Day 1:
I took the bus to my PO’s office first. She was a squat, serious woman with dreadlocks.
“28, decent job, college degree,” she said, reading my file, her contempt evident.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I said. “Well not entirely. The DUI was on me, but in my defense I was just barely over the limit. The crack pipe was my friend’s, though. He just wouldn’t admit it was his. Kind of screwed me over.”
She gave my side-eye condescending enough to cut glass. I walked to the bus stop with three suitcases. My lawyer had cut a deal to give me nine months of house arrest and skip jail. It was worth it, but I’d had to quit the job and sell my car and most of my possessions to pay the fees. This meant I was spending nine months in my mom’s two-bedroom apartment in south Austin.
I pressed the button for her apartment and trudged up the stairs with my bags when I heard the buzzer. When I reached the third floor, the door was open and Mom was staring out with her sad, sweet gray eyes and wild gray hair tied back. I squatted to match her height as we hugged, and just as soon she was a bundle of nervous energy, darting around the apartment to give me the tour and perform last-minute tidying. An artificial hip caused a hitch in her step and she would drag her foot from time to time, but it did not seem to slow her.
I lingered in the doorway with my bags. In front of me was a chipped dining room table with four chairs. To the right was the kitchen full of aged appliances. To the left was a faded pink and green floral patterned couch and a deep TV. I cursed myself for not buying Mom a flat screen back when I had money. And for not visiting more often. I had lived 45 minutes away and couldn’t even make it once a month. The decorations seemed to lack any rhyme, with paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, chintzy porcelain owls and decorative gourds on scattered tables, and Japanese tapestries hanging on the walls.
“This is your bedroom.” Mom led me through the door behind the kitchen. “My room is on the opposite side behind the TV.” It was bare, with a single twin bed, an empty desk, a five story dresser and bare walls. “I’ll leave you to it.” I opened a bathroom door and saw a clean mirror and a bathtub I would never use. I opened the closet door and it was cluttered to the brim with everything that must have filled the room. I sat on the edge of the bed and breathed for a few minutes before I headed back outside.
I joined her at the dining table where she worked on a crossword puzzle. My dad had moved to New Mexico years ago. Mom had worked as a government secretary, but had gone on medical leave for carpal tunnel seven or eight years ago.
“You know,” Mom said. “I had always hoped you’d get married and have kids, but I guess it’s for the best. It’d be tragic if you had gotten arrested as a father. But as a single guy it’s just kind of stupid.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“Stop being sarcastic. Do you want me to make you some tea?”
Day 11:
I studied the pale, dark-haired face in the bathroom mirror. Big nose, serious mouth, hairline thinning ever so subtly at the temples. It didn’t look old or unfriendly, it looked distinguished. My face contorted through a series of expressions - a cool smile, a knowing sneer, a thoroughly serious stare into an undefined distance. I wasn’t model material or anything, but I’d fuck me. After sucking in my stomach and pushing out my chest, I could make out that white-collar job with a gym membership build. Again, it would do.
I returned to my bedroom and sighed as if I’d expected it to be bigger when I returned. The walls weren’t close enough to touch both at the same time, but I could touch one and then lean sideways to touch the other. Still, there was room to do pushups and burpees and I would start on those later today. I checked the time, just after noon, and curled on my bed and shut my eyes. There would be time for all of that later. I had plenty of time.
Day 23:
I leaned back into the couch’s lumpy cushion as I watched America’s Got Talent with Mom. “I really liked that juggler earlier,” she said. There had been no juggler. I nodded to myself, lacking the will to contradict her. “Your grandma is sick,” she added.
It took me a moment to grasp the weight of that statement from its casual delivery, and I turned to hug Mom, but she quickly disengaged. “It’s fine. She’s old.”
“Still.”
“The important thing is that she’s been caring for your second cousin Gretchen.”
“How come?”
“Because she’s a good person, that’s why.”
I spit laughter. “No, why is Gretchen living with Grandma?”
“Her mother passed in January, and that good for nothing father is nowhere to be found.”
I swallowed my smile out of respect for that disclosure.
“She’s going to live with us and I’ll need your help. She’s 11 and you know what the kids are into these days.”
I couldn’t even remember the last time I had spoken to someone under 18. “Of course I’ll help.”
Day 29:
Mom wasn’t supposed to drive with her carpal tunnel and my license was obviously suspended. Mom offered to call a car to pick up Gretchen, but Grandma insisted she take the bus. We compensated for Mom’s nervousness by re-mopping the floors and re-wiping the counters. The buzzer rang and I raced down three flights of stairs to get the door.
A slight girl with dirty blonde hair and green oval glasses greeted me. “You must be Gretchen.” She flinched when I spoke to her and I took a step back so as not to impose. She wore a size too big purple tie-dye shirt with a picture of a dog. “Can I take your bag?” I asked. She gave no answer, but did not resist when I grabbed her yellow rolling suitcase and led her up the stairs. “I like the dog on your shirt.”
