Page 3 of Under Locke & Key

“Now, we have about fifteen minutes until Shelly will be here to relieve me. Think about where you want to eat and then we’ll talk about why you really came here tonight, since it's not your regular Friday, and because I know it wasn’t to get picked up by Mr. Austin Powers.”

Returning the now-empty glass of water, things feel a little clearer, but no less bleak.

“Deal. But you know my answer never changes.” Creature of habit down to the core.

Walking to the Metro, and then down the sidewalk as the early spring air leans just a little too cold for comfort, I cross my arms to keep warm and hustle to get inside.

Our booth in the back is empty and we slide across the slightly cracked leather to take our regular spots.

The hole-in-the-wall burger joint I found during my sophomore year at Georgetown isn’t much to write home about where appearances are concerned.

ángel is appalled that I keep coming back here when this place takes grunge beyond trendy to downright questionable.

But the building is so old it feels like a person greeting me when I step through the creaky door, and the food is always good.

Although I don’t need to be as frugal as student-me used to be, it’s a bonus I appreciate. Coming here makes me feel closer to who I was back then—excited, ambitious, and so sure of her success that the roadblocks barely registered.

But that was eight years ago, and the roadblocks turned into dead ends.

“So, you going to tell me what this is really about?” ángel sips his diet Coke from the paper soda cup that will start leaking from the bottom in about thirty minutes, and winces against the cold.

“Remember I told you about that promotion I’ve been working toward since last fall? The one I thought I’d be a shoo-in for after Andrew made me do the presentation alone and kicked Sebastian off of it?”

God, it feels like such a long time ago, and at the same time very little has changed.

Just hours upon hours of staring at a screen and tipping some eyedrops in every now and then when my eyeballs feel like sandpaper from not blinking.

I glance at the menu that’s a little too sticky for comfort even though I know I’m going to get the same thing I always do.

But it’s a ritual. So I do it.

The waitress interrupts our conversation and we order our usual, handing back the menus and waiting for the clip of her shoes to fade.

“Yee-ess,” ángel stretches the word out into two syllables.

“They announced the program manager appointment today.”

“Congratulations?” It’s cautious. He knows my mood well enough to know the difference between celebratory drinks and drowning my feelings.

“Congratulations to Keith ,” I spit the name out like it’s a curse.

Fucking Keith. Just because he’s “personable”, as if that’s what you need to be a good developer and program manager.

I get shit done. I always get shit done and outpace him every time.

Of course when I brought that up to Andrew he just bludgered me with a “you’re indispensable where you are now.

We can’t afford to lose you as a developer. No one can do it like you can.”

As if that made it any better.

“Not ballroom bastard Keith?” ángel injects the correct amount of appalled into the question and it makes the edges of my mouth quirk up into the ghost of a smile.

“One and the same. The guy you chased off at the bar tonight. You know, he had the gall to say just because he’s my boss now doesn’t mean we can’t have fun together.” My face is twisted in disgust and even the thought of it is almost enough to put me off of my meal.

“Oh, hell no. You cannot keep working there.”

I slurp some of my Sprite, somehow always better from a fountain than a can, and steal some fries from our communal order.

“That’s almost not the worst part. When I confronted the general manager about it he ‘couldn’t exactly say why’ but the reason I wasn’t hired was because they’re worried I’m not dedicated enough. They think I’m going to get pregnant as soon as I get the job and then fuck off and waste their time.”

“So that little comment to the Gin-tern was?—”

“—me being pissed about the image they have of me in their minds. Yes. If they knew a thing about me they’d know it’s a non issue. Which, it shouldn’t fucking matter whether I do want kids or not. It’s such outdated bullshit. I don’t know what to do. What would you do?”

ángel shakes his head, a rueful smile on his face.

“Rachel, I’m a bartender in my mid-thirties that writes poems that no one will ever see, and my aspirations for anything more died a long time ago.

At this point I’m happy if I can make rent and get groceries for the week.

We are opposites, you and I. I’ve never wanted to conquer the world.

I’m just glad to experience the little things. ”

The sigh that leaves my lungs is so heavy it hurts.

