Down and Out in Bugtussle (8 page)

We keep drinking and Jalena joins us a little later, then Ethan Allen appears behind the bar and chats for a minute. Logan Hatter and Drew Wills come in an hour before closing time and it’s obvious they’re not just getting started. Lilly and I make a fuss over
Drew Wills to the point that Logan Hatter starts getting jealous, so I turn my attention toward him so he doesn’t feel so left out. Wills eats up the attention from Lilly and is sorely disappointed when Dax shows up in his uniform at midnight. Never the jealous kind, Dax joins us at the bar, orders a Coke, and strikes up a conversation with Hatter and Wills about baseball.

Lilly leaves with Dax an hour later, and I think long and hard about going home with Logan Hatter. He keeps draping his arm around me and dropping not-so-subtle hints about needing some company tonight. I haven’t slept with him in who-knows-how-many years, but I’m sure he’s still the same old-reliable good-time roll-in-the-hay he always has been. I’ve almost made up my mind to take him up on his offer, when Ethan Allen announces he’ll be driving us all home tonight instead of Jalena. That causes me to balk on Hatter because if I start sleeping with him again, I really don’t want Ethan Allen to know about it. Not that I care if he knows so much; I just don’t want him to tell his best friend and my ex-fiancé, Mason McKenzie, that I’m backtracking.

Probably best,
I think to myself as I continue to put some distance between my shoulders and Hatter’s arm. Jalena would tell Ethan Allen anyway, and then Mason would still find out my life is moving backward instead of forward. Shit. I climb up in the front of Ethan Allen’s truck while Hatter, Wills, and Pete the tire man climb into the back.

S
unday, I skip church and lazy around the house because my head is aching from the booze, my back is aching from the painting, and my nose is all stopped up, most likely from sweeping up Sheetrock dust in Jalena’s diner. I fix myself a Sprite with six cherries, pop four ibuprofen and a sinus pill, and then grab a sleeve of crackers. I head to the living room and while I’m looking for the remote, I remember that I almost went home with Logan Hatter last night.

“Thank goodness I didn’t do that,” I tell Buster Loo. I stretch out on the sofa and he snuggles up next to me. I turn on the television and start flipping through channels. My mind drifts off, and I find myself wondering where I might find that elusive little bastard known as happiness. And I wonder how everyone around me seems to know right where it is all the time; yet for me, it seems to be eternally buried someplace I’ll never find. Lilly and Dax are
happy, wearing their contentment like comfortable underwear. They never flaunt it, just let it be what it is. Then there’s Chloe with her big white house by the lake, which, according to her, is everything she’s always wanted in a home, and the love of her life, Sheriff J. J. Jackson, who, according to her, is everything she’s ever wanted in a man. Chloe took a bumpier path than Lilly, but they’ve both arrived at a place where they have a calm, quiet, and very grown-up kind of contentment. And then Jalena, whose happiness shines from her soul like a beacon in the night; and Ethan Allen, whose good-ol’-boy heart does the same. Each one of them seems to be with the person they were meant to be with. I take a sip of Sprite and wonder if there is someone out there for me and I just haven’t found him yet or if maybe I was just put here to walk alone. Well, not alone. I have Buster Loo.

I’m well aware that I need to cease and desist with the pity party, pull myself up by the bootstraps, and get kickin’ again, but I just don’t feel like it yet. The truth is that I still love Mason McKenzie and I always will, but I know that it’s finally over between us and that hurts so bad every time I think about it. Maybe I just need to be sad—just feel it—and take my time mourning the death of a relationship that I held up in my mind and in my heart as the Holy Grail of Happiness since we were kids. I can’t believe how wrong I was about that. I also can’t believe that I got all liquored up and almost went home with Logan Hatter last night. That’s just what I need to do. Strike up an old flame that fizzled out years ago from lack of a spark. What a great plan. Jeez. Logan Hatter has to stay in the friend zone. I literally and figuratively do not need to screw that up. Relief will have to come from somewhere else and, in the meantime, I guess I have no choice but to tough it out and suffer through
the consequences of my decisions. Dammit! I hate that. Consequences suck! I don’t like living with them, but what else can I do? Maybe I should never leave the house again except to go to work and walk Buster Loo. Or maybe I should’ve gone to church this morning, because I always leave feeling better than I did when I got there.

I look down at Buster Loo, who is snoozing with his snout stuck straight up in the air. How I wish I could be so satisfied. I look out the window and see the buttercups have started to blossom. Early bloomers, as my grandma used to say. Gramma Jones sure seemed to have had life figured out. And she lived it so simply. She was never rich. Not even close. She never had a big fancy car or went on ritzy vacations. She had a cozy little home, a beautiful yard, her garden club, her ladies’ Sunday school class, and me. Gramma Jones was the most peaceful soul on the planet, even after suffering so much. She lost her husband to prostate cancer and later buried her only son; yet she wasn’t bitter or miserable or envious of anyone. She just lived her life and took care of her home and took care of me and seemed to be perfectly happy passing along tidbits of wisdom when the occasions presented themselves to do so.

Maybe I’m looking in all the wrong places. Maybe it’s not, as that noodle-balling weirdo at the Italian restaurant said, about that house and that job and that man. Maybe it’s just about me. Wow. That’s some pretty scary shit right there. I’ve always banked on external things to float my boatload of happiness. Like having my own art gallery and living with Mason McKenzie in his ocean-side home in Florida. I thought that was it for me and, looking back now, it’s hard to believe how bad I wanted it, how much faith I’d invested in it, and how much power I had given to the idea of the
dream. It’s even more shocking how desperate I was to escape it at the very end. I need to get back in touch with my soul, whatever that means, but I’m afraid I’ve spent so much time giving myself over to an illusion that my soul has become the ghost that just shows up now and then to haunt me.

