CHAPTER SEVEN
Giving Bridget the money she needed hurts more than I’d have thought. Not only does it empty my bank account and dip into the cash I have on hand, it also reminds me just how thin I’ve stretched myself.
If I’d had real parents, I suppose they’d have taught me the value of money from both ends. I hear this is how it works from guys like Grady and Shaun, both of whom grew up with allowances and curfews. I’d have learned that money shouldn’t be spent frivolously because it comes from hard work, not privilege. No worries on that lesson; I got that one in spades. But I’d also have learned to spend within my means and not buy anything I can’t afford. I did less well with this one. One company offered me a credit card at age twenty, and I used it to buy stuff that I couldn’t always afford but needed — like food, toothpaste, and clothes. Then someone else offered me a card, and I bought more, drifting further from necessary. Credit lines were always small, and I never lived far above the poverty line, but I still managed to rack up some hefty balances.
After depleting my account and wallet, I stopped by a convenience store for a gallon of milk and accidentally tried to pay with my maxed-out card.
When I realized my mistake, I pulled out my second maxed-out card.
I got it right on the third try, but the two incorrect attempts made me think to check my balance when I got home. What I found made me pull out a calculator. Yes, I think I can make it to payday, but only just. And then I’ll still have to watch my ass for a while if I expect to fill my account in time to empty it again for rent. So much for at least having the safety of credit cards.
Giving Bridget that money didn’t just cost me $800. It cost a lot of dignity.
I slouch down on the couch anyway, trying to make my body casual. If someone were to barge in here, what position of arms and legs and torso would make the newcomer decide in an instant, “Now here’s a man who doesn’t give a shit”? What would make them know, just by looking, that I’m above it all, without a care in the world? I try to form that shape, hoping to convince myself.
It’s cool. Even if I have to be late on rent, I can be late, right? They won’t kick me out if there’s a two-week delay — just long enough to get my next paycheck?
And if that fails, I have friends. I don’t want to ask anyone for money, but if I had to, I could. And if they didn’t have money to give me — because, really, it’s not like I know Caspian White — I could always, if I got kicked out somehow, crash on Shaun’s couch, couldn’t I?
Of course I could.
I try to pretend that these thoughts are comforting. I try to pretend I’ve analyzed my situation to its logical worst-case scenario and found it not terrible, or irredeemable. I don’t owe thousands to loan sharks coming to break my legs. I’m in debt to the credit card companies, but that’s normal in the Western world. I’m fine. Yes, it had occurred to me more than once lately that I was living redline, and that was before Bridget’s loan. But I’ll be okay. I make a decent wage, and now that I’ve paid some shit off, I can start letting it pile up. Small piles, but piles nonetheless.
I look around, sighing.
I don’t want to keep living in a place like this. Yes, I could save a few bucks here and there if there weren’t any more emergencies and if I stayed at the Regency. But do I really want to live on the edge of Little Amsterdam? Do I really want to feel one step above a flophouse? Do I really not want more?
I build nice houses in Cherry Hill all day long — originally as a carpenter, and now as a team leader. I watch the walls of large floor plans go up board by board. I watch my crew set trusses that span wide rooms, create vaulted ceilings and two-story great rooms with skylights. I survey the work of electricians who’ve wired five bedrooms. When a home is nearly finished, I inspect the tile work in spacious kitchens and multiple-head showers floored in slate.
I spend all day with my mind inside houses of my dreams then come home to this.
I don’t want to, but I find my thoughts moving to our model homes. To our options packages. To our price sheets.
I ignore the truth that I’d have trouble qualifying for a mortgage and ballpark the down payment it would take to move into one of my many work homes, plus the monthly mortgage. That’s enough to depress me. It makes me want to go to a bar. To see if I can find some company. It’s not hard to find women. It’s hard that none stick, and I don’t want them to. The way I feel now, I won’t drink lightly or make smart decisions. I’ll find a girl who’s like junk food — good for a moment, but nothing more. We’d both leave satisfied … but we’d leave, for sure.
I want to do it anyway. I want to forget for a while then deal with feeling bad in the morning.
The only thing that stops me is that spending even a few bucks on a single beer seems horribly irresponsible.