“It can’t all be for nothing. Years of this, for it to be just this . Is it wrong to want more? To want to be acknowledged?”

“If that’s what you want to get out of your work environment—if what you need to keep going is being valued and not just being paid—then maybe you need to rethink some things. You mentioned Sebastian got out of there. Have you thought about doing the same?” he asks.

I shrug and we dig into our food, the rich taste of garlic aioli spreading across my tongue. The burger soaks up the last of my drunken sorrow and ángel has given me something else to ruminate on besides being upset.

Should I consider leaving?

“Would that be giving up?” I ask, my doubts sneaking out. Only with ángel. He’s the only one who’s seen me at close to my worst and I know he won’t judge me for my moment of weakness.

“Does letting go of something that’s no longer serving you equate to giving up?

I don’t think so. You’re not the kind of person to slowly atrophy sitting at the same desk for years just because you’re somewhere familiar.

Sometimes you’ve got to keep moving to keep the blood flowing and your spirit alive. ”

I chuckle. “You really should get back to the poetry book. It doesn’t feel fair that I am the only one benefitting from that brain and those words of yours.”

His tan skin flushes, just barely visible but I know the tells by now.

“You first. I’ll follow your lead.”

“I’m taking that as a legitimate agreement. I’ll look for something else and then you need to look up some agents again. We’ll be brave together.”

Sticking my hand out across the table, his palm is warm against mine and we shake on it. Silly. But it feels like a start, the bleakness of being overlooked again not aching as badly knowing someone has my back and believes in me.

“We’ll look together. I need you to keep an open mind though and trust me. If I find something I think will be good for you, you have to at least apply. Okay?”

I roll my eyes but agree and we scroll through Indeed in silence. My heart’s not really in it though. I’m too pissed about potentially having to take a step back to get hired. Mid-level positions are so much harder to find since most places hire from within.

“Here,” ángel says, sliding his phone across the table.

“Escape Room Developer?” The skepticism drips from my question. What could they possibly need a developer for? All I can picture is a dinky room with bad props and poorly thought out clues, with a deadline taunting you.

“Keep reading.”

“It’s not even in D.C.” An escape room in some town I’ve never even heard of before now. God, what a downgrade.

ángel hits me with his no-nonsense stare, the same kind he gave Keith at the bar and the reminder is enough to make me return to the job posting. Anything would be better than slinking back to Lakin-Cole’s toxic “male”centric environment.

Immediately hiring candidates for now through December—possibility for a permanent position thereafter. Daily flat rate. Must be able to work on-site in Dulaney, MD.

Seeking a developer and collaborator to bring an edge and new take on a beloved activity.

‘Locke Box’ will be an escape room experience that’s more interactive and higher-tech for visitors while adding a fun addition to the charming town of Dulaney, MD.

Its unveiling will be at the town’s December Fest and it is imperative that a candidate be able to function under a deadline.

You’ll have the chance to put your creativity to use in addition to your tech skills.

This would be perfect for a candidate looking to branch into freelancing or something outside of the typical corporate landscape. If you are detail-oriented, good at problem-solving, and eager to put your mark on the escape room industry then this is your chance.

Come for the challenge, stay for the fun.

Collaborating instead of just doing what I’m told feels like a buoy in a storm—a hand reaching out to pull me from the corporate hellscape I inhabit every day on my rolling chair. But the risk of relocating and a daily rate instead of hourly gives me pause.

“Come for the challenge, stay for the fun” echoes through my mind and I can’t help but think that would make the perfect tagline. Not that I’m already thinking about how to make this work or anything.

“I can see the gears turning. Apply. Now. You won’t call it chickening out but I know you’ll logic your way out of having to do it.

Apply and go from there. If you do it I’ll reup my Query Tracker.

” ángel dangles it in front of me, knowing I’ll do it for him after the countless saves at the bar, and the kind ear whenever I cry about work or the pressure of trying to live up to the image my parents have in their minds of who I am and what I should be capable of.

“That’s coercion and we both know it.”

