Chapter 1: Not so smooth criminal
“You can’t sit on your ass and expect life to happen for you!”
Charlie stared at his bedroom ceiling, hoping the yelling would end soon. His mother was in the doorway, her face bright red and splotched with white, a sure sign her tears and anger had not run their course. He hated that he made her cry, but he didn't know what to do about that. It didn't help that she was right.
“Good morning,” he said, voice cracking from disuse. He cleared it and grabbed one of the numerous soda cans stacked on the floor.
“It’s hardly morning!” She shrieked. “Get up!”Apparently he wasn’t moving fast enough, because she kicked the mattress.
Charlie would have happily done exactly what she wanted; if not for the soul sucking amount of energy it took to drag himself from the pile of blankets half-heaped on the floor. He was depressed already, and the four walls decorated in nothing more than spider webs didn’t help. A glance down didn’t give him any more hope. The beautiful sleigh bed he’d once spent a fortune on was halfway across the country, and now he didn’t have the money to get it shipped. He wasn’t complaining, the fact he had a bed at all was fairly amazing given his circumstances.
“I’m going to work, you need to get up and do something today. I have a list on the counter, and have you filled out any of those applications? What a stupid question, of course you haven’t,” she said.
He didn’t have to say anything. They were still in a stack where he’d left them the last time he’d convinced his father to give him a ride around town. Groaning, Charlie sat up and yawned widely. “All right,” he grunted, “bye.” The moment she left, he laid back down. When he looked at the clock next, it was three o’clock. He sighed and tossed back the covers. Stretching, Charlie rolled out of bed and scratched his stomach. It was time to shower. Time to dress. Eat breakfast.
“This sucks.” Those two tiny little words did a bang up job of describing Charlie’s life for the past year. The gnawing despair came as simply as meeting someone he’d gone to school with. ‘So, what are you doing now?’ The first week he’d been back in town it seemed as if that was all he had done: meet old friends and see the disgust in their eyes. Maybe it was just in his imagination. Maybe not, but it left him feeling like getting a nice cave in some isolated mountain was looking better and better as a lifestyle choice.
He shuffled to the bathroom, flicked on the light and splashed water in his face. It was a physical sensation that made up for the gaping hole where he felt like there should be some strong emotion.
He took that shower. Shaved. Dressed. It was another day. Same as the last, same as the next. The worst part was the persistent, overwhelming monotony. It felt like he was doing a Sisyphus impression: dragging a boulder up a mountain and then starting it all over in the morning. If he thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell he would get hired, Charlie would have put in all those applications and then some. But not even Mcdonalds had called him back from the first time he’d applied around town. He picked up the list on the counter and sighed heavily. In his mother’s tight handwriting there was a list of more than a dozen things wrapped around a large sprawling ‘Get a job.’ He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she understood the fact that his life was over. He wasn’t going to get a job; he wasn’t going to move on with his life. Everything had been over the morning he’d found his lover face down in a pool.
It would be a few hours before his father got home, and if he didn’t do anything before they got there, he’d hear about it. So he got most of list done, leaving only picking up eggs. That was another lovely humiliation. No job meant no money, no money meant no car. His parents used both of theirs to get to work, and he was left with the rusted bike he’d had as a teenager, only this go around it was missing the brakes and the back tire had a leak. He’d pump it up before heading out and by the time he got back his ass would be riding on the rims. Charlie blew out a sigh, and grabbed his keys, the little yappy mutt his parents had adopted sometime following him to the door with a whine.
“No, stay here.” He said, and did a little dance to keep the thing inside while he escaped. It didn’t work, and he spent the next half hour chasing her around the yard while she wagged her tail and had a grand ole time. Finally she came up and flopped on the ground at his feet, and demanded a belly scratch. Charlie dropped to the ground beside the beast and gave up.
“You’re a little shit.” He said in a simpering sweet tone to the wriggling form, as he burying his fingers in the thick fur. “What a good little shit, yeah.” When his dad came home, he was still sitting there. He heard the slam of the car door, and the jingle of his father’s keys as he walked up the path.
“If you’re going to take her out, you have to leash her,” his father said.
Charlie looked up, shielding his eyes from the setting sun. The man was getting older, the grey in his hair was starting to take over, and soon he would be completely white. It left a little hitch in Charlie’s chest. He loved his father, but didn’t like him. It was an odd combination that left all the emotions he had about the man sticky at best. He was far too old to want the type of relationship that involved tossing balls around in the backyard, but Charlie couldn’t help but wonder what life would have been like had he enjoyed football instead of theater.
“Sorry.” He said, because it was easier than explaining. “How was your day?” Caring took effort, but he did it because he owed them both that much. His father had answered his phone call after thirteen years, and paid for a plane ticket to fly him home. He belonged in this house and in this town, and wasn’t that a shocking thought?
The night they’d moved in, Charlie had been the typical teenager: angry and resentful. He’d spent the morning unpacking and when night fell, begrudgingly sat on the front porch with his mom, drinking iced tea and watching nothing. When the nothing had been interrupted by a tractor passing by on the road, he'd been stunned. For someone who'd never even seen a cow it had been pure culture shock. He’d slammed the door and spent the rest of the weekend playing video games.