I wonder if Mason’s daughter hits the bars. Not the ones I usually visit, of course, but the upscale ones in Cherry Hill or Old Town.
I wonder if I could justify going out, if I could go to one of those bars. I don’t have my suit anymore, but I remember the swagger. I could pass for one of them. I play below my station anyway. I’m not a hammer monkey anymore. If I didn’t end up digging into jobs as much as I shouldn’t, I suppose I’d qualify as a white-collar guy. I don’t wear fancy shirts to work, but most have a collar since my last promotion.
How expensive could drinks at the Old Town bars be, really?
I wonder if Riley is much of a drinker.
I wonder if I found her, if she’d be friendly enough to talk for a while.
Then I wonder why I think she’d need to be drunk to have a conversation me. But maybe that’s not what I’m wondering. Maybe I’m wondering if she’d go home with me, since that’s where this whole going out chain of thought initially started.
I sigh. I can’t afford it. There’s a roof over my head and beers (but not company) in the refrigerator. My friends aren’t people who like to chat on the phone, so I’ll have to be alone with my thoughts. I can do it if I try. I can be an optimist. Hell, I am an optimist. I did a good thing today. I helped my sister, unlike the time I didn’t interfere and left her with Keith. Now she’ll be able to get her surgery in the time frame she needs. It won’t interfere with her work. She should do well with this new audiobook trilogy and the work that will inevitably follow. I’ll endure two weeks at critical then recover slowly but surely.
Or, if I get the job I went in for today, I’ll recover quickly.
Mason didn’t tell me the salary he had in mind for his VP of Land Acquisition, but it has to be nice. Companies don’t pay their vice presidents thirty grand a year. They pay them six figures at least. Maybe moderate to high six figures. And what would I be able to do if my salary suddenly tripled or quintupled? How quickly would I leave this shithole? How instantly would my problems be over, debt paid, credit cards clean, and worries erased?
With a salary and a cushion, I might be able to consider buying a Cherry Hill home in six months. A half year from the bottom to my ideal version of the top, setting my own toaster on those imported tile countertops.
Holy shit, would that be amazing.
I wonder if I’ll get it. I wonder if Mason will promote me. Three years ago, I was hanging sheetrock; now I’m touring headquarters and contemplating a job that might pay $200K or more. I’m definitely a rising star, as humble as I usually think I am. And although I know I’m not the only candidate, I get the feeling I’m one with a decent shot.
I wonder how I can make Mason James like me more. I wonder how I can suck up enough to get that position because, holy hell, would that solve everything.
The phone rings. To my surprise, it’s Margo, who Mason described as his Gal Friday. She wants to know if, instead of heading to the Stonegate project tomorrow, I mind dressing down and heading to an area not far from Reed Creek instead. It’s a place I recognize because I used to hike around Reed and the hills beyond.
She wants me to scout the land. It’s the kind of thing an acquisitions guy might do. Maybe even the vice president.
I grab a pen and my electric bill, preparing to take notes on the back of the envelope.
“Sure,” I say. “Where specifically?”
Instead of giving me an address, a vague description, a parcel number, or GPS coordinates, Margo tells me that I’ll get everything I need on arrival.
Margo seemed plenty smart enough to realize what’s wrong with this request, so I give her a few minutes to recognize it without my pointing it out. But once she’s closing the conversation and preparing to hang up, I interject.
“Hang on,” I say. “I still need an address or something, at least.” Maybe I’ll get all I need when I get there, but how the hell am I supposed to arrive without knowing where I’m headed?
“I don’t have it on hand,” Margo says. “Sorry. I’m away from home.”
“But … ”
Margo laughs. “Oh, right. I guess I forgot something kind of important.”
I ready my envelope and pen. Vague directions, here we come.
“She’ll pick you up. That way, you’ll have the survey equipment, which is in one of the company trucks.”
“Who will pick me up?”
“Mason’s daughter. Looks like she’s the new intern.”
I’m already thinking about the promotion to vice president. I was just wondering how to make Mr. James like me better than the other candidates. And for some reason, Margo’s words are a wrench in the works. I feel nervous in a blink. Jittery. Like I might start sweating, even though it’s cold in here.
“That sounds fine,” I lie.