“It’s not a dog.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“It’s not a dog.”
“Oh.” I labored to sound agreeable. “What is it?”
“It’s a chameleon disguised as a dog.”
“Oh wow.” I stumbled for words. “What an impressive chameleon.”
“Chameleons only change color, not shape,” she said, dripping attitude. “Are you stupid, or do you think I’m stupid.”
“I don’t…” I could either snipe back or let her humiliate me and both options seemed unacceptable. Mercifully, we reached the top of the stairs. I hurried to the door and when I opened it Mom jumped out towards Gretchen.
“Oh, I just love the dog on your shirt,” she said.
“It’s a Doberman,” Gretchen said quietly.
Day 33:
An email arrived from Certified Passion. I held my breath before opening it, and the air quickly drained from my chest when I read it. I had been a promising candidate, but due to my background check the ad agency could not continue the candidate process.
I had applied under my middle name, told them I could only work remotely, spoken to a few managers over Skype and completed a case study. And not a penny came of it.
Next came OKCupid, and once again I braced myself for bad news. “I don’t do this often,” I had typed to a brunette with Zooey Deschenele bangs. “But the combination of 1s and 0s in your profile really spoke to me.”
“LOL. You’re funny.” She had typed back.
“Keep this quiet, but I’ve got my Aunt’s Netflix password. If you can keep a secret you can come over Friday and watch some movies.”
“That’s sketchy. A first date is usually a public place.”
“The thing about that is I’m actually on house arrest (def. calling an Uber next time). But I live with my mom and cousin so it’s not like we’d be alone.” Typing that last sentence had hurt my soul to type. It was now three days with no response.
Day 36:
When I finally woke up, lifted myself out of bed, got dressed, and walked to the kitchen, the light from the open windows burned my eyes. I had breakfast as Gretchen ate lunch and Mom did the Sunday crossword. Gretchen stared at her plate without speaking. Mom asked me about my job search and I gave vague answers so as to obscure the depressing truth. After we cleared the table, Mom suggested a game of Go Fish and I certainly had nothing better to do. Mom brought out a bag of Milanos and Gretchen began to devour them.
“I wish I had a house made of these cookies,” Mom said.
“I wish I had a boat,” Gretchen countered.
“Ooh, you could float on a sea of milk.”
“I’d float on a sea of ketchup.”
“Gretchen, do you have any 7s?” I asked, attempted to purge my head of that image. She shook her head and I drew a card.
“Do you want to put ketchup on your cookies?” Mom asked, and Gretchen’s eyes widened. Mom brought back a big bowl of ketchup and then both began to slather their cookies before each bite. I could tell Mom did not enjoy the taste, but it was adorable how excited she was to bond with Gretchen.
“Gretchen, it’s your turn,” I said.
“Fozzy, do you have any 7s?”
“I think you made a mistake. I asked before if you had any 7s and you said that you did not.”
“I drew one from the pile.”
“I don’t think you’ve drawn since I asked.”
Tears welled in Gretchen’s eyes. Before I could figure out what to say she dropped her cards on the table and ran to Mom’s bedroom.
“Gretchen, come back,” Mom called after her. “Fozzy, what’s wrong with you.”
“I was teaching her the game,” I shot back, miffed that I was somehow the bad guy.
“My goodness, you sound just like your father,” she snorted.
“What’s that supposed to mean.”
Mom shook her head, dropped her cards, and joined Gretchen in their shared bedroom. I sat there, inflating my cheeks and squeezing them closed, sending bursts of air through my closed lips.
Day 40:
I heard a knock on my door, paused my music and yelled, “Come in.” Gretchen shuffled in with choppy steps, eyes glued to the floor. I greeted her and she shuddered before she offered a meek “hi” in return.
“Do you want to sit?” I gestured to the bed across from the desk chair where I sat. Gretchen shook her head. Her eyes were pried open on alert, and she appeared as if she would jump through the ceiling if someone touched her shoulder. We stood in a thick silence. “Um...do you want to watch a guy get hit with a yoga ball?” She nodded.
We sat on the floor against the bed and I showed her a few of my favorites. Gretchen didn’t laugh, but the corners of her mouth stretched and ever so slightly upwards. I tried to relax and not put pressure on her to enjoy them. She squealed when I played a montage of dogs on slides.
“Fozzy,” Gretchen said so quietly that I had to tilt my body until my ear rested inches from her mouth. “Can I play games on your iPhone?”
“Yeah sure. I have Solitare, Candy Crush, Angry Birds.”
“I like Angry Birds.”
“Bring it back when you’re done.”
“Thanks Fozzy.” She grinned ear to ear and jumped up to leave the room. This was probably the happiest I had seen her since she moved in. Shit, it was probably the happiest I had felt since I moved in.
