded.  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.  But what if I couldn’t get a job at one of the galleries? 
Fuck it
—might as well apply everywhere.  I asked dad if he cared if I kept the wants ads, and he said it was fine to take them.  I was already feeling smothered here, and I hadn’t even been home twenty-four hours.  It didn’t matter, though—that was the current state, and I had to do something about it.  That meant I needed a job—
any
job—so I could regain my
freedom.  I needed some space.  Hell, no.  I needed a
lot
of space.  I loved my parents, but I would never be an adult in their eyes. 
Especially if I stayed at home mooching off them.

After breakfast, I got ready in a hurry.  I wasn’t about to let the grass grow under my feet.  I put on a nice beige pantsuit, one I’d worn at the art gallery often, and wore my dark brown hair pulled back away from my face.  I told my family I’d see them later.  Mom hugged me and said, “You don’t need to do this right away.  You can take a few days off, you know.”

Oh, no.  I most certainly could not, but I wasn’t about to say that to her, especially whe
n she was being so sweet.
  I squeezed her back.  “Thanks, mom, but I’ve got to do this.”  She smiled at me as I walked out the front door, ready to start a new life.

I went to the art gallery first.  I had to keep my dreams at the forefront.  I walked in
and immediately felt
underwhelmed.  Saying the place was small was like saying Lady Gaga wanted
just
a little bit of attention.  I approached the woman at the desk near the front.  She was a tall thin woman with tight features.  I told her I was looking for work but that I was also an artist, working mostly in acrylics and oils but some watercolors and other media when the spirit moved me.  Just as I was slightly unimpressed with her gallery, she too seemed unmoved by my revelation
.  Of course, she probably got lots of wannabe artists walking through her doors all the time.  It didn’t pay to be moved by someone claiming to be an artist.  “I don’t need any help, but you’re welcome to fill out an application just the same.”  She reached under the counter and pulled out a
generic
four-page application and slid it toward me.  “You can also bring your portfolio in anytime and I’ll take a look at it.”

Okay, so maybe I’d been a little harsh with her initially.  I hadn’t expected her to throw me this bone. 
Sweet.
  The vibes I was getting from her were still cold and definitely not promising, but I wasn’t going t
o
piss
on the opportunity
.  “Do you mind if I fill it out here?”

“Feel free.”  Her hand swept across the room near the entrance where there was a small table and two chairs.  I imagined this was where they would put b
rochures and maybe a guest book.
  I filled out the application, using the small notebook I kept in my purse that gave the nitty-gritty details of jobs I’d held in the past.

After leaving the art gallery, I drove to the Arts Center.  They were closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, so I’d have to come back some other time. 
But I wasn’t about to stop.  I was already interview-ready and itching for a job.  So I went to every single place that had a want ad and applied.  It didn’t matter if it was a job cleaning hotel rooms, flipping burgers, or playing cashier at the convenience store.  I had plenty of food service experience from my high school and college days and figured it might be a good start, especially if I could wait tables during tourist season.  Of course, I was just assuming Winchester had a summer tourist season.  It looked like there could be a lot of camping around, but for all I knew, they had winter tourism.  Maybe they had both.  After filling out dozens of applications with the places that let me, I was tired, but I still managed to find the Workforce Center and registered with them.  They also told me there was a temp agency across town that I could check with.  In the meantime, though, I decided to look for the work I could do.  I applied with restaurants, convenience stores, and hotels, and—in my frenzy—I located the restaurants with miniature galleries inside.  That was info I’d need later, once I started creating new art.

Late in the afternoon, I made my way back to my parents’ house.  After just one day, I thought I would be able to find my way around the town of Winchester pretty well.  If nothing else, I was familiar with all the main roads.  Tomorrow I would start looking for places to live.  I had a little bit of money in savings and, as long as I had a job, I wouldn’t mind dipping into that dough to get my own place.

When I got back to my parents’ house, my mom said she’d already taken two messages for me.  Wow.  That was fast.  I looked at the piece of paper she handed me.  One message was from Barry.  That was weird.  No, it wasn’t weird that he’d called my mom’s house
—just weird that he was calling at all
. 
He called my mom’s because
I left my old cell phone on the dresser in our bedroom.  It was
his
plan,
his
money, and so, two days ago, I’d bought a new cell phone.  No one until today had that number.  Now lots of employers in Winchester had it.  I gave them my parents’ number as the main number but listed my cell phone as well.  I wanted maximum opportunities for them to be able to reach me…which brought me to the second message.  The other call was from a down-home steakhouse-type restaurant called Bob’s Southern BBQ.  I’d never waited tables at a place like that and it didn’t look like the kind of place I’d frequent, but I imagined the tips would be decent.  That was fast.  I’d barely filled out that damn application three or four hours earlier.

Oh, Barry.  Why the
fuck
would you
be
calling me?  I just left yesterday, for God’s sake.  Well, I decided I’d call the restaurant first, because there was a potential job there.

I called and set up an interview for the next morning.  Everything seemed to be falling into place—not exactly as I would’ve liked but better than nothing.

I gritted my teeth and picked up the phone.  Okay, so maybe my split up with Barry wasn’t as amicable as I’d made it seem.  We parted on friendly terms only because I hadn’t told him to fuck off.  Still, though…was he going to make this difficult now?

All right, so maybe I was being stupid.  For all I knew, he was calling to let me know I’d left something important behind. 
Only one way to find out.
  I dialed his old cell phone number, the one I’d dialed day after day for as long as he’d had the phone, and got his voicemail.  “Barry,
it’s
Case, returning your call.  I should be here all night if you want to call me back.”  No way was I going to give him my new cell phone number.  I didn’t want him to be able to access me that easily.