Renhala Read Free Page B

men half her own age, taking them on island vacations, Amber worked to support herself. That’s when we met at Burrito Burgers and our deadbeat parent connection had us conjoined in a matter of days.
    We would assemble burgers, side-by-side, gagging simultaneously every now and then on the stench of overly mature avocadoes and bean spread. Our overweight gigantasaur of a boss would just laugh at us as he shoved singles from the cash register into his forty-four-waist Lee Dungarees, and goosed Amber—his only reason for repeat customers—behind my back.  And never once did Amber report him.
    Anyway, my mom was the one who stepped in to fill Amber’s maternal void. One unforgettable evening, after running out to a late-night Delta Chi frat party while I attended a nearby community college, and gorging on some questionable barbeque chicken, Amber introduced me to vodka and cranberry juice. After both of us became ill, I finally convinced her it was time to leave, so she had a “friend” of hers—granted she just met him that night—take us home, to my house. As we both sat in the front seat of this gentleman’s car, smack dab in front of our destination, with Amber directly to his right, he decided it wasn’t time to say goodbye, yet. His hands moved quickly under her shirt and as he groped and attempted to simultaneously touch me, I vomited. She told me to leave the car as she tried to play the offensive against his advances, but he was much larger, and stronger. As I knelt on the ground, vomiting barbeque sauce and vodka, I saw my mother run out the front door of our house to his car. As the boy continued with his conquest, ripping Amber’s bra, my mother had opened his car door, had Amber seated in the grass next to me, and the boy in a headlock within five seconds. To this day, my mom says we were too intoxicated to really know what happened. But I remember, clearly—not feeling a bit drunk.
    I snap back to my senses after justifying my comment to Amber, and decide to stop in the office kitchen for a cup of hot black tea. Tea seems to cure everything for me, from stress to lethargy. My colleagues even say it’s unnatural how excited I get over a cup, but what can I say? It’s my drug, if you will. It’s a bit of homey warmth that seems to tame the nerves no matter what is going on around me, especially these days, when even a fifth of vodka leaves me cold and unaffected.
    As my Lipton bag brews, I reach for my honey bear in the highest cabinet, all the way in the back, and see that it’s now completely empty; leave it up to office colleagues to sniff it out and use it all. I add a shake of powdered creamer and decide to search the mountainous stack of newspapers on the kitchen table for the personals. Reading the lines of hidden angst and desperation are a guilty pleasure of mine. I’m not the only one, right?
    One in particular catches my eyes immediately. I do a double-take and reread it.
     
    ROOKES and pawns. Chess is played by the gods K-Lee. Search for double happiness over the rainbow.
     
    “Guess they don’t proof the personals.” Evan, my boss, appears next to me. “Why are you reading these, anyway? Don’t you have a budget to go over?” He’s joking, but I don’t react. “You ok? We ’ve missed you.” He hugs me and I immediately tighten up a bit from his closeness, but eventually relax and hug him back. There are no creepy-crawlies, but instead a comfortable feeling of safety.
    “I ’ll be ok. Thanks.” He smiles at me and leaves the kitchen. 
    I return to the ad, without knowing what to do or even how to feel about it. Is this for me? My mind whirls enough to give me vertigo. Is this for some weirdo, or some lovers’ rendezvous? Am I totally overreacting?
    I tear out the ad, imagining who will be the one to cry, as the papers are public property and now they won’t be able to read “Who’s Screwing Who in Hollywood Now” or “So and So Gets a Boob Job” on the flip