Page 17 of Savior
“We are open year round but do most of our business during the warmer months. At the moment, we have two of the seven rooms occupied, but I expect that we’ll be at full capacity by the end of the month as people take last minute vacations. If you decide to take the position, your duties will include light housekeeping, some paperwork, general Q and A for our guests about the area’s activities, and maintenance as needed. I do most of the cooking here in house, and I may need a hand from time to time. My mother does a little bit of everything else when her health allows.”
“What would the hours be like?”
“I’m obviously here around the clock, but I would need you from eight to five, sometimes longer depending on what activities are planned that day. In any case, if that happens, you'll be paid overtime. Are you going to school out here?”
“No, I haven’t made plans to. Well, not yet anyway."
She gives me an assessing look as we cross the street toward the bungalows. “If you do, Nassau College has a great selection of night classes, and if need be, we can work around your schedule."
“Thank you, that’s kind of you to mention.”
“Well, it works in my favor to keep you around.”
The main road that separated the bed and breakfast from the bungalows is heavy with traffic. As the sun starts it’s slow descent down the horizon, the soft blues paint the white shell driveway in pastels. Lights from the passing cars dance spots over the windows and lawns. Gathered in a loose semi-circle are a dozen or so modest sized houses with matching porches and carports. Each had a little fence framing the sidewalk that leads up to the front door. Diane guides me down the road to the farthest one. The house is like a fairy tale tucked away under a pair of palm trees. It’s a faded lavender color, but not in any way that makes it look old or worn. Just lived in. The front window is large and bare, framed by a flowerbox of struggling impatiens.
“It’s nothing special.” Diane takes a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocks the door. “It has a bedroom, kitchen with attached dining room and small, but functional, bathroom. The yard isn’t much to speak of, but who needs one with paradise across the street, right?”
I step in and observe the second hand-furniture, oddly charmed by the mismatched pieces. “Right. Does this one need some cleaning or fixing up?” I’m eager to get started, I realize. To prove myself worthy of the two kind women taking a chance on me.
“If so, I’m sure you’ll be able to fix it in no time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, while you’re helping us, you’re welcome to live here. I’ll speak to my mother about a reasonable deal for rent and utilities, but if you want it, this place is yours.”
I turn in a circle, dazed. “This place?”
“Unless you’d prefer another?”
“No!” Giddy laughter bubbles in my chest. “No, this is great, I’m just caught off guard. I wasn’t expecting you to offer me a job let alone a house.”
“You need it and we need you.” I shift my weight from one foot to another at her frank appraisal. “I can tell that you’ve had a hard life. Trust me, I can relate. Just consider this southern hospitality. I wouldn’t question your good fortune; they never seem to last long.”
“You’re right.” I raise a hand to shake hers. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“You’re welcome. Besides, you’ll come to know everyone is family here.”
I turn in a circle, taking it all in. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’ll let you get settled in. You can start first thing tomorrow. Pleasure to meet you, Sienna.”
Logan
The beer iswarm and flat, but it is wet enough to wash the sour taste of vomit from my mouth. My father always said a beer in the morning was the cure for a hangover. As a veteran drunk, I guess he knew best. Can drained dry, I toss it in the general direction of the overflowing garbage and wince at the clatter it makes against the tile floor.
The reflection in the chipped mirror above the leaky sink, which is stained with rust that I’ve been meaning to clean, reminds more and more of that old bastard each day. Sweat and a slew of other indiscriminate stains camouflage what was once a white T-shirt. My beard has far surpassed the five o’clock shadow stage and has grown in patchy and unkempt. But what most reminds me of my father are my eyes. Light green ringed by red, watery—like I'm drowning myself in alcohol as well as drinking it—and angrily bloodshot.
I flip open the medicine cabinet and hunt for a bottle of ibuprofen. Empties rain down into the sink, along with a dull razor, empty mouthwash, and squished tube of toothpaste. A singular rattle leads me to a lone pill. It won’t kick the headache completely, but it’s better than nothing. I twist the stiff knob on the sink and use my hands as a cup to drink water.
I half stumble half trip my way to the kitchen, bypassing a mountain of laundry and a stack of unopened bills. Dishes are piled over every available surface so I opt for a reasonably clean one I find next to the fridge. I give it a quick rinse, fill it with water, nuke it in the microwave and then dump in a couple spoonsful of instant coffee. It tastes like ass, but it helps eradicate some of the cob webs that took up residence in my head during the night. There’s some leftover pizza from three or four days ago that I throw on a paper plate and heat up as I suck back the remains of coffee. I’ve found coffee—like beer—is best consumed quickly and without mercy.
After inhaling the pizza as I stand over the counter, I take make a second cup of coffee and amble through the dark hallway that forks off to the only bedroom and bathroom to the living room. Normally, I’d sit on the couch in front of the flat screen and ferment in the haze of the blue light until the sun went down, but it’s starting to cool off and I could use the fresh air. Since it’s hotter inside my house than it is outside, I head out to the porch. I don’t mind the heat, but I don’t want to sweat to death, either.
I spent the last decade in the desert. A little Florida sunshine is pitiful in comparison. The heat almost makes me a little homesick for the dusty trailers and hundred-degree weather.
The ancient wooden swing on equally ancient chains creaks audibly as I sprawl over it with one knee bent to the floor to sway myself back and forth. A fan circulates the humid air in lazy rotations above me.
A car door slams in the distance, but I ignore it. I’m almost asleep again and the throbbing in my head is finally fucking off.