“ Mac and Jack Attack ” ) and others were just fucking bizarre ( “ Mac and Jack chow a short stack like it’s made of crack. ” Like I said, fucking bizarre). I patted Mac on the head while he pushed around a red plastic truck . Jack lay in a bouncer, playing with little toys that dangled just within his reach. Jack had just a little peach fuzz on his cap, but he looked like a mini-version of Mac. In fact, I knew if I looked at Mac’s baby pictures, I would probably swear it was Jack. They were like twins born three years apart.
Then I went in the kitchen. I told my mom and sister good morning and asked if I could help with breakfast. It was the least I could do after being such a bitch last night.
“The kitchen’s too small for all of us, honey,” mom said, polite and loving—quite out of character. “Why don’t you just grab a cup of coffee and sit in the dining room? Breakfast will be ready soon.”
So I did. No sense arguing. I rejoined dad at the table. Dad was a retired accountant (or, as he’d often remind me, CPA). In spite of the fact that he’d worked one of the most boring jobs I could ever imagine, he had few lines on his face. And even though he hadn’t worked in three or four years, he still rose early every morning to read the paper. In fact, I was surprised I’d gotten out of bed before he had.
I lit a cigarette and slowly sipped my coffee, glancing out the sliding door at the scenery to amuse myself . After drinking half the cup, I asked dad to hand me the want ads. He happily obliged. I could look online later , check out the Workforce Center, and would probably even start pounding the pavement, but I had to start somewhere, and considering I was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, the want ads were the best way to job seek at the moment.
I glanced at the few listings looking for workers. What a fucking podunk , backwoods, piece - of - shit town. At least in Denver, the listings were plenty. There were only a couple of columns in the Winchester paper devoted to help wanted, and most of them were for food service and tourist traps. “ Puh -lease,” I said, disgusted.
Dad looked up from the article he was reading. His smile was warm. “It’s a small town, honey—partly retirement community, partly people wanting away from the big city. You could always look for work in Colorado Springs. You’d be commuting, but you’d have more choices and I’m sure the pay would be better.”
I sighed. He was right, of course, but one of the reasons I was glad to leave Denver was I didn’t want to commute. I wanted to get to work fast. Life is short. I did not want to spend it on the road. I’d read at least three books a week on the bus rides to and from work when I lived in Denver. I didn’t want to spend that kind of time commuting anymore. If I got a job in the Springs , I’d move there. “Where’s your phone book?” Might as well see what else was out there.
Dad pointed to a small white tucked-away desk in the living room. My parents had cell phones, that much I knew, but they still had the landline. I guessed the phone book would be inside the top drawer of the desk. Like most utilitarian furniture in my mother’s house, it was sparsely populated, meaning only what was necessary was on the surface. Everything else was hidden— neatly —out of sight. In this case, that meant only the computer and the phone inhabited the desktop. There wasn’t even a notepad or pen on top, and I knew if I left one, it would drive my mother mad.
Seeing the desk that I hadn’t even noticed before, I felt like a stranger in my parents’ house (and I was). I didn’t know where to find anything, even when it should have been obvious to me.
I opened the top drawer and there it was—a phone book so small, it could’ve been a coloring book. Okay, so it wasn’t that small, but if the Denver Metro area phone
Then I went in the kitchen. I told my mom and sister good morning and asked if I could help with breakfast. It was the least I could do after being such a bitch last night.
“The kitchen’s too small for all of us, honey,” mom said, polite and loving—quite out of character. “Why don’t you just grab a cup of coffee and sit in the dining room? Breakfast will be ready soon.”
So I did. No sense arguing. I rejoined dad at the table. Dad was a retired accountant (or, as he’d often remind me, CPA). In spite of the fact that he’d worked one of the most boring jobs I could ever imagine, he had few lines on his face. And even though he hadn’t worked in three or four years, he still rose early every morning to read the paper. In fact, I was surprised I’d gotten out of bed before he had.
I lit a cigarette and slowly sipped my coffee, glancing out the sliding door at the scenery to amuse myself . After drinking half the cup, I asked dad to hand me the want ads. He happily obliged. I could look online later , check out the Workforce Center, and would probably even start pounding the pavement, but I had to start somewhere, and considering I was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, the want ads were the best way to job seek at the moment.
I glanced at the few listings looking for workers. What a fucking podunk , backwoods, piece - of - shit town. At least in Denver, the listings were plenty. There were only a couple of columns in the Winchester paper devoted to help wanted, and most of them were for food service and tourist traps. “ Puh -lease,” I said, disgusted.
Dad looked up from the article he was reading. His smile was warm. “It’s a small town, honey—partly retirement community, partly people wanting away from the big city. You could always look for work in Colorado Springs. You’d be commuting, but you’d have more choices and I’m sure the pay would be better.”
I sighed. He was right, of course, but one of the reasons I was glad to leave Denver was I didn’t want to commute. I wanted to get to work fast. Life is short. I did not want to spend it on the road. I’d read at least three books a week on the bus rides to and from work when I lived in Denver. I didn’t want to spend that kind of time commuting anymore. If I got a job in the Springs , I’d move there. “Where’s your phone book?” Might as well see what else was out there.
Dad pointed to a small white tucked-away desk in the living room. My parents had cell phones, that much I knew, but they still had the landline. I guessed the phone book would be inside the top drawer of the desk. Like most utilitarian furniture in my mother’s house, it was sparsely populated, meaning only what was necessary was on the surface. Everything else was hidden— neatly —out of sight. In this case, that meant only the computer and the phone inhabited the desktop. There wasn’t even a notepad or pen on top, and I knew if I left one, it would drive my mother mad.
Seeing the desk that I hadn’t even noticed before, I felt like a stranger in my parents’ house (and I was). I didn’t know where to find anything, even when it should have been obvious to me.
I opened the top drawer and there it was—a phone book so small, it could’ve been a coloring book. Okay, so it wasn’t that small, but if the Denver Metro area phone
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