Cheap Trick

The day Beck broke up with me was the same day I began my life of crime. I guess if most people began a story that way, you'd assume the two were somehow connected. Maybe I was driven to extremes by grief, or maybe she'd been supporting me financially and I couldn't manage the rent without her. It'd make sense.

The truth is that it was a coincidence. I've come to believe that most things are. The sun rises, things happen more or less haphazardly, the sun sets, other things happen even more haphazardly under cover of darkness. Inexorably the sun rises again and things continue to happen.

Put another way, as a friend of mine in high school used to say, "same s**t, different day". SSDD. It was a sort of mantra for the slackers, yours truly being the greatest slacker of all, serving in place of any religion or moral code. Things just happen and there's nothing we can really do about it. The only rational course of action is to go with it.

Was I stupid? Maybe. Ask anyone whose life has gone smoothly, and they'll say SSDD is a way of abandoning responsibility. They'll say that by refusing to acknowledge my own role in my crummy life, I'm simultaneously guaranteeing and perpetuating it. SSDD frees me from having to accept that I did this to myself.

To which I would reply, "Don't you think that might be why I like it?"

* * *

I was twenty-two and my name was Tyler McAllister, but everybody just knew I was the guy on the third floor with the messy black hair, and they all just called me "Trick". I'm pretty sure my landlady put that on my lease paperwork. What a b***h.

I don't even remember where the nickname came from, but it stuck. Maybe it had to do with my habit of talking my way out of dire situations (which I'd more often than not talked my way into,) or perhaps it was a commentary on the quality of young women I'd associated with as a teenager. I see it as a reminder that my life up to this point has been more or less a cruel joke. A Trick. 

I lived by myself on the aforementioned third floor of a crappy old house in East Hartford, Connecticut. While the house was narrow and rickety, I had the whole third floor to myself, and that was pretty cool. Winter sucks here, but warmth rises, and during cold months the gaps in the floorboards became heating vents. The rent was well inside of affordable, even considering my lousy job, and all in all I was pretty close to content.

I had no real need for a car. Work was only a few streets over, in a tiny, cramped bookstore called "The B Word". I worked every afternoon, 4pm until midnight, weekends off. The boss lived in Mystic, which is about a hundred miles away, and only came in on the odd morning to make sure the place hadn't burned down. Otherwise, the place got just about no business. I couldn't complain about that. My evenings consisted largely of wasting time with my coworker Buck, smoking weed and flipping through whatever came in from the donation box. 

If we'd ever had a customer, they probably would have asked about the smell. Luckily we had a small grill and an incense burner, both of which we lit for the boss's rare visits, and no inquiries were ever made. I guess overall I had it pretty good. My own place, a job that wasn't actually work, and all the booze and pot a guy could reasonably ask for.

And Beck.

* * *

Rebecka Ann was perfect. I know everybody says their girl is perfect, especially in front of them, but I honestly felt she was the best of all possible girls. I'd swear to it in court. I hope she reads this.

Not only was she beautiful, with thick, darkest brown hair and luminous hazel eyes, small and adorable like a bear cub, slim and soft and pale and perfect... but she was also top of our class in high school, and was now on the verge of graduating with honors at one of the state colleges. She'd maintained Dean's List for almost four years now, never appearing to feel the strain, and still made lots of time for me and my cozy little life.

She made me feel content. Ever since senior year of high school, she'd been mine, and from my point of view we were perfect together. We'd grow up together, go to school together, eventually get married, and she'd be a veterinarian and I'd do... something. And we'd have kids, maybe, depending on what I ended up doing. Maybe I could be a stay at home dad.

It was a perfect plan.

I guess SSDD wasn't good enough for Beck. 

* * *

My phone rang at six in the morning, and I knew it was going to be that kind of day. Muttering "ssdd" under my breath, rubbing sleep from my eyes, I looked at my dancing cell phone and tried to decide if I felt like reaching for it. Figuring it might be important, since nobody ever called me before noon, I sighed and emerged from my blankets reluctantly. I immediately wished I hadn't. It was cold.

I flipped my phone open. "Hey lover. You in Scotland or something?"

"No, I... what?" Beck's voice sounded irritated.