When they had kicked him out, he’d gone to live with his aunt in California. That had become home too. He’d done well in school, gone to college. He’d gotten a job in a local high school and a boyfriend. Charlie had done all the things you were supposed to do as an adult. He’d made a life for himself, but all of that was gone now.
“Well, I have a job, so it was a pretty good day,” he said, hand on his hip, briefcase dangling from his fingertips.
Charlie knew better than to flinch. Hell, he even agreed with the man. It came down to one simple fact: even if everyone in the whole wide world hated him, that level of animosity couldn’t touch what he felt about himself. “Yeah,” Charlie said, voice trailing off. “I was thinking of making steaks for dinner,” he offered, and stood up, brushing off his pants. “We got a few in the fridge that need using up.” He didn’t deign to look at the dog that rolled over without a second’s hesitation and went right up to his father.
“Your ma wants to make a quiche.” His dad bent down and scooped up the dog, and when he straightened it was easy to see the age in him, making him look older than his years.
Charlie was acutely aware of the fact his presence was a pain. He cared, and he was sorry for it, but he just couldn’t find enough energy to do anything about it. He knew he was fermenting in depression, but seeing a train wreck and stopping it were two very different things. Every time he went to pick up a pen to fill out another application, or go look for a job, a tiny little voice said no, don’t bother. No one will hire you.
His highbrow friends hadn’t stuck around, so why would some half-stranger care to give him a chance? No, that little voice told him, better not to try again. You’ll only fail. He was very good at failing. “I haven’t gotten eggs yet.” Charlie was proud of himself for looking his father in the eyes when he said it.
He was far too old to be dependent on the man’s opinion, so it wasn’t that he was afraid. It was just that nasty little voice in his head; he could see it smiling in satisfaction when the old man sighed and went inside. The door clicked shut with ominous finality. He sat twirling a long blade of grass in his hand a few minutes more before fetching the bike from behind the garage. He was three blocks away before he noticed the tire was still flat and how much the cracks in the sidewalks hurt going over them. Charlie sighed, and hopped off the bike. It took twice as long, but he got to the dinky corner store he’d spent one summer working in before his life had fallen apart the first time.
He left the bike leaning against the wall. No one would want it, and if they needed it so desperately that they had to steal it, they were welcome to it. The whoosh of the automatic door took him by surprise. When he’d last been in here, the old man was still fighting the need to have an electronic check out system. Everything was more modern, there were television screens at the ends of the isles playing commercials and the crack that had run the length of the store in the linoleum was fixed. Either the old man had hired new management, or his daughter had finally convinced him of more than a few things. He picked up the meager shopping list within a few minutes, then he got in line behind a bent old woman who’s shaking hands dug for coupons at a speed snails could pass. When she was done, he followed the divider bar up to the check out, and waited while the cashier rang up his purchase.
“Coupons?”
Charlie had spent the last year staring at the floor. When you don’t make eye contact, people assume you’re busy or unfriendly or getting over crippling depression and just really don’t want to have a conversation. It was something he wasn’t aware of anymore, just another layer of armor in public. Besides, how many people actually look at cashiers? But that voice, it shook him to the very core.
William was the man he’d panted after like a bitch in heat for three years, before they knew what sort of slots and tabs they liked in each other’s pants. Will had been the cool kid, the closest approximation to a biker the tiny town had… and he had taken Charlie’s virginity in the back seat of his friend’s Cutlass the night before junior prom.
Charlie sucked in air like a fish on land. Staring was a mistake, he knew, though he couldn’t stop himself from gaping at the thick scar traveling over Will’s cheek. Something had chewed this man up and spat him out. One blink. Two. A wheelchair. Will was in a wheelchair. It took serious effort for Charlie to raise his eyes to meet Will’s.
Finally, he found his voice after the awkward silence settled like a smothering blanket between them. “No coupons.” He choked out around a throat that was rapidly deciding he didn’t need to breathe. Charlie handed over the money and accepted the change with shaking hands.
The despicable little voice in his head became useful when it shouted don’t look, don’t look, don’t look as he bagged his purchases. He could feel his heart pounding, and gee, was that a frying pan he had for a face, because it was so hot he could fry the damned eggs he’d bought on it. Then the can of peaches fell from his nerveless fingers, and skittered across the sparkling new floor. Of course it curved in a way that defied the laws of motion and ended up on the other side of the counter. Despite the insistent voice in his head, a snort brought Charlie’s eyes up from where he knelt to pick up the runaway.
Damn it.
A carefully neutral mask slipped over Will’s face before Charlie could name what emotion flashed across features he remembered better than his own. The tiny sound slowed his panic and he could breathe again. Charlie felt the momentary desire to thank Will for laughing at him, it had broken the oh-fuck-run feeling he couldn’t shake. Eventually, he got everything in a plastic bag, and left only to find the bike missing.
“Fuck.”