Read Online Please Ignore Vera Dietz by A. S. King - Free Book Online
Authors: A. S. King
Tags: General Fiction
Ads: Link
more than they should, leftover glowing tacky Christmas shit, drunk people in party hats, and confetti. Every time I come back to the store, Marie has a new stack of orders to go out. She may have crazy-looking teeth, but man, can that woman run a pizza delivery store. Holy shit. I don’t think there’s one backup all night, which has to be a miracle on New Year’s Eve.
Around 11:45, a customer at 362 Lancaster Road asks me when I get off work.
“We’re having a small party, as you can see,” he says. Yeah. All six of you. Playing Monopoly. Excellent. I decline.
At midnight, I ding-dong while a house on McMann Avenue erupts with cheers and party horns and “Auld Lang Syne.” I ring again a minute later and a tall kid I used to know answers the door. He’s swaying, and his eyes are bloodshot.
“Don’t I know you?” he asks as he hands me the money.
“I don’t think so,” I lie. We had film class together when I was a sophomore and he was a senior.
“You look familiar, though.”
“Have a nice night,” I say, turning back toward my car.
“You should come back later! When you get off work!”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. And I do. For about three seconds, and then I drive to the next house. On the way, I whisper “Happy New Year” to Charlie.
At 12:10 I knock on the big green door of 21 Thirty-fourth Street. Two kids from my school answer it. Math geeks. They give me exact change and don’t say thank you.
Last stop. 12:17. A loud party at the apartment complex where Jill lives. They are unprepared. I hand them their six pizzas and they take a drunken collection for cash, but can’t count it. I help them. They are a dollar short.
“Come on! Pete! Pete! Where’s that cheap son of a bitch?” People look around for Pete.
“I already chipped in, you asshole!”
“Who has an extra dollar? We’re a buck short!”
I say, “And a tip. You’re a buck and a tip short.”
I watch them all dig deep into jeans pockets and shrug at each other.
“Shit, man. I’ll have to spill out the penny jar,” the guy says. Behind him, two girls pass a smoking bong between them. Someone yells “Happy New Year!”
I hold up my hand. “It’s cool, man. Don’t worry about it.”
He stops searching his pockets for the third time and smiles at me.
“Hold on. I have your tip, though,” he says, and he runs into the kitchen and returns with a four-pack of vodka coolers. “Something for when you get off work tonight,” he says.
“Thanks, I—” I know I should give them back, but I don’t. Instead, I pop the trunk and secure them between my gym bag and the cardboard box for groceries (one of a hundred Ken Dietz practical ideas—never have jars of mayonnaise rolling around the trunk again!) and cover them with the sleeping bag I keep in there in case of emergency. I think of my mom. Is this how it started with her? Are there baby steps toward complete loserdom, and if so, how many are there to go?
It’s 12:25. As I wait for the traffic light on Bear Hill to turn green, I can’t stop myself from reaching for the bottle that’s under my seat. I’ve gone all night without a sip, but it’s not about being addicted. It’s about being told what to do my whole life and doing it and then losing everything anyway. Let me explain.
The night of Charlie’s funeral, I took two shots of chilled vodka that someone had left at their table. I don’t know what possessed me, but something did. (Probably Charlie.) The glasses were sitting there, I was walking by on my way to the bathroom, and no one was looking. So I picked one up in each hand and knocked them back one after the other. I had no idea how much it would hurt my throat, but loved the way it made me feel a minute later as I sat on the toilet, pondering the tiled floor. Warm. Happy. Safe. Now, on Bear Hill, I take the last shot left in my bottle, I think of my father’s lifelong alcoholism warnings, and I say, “Am I not destroying my
Around 11:45, a customer at 362 Lancaster Road asks me when I get off work.
“We’re having a small party, as you can see,” he says. Yeah. All six of you. Playing Monopoly. Excellent. I decline.
At midnight, I ding-dong while a house on McMann Avenue erupts with cheers and party horns and “Auld Lang Syne.” I ring again a minute later and a tall kid I used to know answers the door. He’s swaying, and his eyes are bloodshot.
“Don’t I know you?” he asks as he hands me the money.
“I don’t think so,” I lie. We had film class together when I was a sophomore and he was a senior.
“You look familiar, though.”
“Have a nice night,” I say, turning back toward my car.
“You should come back later! When you get off work!”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. And I do. For about three seconds, and then I drive to the next house. On the way, I whisper “Happy New Year” to Charlie.
At 12:10 I knock on the big green door of 21 Thirty-fourth Street. Two kids from my school answer it. Math geeks. They give me exact change and don’t say thank you.
Last stop. 12:17. A loud party at the apartment complex where Jill lives. They are unprepared. I hand them their six pizzas and they take a drunken collection for cash, but can’t count it. I help them. They are a dollar short.
“Come on! Pete! Pete! Where’s that cheap son of a bitch?” People look around for Pete.
“I already chipped in, you asshole!”
“Who has an extra dollar? We’re a buck short!”
I say, “And a tip. You’re a buck and a tip short.”
I watch them all dig deep into jeans pockets and shrug at each other.
“Shit, man. I’ll have to spill out the penny jar,” the guy says. Behind him, two girls pass a smoking bong between them. Someone yells “Happy New Year!”
I hold up my hand. “It’s cool, man. Don’t worry about it.”
He stops searching his pockets for the third time and smiles at me.
“Hold on. I have your tip, though,” he says, and he runs into the kitchen and returns with a four-pack of vodka coolers. “Something for when you get off work tonight,” he says.
“Thanks, I—” I know I should give them back, but I don’t. Instead, I pop the trunk and secure them between my gym bag and the cardboard box for groceries (one of a hundred Ken Dietz practical ideas—never have jars of mayonnaise rolling around the trunk again!) and cover them with the sleeping bag I keep in there in case of emergency. I think of my mom. Is this how it started with her? Are there baby steps toward complete loserdom, and if so, how many are there to go?
It’s 12:25. As I wait for the traffic light on Bear Hill to turn green, I can’t stop myself from reaching for the bottle that’s under my seat. I’ve gone all night without a sip, but it’s not about being addicted. It’s about being told what to do my whole life and doing it and then losing everything anyway. Let me explain.
The night of Charlie’s funeral, I took two shots of chilled vodka that someone had left at their table. I don’t know what possessed me, but something did. (Probably Charlie.) The glasses were sitting there, I was walking by on my way to the bathroom, and no one was looking. So I picked one up in each hand and knocked them back one after the other. I had no idea how much it would hurt my throat, but loved the way it made me feel a minute later as I sat on the toilet, pondering the tiled floor. Warm. Happy. Safe. Now, on Bear Hill, I take the last shot left in my bottle, I think of my father’s lifelong alcoholism warnings, and I say, “Am I not destroying my
Similar Books