"Time difference. It's like a bunch of hours. Otherwise you'd never call me this early."

A long pause. "Well it's not early for me. I'm on the way to class."

"What class? Pre-sunrise American Lit?"

"Stop making your stupid jokes, Tyler! I need to talk to you!"

I winced. I hate it when people get mad at me. "Sorry babe. What's the matter?"

"The matter is you, Trick. I can't do this anymore. I want to break up."

"Wait... what?"

"I want to break up. I don't want to be your girlfriend anymore. It's that simple."

I probably don't have to tell you I was floored. "Why?"

"Are you serious? You're asking me why?!" she spluttered, sounding manic. "Isn't it obvious? I'm gonna have my degree in like three weeks and you're still gonna be getting high at the bookstore every night. And then I'm gonna to be going to grad school, and becoming a vet like I've always wanted, and getting ready to open my clinic and start a family and buy a house, and you know what? You'll still just be getting high at the bookstore every night!"

"You want me to stop smoking, I can. It's not even addictive. It's just weed."

"You know what, Trick? I wish that was the problem. I wish you were the kind of guy who'd be a whole new man if he stopped getting high. But you're not. You'd be just as content to sit there in the bookstore every night eating bacon instead of smoking, and then instead of being a stupid bum you'd be a fat bum!"

"I'm not stupid OR fat."

"It's not the drugs, Trick! It's you! We used to have this whole future mapped out and you know what? You haven't held up your end at all, for five years! You're perfectly happy with being nobody, having nothing, going nowhere! And I'm done dealing with it!"

I started to say, "I'm not happy," but she'd already hung up. 

I went back to bed.

* * *

Around ten I woke up again, and had one of those magic moments where you don't yet remember that everything's gone to s**t. You open your eyes and you always have some deeply ironic thought, as though your brain wants you to hurt.

In my case, it was "I wonder if Beck's free tonight... wait." 

And the day began. I took a quick shower, shivered my way into yesterday's clothes, and stared into my fridge for about eight minutes before I realized I didn't actually feel like eating anything. 

I felt empty. It was more than just being lonely. You get so used to someone, they become a part of your reality. Like breathing. You find yourself counting on them to be a pillar of your existence. The sun rises in the east, I breathe oxygen, the sky is blue... and Beck loves me. 

And then they abandon you and it's like walking outside to discover a Martian landscape. Nothing is familiar or comforting, only harsh. New things serve to depress, when you realize you've got nobody to share them with. 

And the old things lose some of their luster. Never had this been more apparent than when I entered The B Word that morning. As usual, Buck was already here, standing at the checkout counter and packing a bong. As usual, the George Forman grill was sizzling away, apparently making hamburgers. As usual, a Sublime CD was playing over the sound system. Just like every other day since I'd gotten the job... three years ago?

Suddenly the stagnation Beck had mentioned seemed much more apparent to me.

"Hey man," Buck muttered from behind the counter, "You look down."

"Yeah, Beck ditched me." I shrugged my backpack onto the floor next to the door. SSDD was written on every square inch of the nylon bag, a nihilistic camouflage. "What's new?"

Buck shook his head, experimentally flicking a lighter. "Same s**t-"

"-different day. Yeah."

"Sorry to hear about the lady. Sucks, man."

"Yeah."

"Still," he mused, preparing to suck on the green glass pipe, "you're single again. That's pretty cool. Just a sec."

I waited for him to exhale, considering. I sat down in one of the reading chairs, put my feet up, cracked open a soda and took a drink. After a few moments I paused to appreciate Buck's impressive lung capacity.

Finally, he exhaled explosively, coughing into a fist and bending over the counter like a dying man. 

"You good?"

Buck held up a placating hand, waving. "Totally. You want a hit?"

I looked at the misty glass pipe, sitting on the counter, another old friend. It hit me that I'd always put my friends first. And it'd lost me Beck.

On the other hand, I'd already lost her. Couldn't do anything about that. "Yeah, definitely. Pass it here."

* * * 

Hours later, I wake up, still in the reading chair.

"Buck."

"Yeah."

"What time is it, man?"

A pause. "It's... almost five, man."

"Are you serious?"

