But Jillian was in, sitting on the couch with that dog. Adam let go of her hand and took a few steps to the side. The house smelled like piss.
“Hey, I just got back from walking the dog, great timing,” Jillian said.
Yeah, right.
“You might crack a window in here, the weather’s fine,” said Elena.
“Oh, I know. I just felt a little chilly on the walk home.”
“It’s not chilly,” said Elena.
“Hmm,” said Jillian.
“So, any word on when you’re getting your car back? We could really use your help driving this weekend. We need a runner.”
“Well, I spoke with the court today and they said my court date is in two weeks, then I should be able to straighten all of this up and get my car back.”
“Oh, so you won’t have it for this weekend?”
“Nope, it’s going to be another two weeks. Hey, Elena, thank you so much for helping me with Adam. You really don’t know how much of a blessing you’ve been to me.”
Elena humphed. “It’s the least I can do to help.”
“It’s really a prayer answered.”
“Well, just try to get your car back as soon as possible, that’ll be thanks enough for me.”
“Will do, Miss Elena.”
RANDY SMILED about the groceries, and tried not to let on that he’d been thinking about breaking up with her all day.
JILLIAN MADE a shopping list of all the things she needed and then made herself a budget. She needed more toys and, eventually, a dog walker for Crispy and also a crate so she wouldn’t have to keep shutting her in the bathroom, and also a proper bed for her. The total for this was about 400 dollars, which was twice as much as she owed for the fine. Would she have to pay to go to court? Not if she didn’t need a lawyer. So no lawyer. And getting the car out she’d heard would be about 100 dollars. But, Crispy was a priority. She re-arranged her list in order of priorities, toys and the crate came first, then the car business, and then a dog walker.
Maybe she’d be able to get her car back in a month? Ugh. Maybe she could get an extension.
FIVE
The weekend came and Randy thought “we should stay in” but wasn’t entirely comfortable alone with Megan since his understanding that things were not well between them, so he invited their friend David over. This will make her comfortable, he thought. Just two people, where she lives, a low pressure drinking thing.
David came over and Megan drank two beers quickly.
“How’ve you guys been?” David asked.
“Eh, fine, I guess,” said Megan.
“Pretty good,” said Randy. He explained his project for Kelly’s store and said he was getting paid for it, and he and David talked about formats for a while, while Megan smoked cigarettes. She tried to interject, but her comments were flaccid. When she spoke, David glanced at her and raised his eyebrows and nodded and then turned back to Randy.
“Where are you working now?” asked Randy.
“Oh, I’m working for Albert.”
“Cool, man, I know Albert.”
“Yeah, I took a class with him and we really hit it off. It was one of those weird experiences when you have a class and you and the prof both kind of look at each other one day and realize ‘We’re probably going to be friends.’”
“Haha,” said Randy. Randy picked up his beer.
“Yeah, that happened to me all the time,” said Megan.
“Really?” said David.
Megan shook her head and said she was just kidding.
“Well, Albert sent me an email a few weeks ago and said ‘Man, I really liked your writing in class, and I’m looking for a new staff member.’ Apparently one of his staffers just got into school in California, so he offered me his job. It’s full time. I don’t have benefits yet, but he said he’s going to work on it.”
“That’s so cool,” said Randy.
“What does Albert do?” said Megan.
“He runs an online design magazine. It’s one of the only local design magazines that really matters on a national level.” He turned to Randy and said, “You know how stuff is around here.”
“So, are you writing about design or are you . . . designing for this design magazine?” asked Megan.
“Oh, Albert likes to do most of the design himself, so I’m writing.”
“Oh, right, you said he said he liked your writing from class.”
“Yeah,” said David. “Actually, the only person he lets help him out with the design is Carrie.”
The night plummeted on. Randy and David talked about books they’d been reading and design techniques they liked. They laughed together about mutual acquaintances. Megan drank and smoked and thought about Carrie a little. She thought, I read books and do things, too. But not the same things, and not the same books. Occasionally she interjected, but the things she said were answered with polite questions and did not fit well into the flow of the conversation, so she mostly sat back and tried to relax. She must have spaced out. When she came to, David was saying, “Toothpaste, hacksaw, People Magazine, a bag of carrots, red gym socks, Jean Luc Picard, tomato paste, cardboard cut out of Austin Powers, CD player, toothpicks.”
“Whoa, cool,” said Randy.
“What are you doing again?” asked Megan.
“A Memory Palace,” said Randy.
“It’s a medieval memory technique. If you need to remember a list of things, what you do is pick a place that you remember well, like your childhood home or your office or your apartment, and you make a narrative. Like, I walk up my front steps and I step on a tube of toothpaste and I get toothpaste all over my foot, so I pick up a hacksaw and I cut off my foot. Then I open my mailbox and see a copy of People Magazine that has a photo of me cutting off my foot on the cover. My landlord is standing in my entryway and he offers me a carrot, and I notice he’s wearing red gym socks,” said David. He kept talking through his Memory Palace, but Megan was somewhere else.
“Can I try one?” asked Randy.
“Yeah, absolutely.” David took a piece of paper and started writing a list.
“This is awesome,” said Randy.
Memory Palace. Megan opened another beer. She said, “This is awesome,” in her head to mock Randy. Then she whispered, “Memory Palace.”
“You want to try one?” Randy asked.
“Oh, no I don’t think so,” said Megan.
They weren’t disappointed about it, or outwardly happy. Megan stared at them while they were sitting in silence, Randy looking at the list and David looking at Randy. What’s in my Memory Palace? she wondered. A driveway. One with a basketball hoop on a pole. Megan was eleven and playing with her new friends. They grinned at each other and approached her, tied her to the basketball pole with two jump ropes, attached rollerblades to her feet, and then drew penises on her face. Her hair was dressed, then, with shaving cream.
Randy recited his list in the background.
They dragged her, on the end of the jump ropes, to a soft serve ice cream stand and forced her to order them all an extra large Twister with gummi bears. The guy at the counter was cute—though, in retrospect, he probably was not—and he pointed out to her that she had a penis and the words “I am gay” drawn on her face. As she had not yet learned to be self-deprecating, she had not handled herself well and she realized, just then on the couch, that she still held a burdensome grudge against those girls for what they had done to her.
She set down her beer and knew she was drunk.
“No, it’s cool, guys, I just did one in my head a second ago. A Memory Palace, I mean,” she said. This statement was unprovoked.