A commercial comes on for a local furniture store advertising a zero-percent-interest-twelve-month-same-as-cash deal, and I start thinking that maybe a new couch and love seat might help my feelings. I’m wondering what time that place opens up on Sunday when it dawns on me I’m reverting to external fixes. Didn’t I just figure that out? I stare at the television and try to ignore the uncomfortable notion that I have to go inside my own wacky head and misguided heart if I really want to fix what’s bugging me. Which is me. I’m bugging myself. I don’t like to think about my own problems. I like to solve other people’s problems, preferably with crazy shenanigans and wild stunts that further distract me from my own. It’s so much easier that way because all the consequences get to move in with them and not with me.

I don’t want to analyze myself too much because if I do, I’m afraid I’ll discover things that might make me unhappier than I already am. Like the fact that I seem to live my life backward. I spent my twenties, when most people travel the world and chase their big fancy dreams, working at a job I didn’t love but that now I’d give anything to have back. My dreams have shriveled up. All I want is what I had this time last year because I’m sure I’d be more careful with it this time around. Don’t mistake me for someone with ambition. I’m not. Not anymore.

I look out at the buttercups in the yard and think about Gramma
Jones. Maybe I should try to follow her model for living. Simple, with flowers blooming year-round. If she could see me now, she would surely tell me to get off my rump and stop thinking my life to death. I wonder where she got all of her crazy old sayings. From her grandmother maybe? I wonder if her grandmother was a gardener. If she passed along flower bulbs and secrets about happiness. I look back at the buttercups. Maybe they could make me happy, too. Perhaps I’ll find my soul buried out there in that dirt.

For the first time in a long time, I feel a sliver of interest, a tad bit of intrigue. Could I make that garden grow? Could I restore it to its former glory? Could I get the weeds out? Could I keep the weeds out? Could I make flowers bloom year-round?

I sit up, startling Buster Loo out of his slumber, and he goose honks and rolls over. My curiosity sprouts a twig of hope, and I jump up, run into the hallway, and look up at the attic door. Buster Loo, totally over being drowsy, bounds off the couch and follows me. He starts running in circles around my feet, barking like crazy. I reach up and grab the string, then slowly pull the door, easing the steps down until they’re resting on the carpet in the hallway. When I start to climb, Buster Loo stops barking and starts whimpering. I don’t know if he’s afraid that I’ll try to take him with me or if he’s more concerned about those rickety steps giving way and sending me to the floor in a hefty lump. Either way, he’s backing away as he would from a dog catcher.

“Don’t worry, Buster Loo,” I tell him. “Mama will be right back.”

The single bulb at the top of the steps is coated with dust and grime. I reach up and tug on the cord, surprised and delighted when dim light floods the attic. I shiver against the cool, stagnant
air and then work my way up to where I can stand, careful to keep my feet on the wide boards. Even though I haven’t been up here in a while, I know what I’m looking for. I’m looking for a box.

After my grandmother passed away, I had to pack up all of her personal stuff. I couldn’t bear to part with any of it, so I put it all in the attic of this house that she’d shared with my grandpa since before my dad was born. I make my way to the boxes in the far right corner and soon find the one I’m looking for.

“Books!” I say, and cough at the dust. I drag it away from the slightly larger box right next to it. I haven’t looked at this stuff since the day I packed it and hauled it up here.

I pull the book box to the attic door, thinking I must’ve been in a little better shape when I carted it up here nearly ten years ago. Of course I was! I was in my early twenties! When I push it to the edge of the opening, I see Buster Loo sitting at the bottom of the steps. When he sees the box, he takes off as fast as his little legs will carry him. I don’t see him again until I’ve wrestled the box down the flimsy steps and hauled it into the living room.

“Probably should’ve checked the weight limit on those stairs before I did that,” I tell Buster Loo, who creeps out from behind the love seat to sniff the box. “But I made it.”

I open the box and see Gramma Jones’s small collection of books.
Wide Sargasso Sea
,
The Sun Also Rises
, a few James Bond books. Finally, at the very bottom, I find what I’m looking for:
A
Guide to Beautiful Gardens in the South.

“Maybe this is just what I need right now,” I tell my little dog as I run my hand over the worn cover. “A guide.”

I get up and move to the couch. Buster Loo hops up beside me, sniffing the book in my hand. I flip through the first few chapters,
all of which are dedicated to flowers. Flowers, flowers, and more flowers. I read until I fall asleep on the sofa, not from a lack of interest, but probably from a heavy dose of meds. I wake up late in the afternoon with the book on my face. I place it on the coffee table and stand up.

I take Buster Loo for a walk just before dark, then come home and start ironing my clothes for the next week. Pants too tight in the ass with a button barely hanging on? Check. Baggy shirt formerly reserved for “fat” days? Check. These days, every day is a fat day. Funny how that happens. I dig around in my sock drawer until I find a matching pair of polka-dot socks, and unless I wear a plus-sized pair of paisley panties, those socks will be the only item in my wardrobe with a trace of personality.

Now that I’m thoroughly depressed, I walk back into the living room and pick up Gramma Jones’s garden book. I stare at the words on the cover and wonder if this book could somehow offer some relief from the hopeless misery sucking the life out of me. Damn those tight-ass “fat” pants. Damn them! I won’t buy a size up. I won’t. I put the book down and wonder if instead I should be reading a book called
How Not to Be a Fatass
. No, that wouldn’t be right. I would need a book titled
How Not to Be a Fatass When You’ve Read Every Damned Book in Print About How Not to Be a Fatass but You’re Still a Fatass and Here’s Why!
Yeah, I’ll go to the bookstore tomorrow and ask about that one. Just as soon as I get out of school. School. F me in the A. I’d rather have eyelashes burned off with a flamethrower.