Buck leaped to his feet, looking stressed. "Yeah man, we've been out of it for like... an hour. We gotta get to work, man."

I opened my eyes slowly, grimacing. I'd had too much. They say you can't overdose on weed. They're wrong. Oh sure, there's basically no such thing as a lethal dose, but that doesn't mean you can just smoke all you want. A few hits too many and your brain will play some funny tricks on you.

"Buck."

"Yeah?"

"You know what's... weird?"

"The electoral college, man." Said with a deep sense of satisfaction.

"What? No... well yeah. But I was gonna say, it's weird that your name is Buck and Beck's name is Beck. It's like... it didn't even occur to me until now."

Buck laughed. "You don't sound like you."

"Who do I sound like?"

"I dunno," Buck giggled, "maybe someone named... Truck?"

We both cracked up. That's when the door opened.

* * * 

I read somewhere about a guy named Pavlov, who trained his dogs to respond to the sound of a ringing bell. Insanely, I thought of dog food when the bell above the door tinkled, just before leaping to my feet and looking frantically around for the probably-still-smoking pipe.

"It's on the counter, Trick."

I finally looked at the person who'd come through the door and my stomach evaporated. Of course it would be her. 

"Oh hey Beck. What's up?"

She looked beautiful. She always had, but things take on a certain gleam once you've lost them. Her hair, thick and dark, fell in graceful, careless waves around a soft, heart-shaped face. Even in anger, her eyes were big and mysterious. I watched her lips move, remembering how soft they always were...

"Tyler!"

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"God, you're completely stoned. I don't know why but I half expected you to actually stop. Anyway. I brought your things that were in my apartment. I didn't want to lug all this stuff up three flights of stairs."

I sat back in my chair, miserable. "Beck, listen," I stammered, wishing Buck would leave the room, "You don't have to do that. I don't want... you can keep it. Whatever it is. Just in case."

"Just in case?"

"You know, like if we get back together. I can stop getting high all the time, and-"

And she was out the door, dropping a cardboard box on the floor with a heavy and final thump.

*

Author's Note

This is the first chapter of an idea that I had back in high school, but I don't think I was a mature or competent enough writer to properly execute. I know it seems like some kind of romantic drama, but I promise there's an action-packed adventure in here.

My goal with this project is to train myself to write realistic characters, so that when I inevitably rewrite my Fallen saga it'll come across the way it is supposed to. Any advice or criticism is more than helpful.

Thanks!

Reviews

[UponATyme]

"I felt empty. It was more than just being lonely. You get so used to someone, they become a part of your reality. Like breathing. You find yourself counting on them to be a pillar of your existence. The sun rises in the east, I breathe oxygen, the sky is blue... and Beck loves me.
And then they abandon you and it's like walking outside to discover a Martian landscape. Nothing is familiar or comforting, only harsh. New things serve to depress, when you realize you've got nobody to share them with. "

Realistic? Done. That really hit home.

[snickerdoodle]

very distinct narrative voice; voice and topic reminded me of Christopher Moore's "A Dirty Job" + film elements of "Slacker"; "Dazed and Confused"; "Reality Bites"

[B MacGregor]

I read half of it. And I have to comment on it, before my two brain cells fade out. First, SSDD was done in Dreamcatcher--enough where it competes. Change it... you're talented. Like Day in Day out or something to characterize the intent of no ambition, no purpose.

I think you're a very mature writer. I like what you started.

A couple small points to get me going further. Buck and Beck are too close to each other. Change one of their names. Don't make them confuse my vodka-challenged memory.

Love the weed concept. It does make it close to a content employment opportunity. When Beck breaks up with Trick, she's really saying your lazy--not stupid. I like the fat contention. And the back to bed.

No MARS planet needed as a metaphor. Tric'k's refrigerator should have something in it that's both uncomfortable and unfamiliar. I suppose several things. Right?

Buck didn't strike me as an amateur or someone who just cleaned a pipe before shift end. Is he? Then why cough seizure. Was it that good?

Ok, electoral college was funny. Buck, beck, truck--you can do better. I know it.

Poor Trick, caught red lipped.

So far, I like it. I love yoru style, very smart. Easy. Understood. More?