A Helping Hand

In which Kevin is forced to pick up the slack of his best friend and bandmate. Also in which I tried a different approach to the writing style

A sigh is what propelled Kevin through the front door of his mother’s home. Whether it was a sigh of relief or discontent, even he did not know. The scheduled meeting with the band’s potential manager had gone dismally; the fellow failed to show up on time, and when he had arrived he had enough booze in him that it was a wonder he could even remain upright. After a paltry ten minutes had elapsed, he’d collapsed face first into his cold plate of chicken cacciatore, leaving Kevin with naught else to do besides pay the bill and call a cab for his comatose dining companion.

                As a result, he ended up home far sooner than he’d expected. He flopped rather unceremoniously onto the vintage floral couch in the living room, and after a moment he switched on the table lamp, not so much out of a necessity of light but a force of habit. He allowed his head to tip backward and rest against the back of the couch, for once apathetic toward the unpleasant feeling he got when his hair rubbed against the grain of the velvet upholstery. His eyes drifted closed and his mind began to wander, thoughts drifting in every direction in and around the reasons behind the myriad misfortunes they had in securing more staff for the band. If they didn’t make some headway soon, they’d grow irrelevant before they knew what had happened, and all their work and their dreams would be futile. What were they to do?

                He was startled out of his reverie by his phone ringing, vibrating loudly against the glass-topped coffee table. As he picked up the phone, he blinked in rapid succession to regain his focus. The clock read one in the morning; he hadn’t realized he’d been dozing. He frowned confusedly at the screen; there truly was no reason he could conceive that would warrant a phone call this late at night, much less from an unknown number, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he answered.

                “Hello?” he fought the grogginess in his tone, fighting for neutrality. He was greeted by timidity that was slightly slurred, barely on the right side of coherent.

                “Kevin? Did I wake you? Oh s**t, you were busy tonight, I’m sorry,” a familiar but drunken female voice came through the tinny speaker. The hit of recognition he experienced was instantaneous but laced with confusion; why wasn’t she calling from her own phone?

                “Jessie? What’s going on?” he asked.

                “I’m sitting on the bench outside Laddie’s. It’s missing some slats, not comfy,” came Jessie’s distracted reply.

                “Why aren’t you using your own phone? Are you alright?” Kevin struggled to comprehend what was happening, still not fully conscious.

                “ ‘s dead, I’m using a nice lady’s phone, her name’s Suzy,” Jessie answered. “But I’m doing just fiiine.”

                “Wait, why are you still at the bar? I thought Frankie was supposed to give you a ride home when he got off work,” though he tried to keep a level tone, he was growing increasingly more worried.

                “I haven’t seen him, but I’m sure he’ll be here eventually. I’m jus’ lonesome is all.”

                “Wait are you by yourself?” Kevin failed to conceal his alarm as he shot forward on the couch.

                “Mm-hmm,” Jessie giggled. She sang, “I’m all alone, there’s no one here beside me.” Her revelation propelled Kevin to standing. He cursed under his breath and began searching for his keys.

                “S**t, I should have known this would happen,” he chided himself. He snatched his keys from where they’d landed on the rug when he’d first come home. “Stay right where you are, okay? I’m coming to get you.”

                “I’m sorry,” Jessie’s voice shrank, like that of a child being reprimanded. “You don’t have to; I think I’m okay to walk.”

                “Hey, there’s nothing you need to be sorry for, and you’re not walking home, that’s too far,” his voice softened. “Just stay where you are and I’ll be there soon, okay? Can you do that for me?”

                “I’ll do anything for you,” she sighed breathily, sounding a bit choked up. Kevin couldn’t tell if this sentiment was genuine or a result of the alcohol, but he didn’t have time to decide.

                “That’s my girl,” he said, borrowing a phrase he’d heard Frankie use as he slipped out the front door and locked it behind him. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

                “See you soon,” Jessie answered, promptly ending the call.

                Kevin thrust his phone into his back pocket and jogged down his mother’s short concrete driveway. He yanked the door of his ’65 Ford Mustang open, avoiding the way it would stick by simply forcing his way through it. He settled rather unceremoniously into the driver’s seat, adjusting the scrap of plywood over the hole in the floorboard so it wouldn’t move while he drove before starting the car and heading downtown to get Jessie.

Author's Note

I'm trying to emulate Lionel Shriver's prose in We Need to Talk About Kevin in this one (characters unrelated). As of its posting, it is unfinished, and should be updated once it is complete.