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“I think that was it,” he said.
That would make sense. Only more recent customers would know me by my new last name.
“So this house of yours,” I said. “I could take a run up there tomorrow, or later in the week.”
“You think,” he said, looking hopeful, “you could take a look at it any sooner? Like today? The reason I ask is, there’s one or two places where the water’s getting in, doing damage to one of the interior walls. This asshole I was renting to never bothered to mention it to me and I kind of want to get a jump on at least that before it starts raining later in the week and the damage spreads.”
“I don’t—”
“If you could do it now, you could follow me,” he said.
It wouldn’t take that long to drive up to Wheelers Farm Road. I did have time to kill before heading over to do that other estimate in Orange.
“What the hell,” I said. “I guess I could have a look.”
“Oh, that’s great,” he said, smiling.
“I don’t think I got your name,” I said.
“Oh shit, yeah,” he said, smiling and extending a hand. “My name’s Matt. Matt Beekman.”
Thirty-Eight
Tyler had gotten home in time the night before, but that didn’t mean that he and his friend Cam hadn’t gotten into some trouble.
Cam had brought some weed, and while Tyler wanted to partake, he was too worried that he wouldn’t be able to get the stink off him before he got home. His sister was like a fucking sniffer dog, he said. He’d no sooner be in the door than she’d know something was up.
So they’d decided against that and had a couple of beers instead before they wandered over to a town house development and slashed a few tires. Cam had an honest-to-God switchblade that his older brother had given him. Flicked the switch and a five-inch blade popped out.
“Holy shit,” Tyler had said. “Aren’t those illegal?”
“Yeah, well, so is slashing tires,” Cam had said.
They slashed tires on maybe a dozen cars, never more than one tire per vehicle. “Spread the joy,” Cam had said.
It was something to do.
When they were done, Tyler felt nothing. No sense of excitement, no thrills. Maybe, just maybe, some regret. He kept hearing the words second chance in his head. He was thinking there might be better ways to spend his evening. And he had to admit he probably wouldn’t be doing any of this shit if it hadn’t been for making friends with Cam. He also worked at Whistler’s Market, and it was when their shifts overlapped that Tyler got to know him. Cam showed him how you could swipe the odd six-pack of Budweiser or a package of Twinkies without old man Whistler ever knowing a thing about it. After all, when you were in charge of unpacking the deliveries and stocking the shelves, you had first dibs on the stuff you wanted.
“Doesn’t that also mean you’re the first person Whistler’s gonna look at?” Tyler asked.
“Well, I guess,” Cam said.
Cam could be thick as a plank sometimes. And one thing Tyler had made a point not to do was steal from the store. He was willing to admit he’d done some stupid shit, but he wasn’t that stupid.
He actually liked this job. At first, when his sister said she wanted him to get a part-time gig so that he could make a contribution to the household—nothing major, the gesture more symbolic than anything—he found that Whistler’s, across the river in Milford, was hiring. He went in and interviewed with the boss, who said he needed someone who could do anything and everything around the store. Unpack the deliveries and keep the shelves stocked, help customers get their bags to their cars, round up carts that were scattered all over the parking lot, maybe even start working the deli counter at some point.
Didn’t sound like rocket science to Tyler.
He also liked the other people, other than Cam, who worked there. He especially liked two of the women who worked the checkouts. There was Mattie, young and heavyset, and Francine, who’d been working at the store for nearly two decades, since she was in her early forties. Francine’s favorite phrase, regardless of how well the day was going, was, “What a shit show.”
What really got Francine going was when shoppers put all their groceries on the rubber conveyor belt, only a couple of items left to scan, and then they’d remember the one thing they forgot and run off, disappearing down an aisle, while other people waited in line with full carts. That’s when Francine would turn to Tyler, roll her eyes, and whisper, “Fuckin’ loon.”
Mattie’s pet peeve was the little old ladies who didn’t use credit cards, and not only paid in cash, but waited until they were told what they owed, and only then brought up their purse, slowly opened it, found their wallet, and, in a bid to use up spare change, counted out what they owed to the penny. So if the bill came to $40.83, they would count out those eight-three cents in nickels, dimes, quarters, and pennies.
The other day, when this happened with Mrs. Hemsworth, a regular, Mattie said to Tyler, who had helped the woman with her bags, “I just had my entire period while she was figuring that out.”
So when Whistler said he was short-staffed on Monday, Tyler said he could come in. His classes were split apart that day. One in the morning, couple late in the afternoon. He could cover just before, during, and after lunch. The truth was, even if he’d had classes in the middle of the day, he’d probably have skipped them. Tyler would rather make some money than sit in some boring classroom listening—or not—to somebody drone on about the Emancipation Proclamation, like anybody cared about that anymore. History, Tyler thought, was so over.