That night I lay face up on my bed finding shapes inthe water damage on the off-white ceiling. The tilted oval could be Australia, the small line to its right New Zealand, the diagonal above it Papa New Guinea. Or maybe Australia was Pac Man, New Zealand a piece of fruit, and New Guinea a ghost.
My hip vibrated and I sat up excited. I didn’t get many texts anymore. I frowned, though, when I saw it was from Phyllis, a project manager at my old job. I didn’t know what she wanted, but I knew it couldn’t be anything fun. Phyllis was a human dementor, incessantly nit-picking and raising objections, without a solution in sight.
“That was so hurtful,” I unlocked my phone to read. “What would possess you to say that?”
Weird woman. I typed back, “I think you have the wrong #.”
“Don’t play dumb Fozzy.” Christ. When I quit my job, not talking to Phyllis anymore was pretty much the only silver lining and yet here we were.
“I’m sorry,” I typed. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.” For 2 or 3 minutes I stared at the animated dots, waiting for Phyllis, who was apparently transcribing the first three chapters of Moby Dick. Finally, an image appeared that made me spit laughter.
“When you’re naked it looks like you’re melting.” “Your sweat tastes like gravy.” “I saw you on ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant.’” The texts were screenshot with my name at the top and the timestamp was from 2:30, right when Gretchen was using the phone.
“I’m so sorry,” I typed. “My niece was playing with my phone earlier and must have sent these. Will have a serious talk with her. Again, I’m so sorry.”
“I thought you were an only child.” Phyllis was really going to nitpick me on this.
“My second cousin, technically. Her mom passed and my mom and I are caring for her.” Even Phyllis, a runaway train of hurt feelings, couldn’t trump the dead mother card.
“You know I have to report you to HR.” Go ahead. That company wasn’t rehiring me in a million years. I laughed to myself as I pocketed my phone. This had reminded me of the prank calls my friends and I had made back when we were kids and people still had landlines. Gretchen appeared so meek and serious all the time, it warmed my heart to see she had a sense of humor.
Day 55:
I woke up early and bounded to breakfast. “Morning Mom.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Morning Gretchen.” She stared at the table, maintaining the silent treatment she had been giving me since I took away her iPhone privileges. Neither Mom nor Gretchen turned her head. “I have a friend coming over tonight. A female friend.”
“Good for you, Fozzy,” Mom replied with the enthusiasm of a cruise ship bingo host. But that was fine, they couldn’t shake my mood. Densie and I had chatted for a few weeks on OKCupid. She had actually messaged me first. I confessed my house arrest situation and she replied, “You wouldn’t be the first felon I dated ;).”
To be one-hundred percent honest, Denise wasn’t the prettiest or most intelligent girl in the world. Still, we chatted everyday about movies, childhood stuff, random stories from our days. I wasn’t sure if sparks were flying or we were just friends, but I invited her over on a whim and she agreed.
That night I heard the bell ring and jumped off the couch to buzz Denise in. I buried my disappointment when she appeared a couple years and dozen pounds past her profile, and hugged her. She had a blonde streak dyed into her black hair and crooked canines that made her smile more inviting. She shared a stiff handshake with Mom. Gretchen, thankfully, was in Mom’s room.
In my room I had set the laptop on the desk. “Convenient,” she said with a smirk. “We have to sit on your bed.”
I picked Clueless because it was one of her favorite movies, and microwaved popcorn as it set up. We sat with the bowl rested on her right and my left thigh, and our hands would reach in at the same time. I placed the empty bowl to the sid, and placed my hand on top of her knee. She placed her hand on top of mine and I silently rejoiced. I leaned in and I have to confess I was a little rusty. We had this awkward moment where I held my face a foot from hers and we just stared at each other. She giggled nervously and I finally went in for the kiss. She pulled back for a second and then came back strong. Fuck did I need this.
The door swung open and we both turned our heads. “Hi Gretchen.” I don’t think I did a great job masking my irritation with her. Gretchen stood silently with her arms crossed, seemingly interested in nothing except stopping Denise and me.
“How ya doing?” I cleared my throat and asked.
“Can I play Angry Birds?” She stared right at me and spoke louder and more boldly than I had ever heard her. I can’t say why I didn’t just give her the phone and get her out of my hair. But for some dumb reason I picked that moment to take a principled stand. “The last time you used my phone you sent some messages that weren’t very nice.”
“Fozzy told me about the fat jokes,” Denise said. “So funny.”
“You told her?” Gretchen infused that last pronoun with venom.
“Can you come back later?” I asked. “Maybe we can all play a game then.”
Gretchen’s lips twisted into a devilish smile, and her eyes locked onto mine, completely unrecognizable from the jumpy girl I knew. She walked deliberately in my direction and I scooted further back onto the bed. She slapped my thigh and I recoiled my knees to my chest. “Can we play our secret game?”