“I’m not above that to get shit done. You play by the rules. I don’t. Maybe it’s time you make your own.”

Rule-follower. Teacher’s pet. Perfectionist. The qualities I’ve prided myself on have gotten me passed over and harassed. The game is rigged against me and those like me, maybe it’s time I try something where I can level the playing field.

“Pull up Query Tracker and your old query package. You’re doing a lot of big talk for someone with no skin in the game.”

Phones in hand, we take the leap. I apply and put every ounce of yearning for something better into it.

I haven’t had to do this in years and I can only hope that my promise shines through.

The alternative is too depressing to consider and I worry that if I don’t go elsewhere soon I’ll be permanently glued to that rolling chair—the scratchy fabric against the back of my knees embedded into my skin.

There has to be another way.

“I’m proud of you, kiddo.” ángel says.

I scoff. “You’re barely older than I am, and you know I hate nicknames.”

“No.” He wags his finger at me, his face mock-serious and I can’t help but giggle at it. “No, you hate being called ‘Rach’, you don’t hate nicknames. I am geriatric. You need to get out there for my sake.”

“Okay, old man. If I’m going to actually go for this, there are way too many moving pieces. Don’t get your hopes up.”

His expression turns serious, “Or do. Do get your hopes up. Take a risk for once in your damn life. You can’t be this perfect person all the time.

You’re so used to molding yourself to a situation to do what everyone else expects from you.

Who are you outside of that? Away from trying to be the best for your parents and not pissing off the wrong people at work, and being too kind to drunk assholes at a bar? ”

We stare at each other for a moment and intense gratitude wells within me at my friend. For knowing me and when to push.

“Thank you. You dragged me back onto the path. When I got to the bar tonight I was so angry and bleak. Discouraged. Thank you for keeping me sane.”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Thank you for singlehandedly funding my Paris trip with your terrible guesswork. I thought I was bad with men but you’ve got me beat.”

“See. I give you a compliment and thank you for tonight and you insult me in response.”

“You know I don’t do well with sappy. I’m allergic to feelings and you hide all of yours. That’s why we’re such good friends.”

We share a smile, put money on the table, and walk out into the spring night. Cool, a bit of a bite, but there’s promise there in the scent of flowers and the green leaves unfurling overhead as we walk back to the Metro.

“I’ll see you next week?” I ask. Fridays are kind of our thing and somehow showing up to the bar two nights in a row feels wrong.

“I’m off on Friday but I’ll be back the week after. Depending on if you’re still in the District or slumming it in a cute Maryland town.”

“You know, we can meet up to hang outside of the bar.”

“I know. But I enjoy watching you swat men away, and getting fantastic tips. Don’t take away the one night at work that I don’t hate.”

Scoffing, I give him a quick hug and head back into Mt Pleasant. Unlocking my basement apartment, I drop my purse by the door, kick off my heels, and head into the kitchen. One giant glass of water later I trudge into the bedroom. Collapsing on the bed, I promptly pass out.

My inbox pings around 2AM, and I crack open one eye to make sure it’s not an emergency. Small text is illegible when put up against sleep and bleariness but the subject line is bigger and in bold:

Rachel Mackey — Locke Box Interview

Rubbing the fuzz from my eyes, I blink a few times to clear them before reading on.

Hi Rachel,

I appreciate your prompt response. Your resume is impressive. I would love to schedule a time to discuss the prospect of having you join me in making Locke Box a reality. It’s a passion project for me and to say your cover letter intrigued me would be an understatement.

Please let me know whether next week will work for you. I really want to get the ball rolling on this project and I’d like to get a feel for you and your style before I offer.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Good night,

Bryce Dawson

I don’t know why the short message affects me the way it does but something warm shoots through me at the words “impressive” and “intrigued” and “please.” It’s been such a long time since someone asked me please and didn’t just demand it.

The “Good night” feels strangely intimate even though it’s appropriate given the hour.

Before I can “logic” my way out of it like ángel said I draft a resignation letter for Andrew and shoot off a reply to Bryce.

Hi Bryce,

Next week will be perfect. Just tell me when and where.