Shooting Stars (8 page)

“You can’t be serious?” Dontrelle says.

Jake doesn’t even give me time to answer. “Oh, he’s serious all right. And what about all the other places?” he says with a big smile on his face, as he always does when he believes I’m about to embarrass myself. He loves every minute of it.

I go into my other stories with a blind zeal, because I believe my logic is rightfully justified. “All right, one place, while walking to the interview room and in the lobby, I noticed there weren’t too many brown faces around the building. When I felt the interview was getting away from me, I simply told the guy, ‘Look, I can see you don’t have a lot of minorities around here. And I just want you to know that I know what you’re doing, and I’m not offended.’ Then, I winked at him.”

“What?” Jake says.

“Let me finish. So he looks at me, all confused. I figured he was playing dumb. I then try to close out with, ‘You don’t have to beat around the bush with me. I’m all for being a token. I can fill a quota like no one else. And I don’t have self-esteem issues that will hinder my performance.’ I even said my grandfather was the first black employee in his coal mine. Which he wasn’t, because he never worked in a coal mine, but this guy didn’t know that. I think I simply used the wrong angle, because he pretended that he got deeply offended with the whole affirmative-action approach.

“And then there was the guy who asked me if a six-year-old filled out my job application. You know how long I spent on that?” I say.

“I’ve told you about your handwriting,” Jake says.

“I know, I know,” I reply. “But I didn’t need him to point it out. That showed me he would prey on my weaknesses if he was my boss, to make himself feel better. Then take credit for my successes, like a leech. Not the type boss I would want to work for. So it’s like I didn’t hire him.”

“Yeah, that’s how it was,” Jake says.

“Some places tell me the job is for someone with more experience. But they know exactly how much experience I have and my age before they call me in for an interview. It’s not like it’s a fucking secret. I think they get thrown off when they see me, because I have a baby face. I’m often mistaken for a teenager.”

Jake and Dontrelle analyze my face. “By who?” says Jake.

“By people. A lot of people. Anyway, I think it’s my young look, but I can’t change that.”

“I don’t see it,” Dontrelle says.

“Sometimes these assholes even have their minds already made up. I once went in for an interview with this Asian lady who had a strong accent. I couldn’t understand a fucking word she said. But she had to excuse herself for a few minutes because of some urgent matter. I couldn’t help but to look around her desk. Do you know this bitch was in the process of writing my rejection letter before I came in?” I say.

“Really?” Jake says.

“Yep. My name was already filled out on it and everything. So I did what anybody would do. I hocked a loogie right on the letter and left before she came back. She didn’t send it.”

“Hell yeah. You should’ve flipped her desk over,” Dontrelle said.

“There was another place that I went to, a larger company. As soon as I walk in, I survey the scene like a forensic detective. That so happens to be one of my many finely tuned skills. Not one that I put on my resume, but an asset nonetheless. And in my peripheral vision I see a Kappa Alpha Psi plaque on the wall right next to a red-and-white cane. I take that as a cue to go in for the immediate kill, because I don’t have time to wait, and I’m not too sure if they validate parking. I go on and on about how I’m heavy into organizations, but the one I’ve poured my heart into the most over the years was my brotherhood. He asks, ‘What brotherhood?’ And I can see him edging up on the end of his seat. I tell him I have a burning allegiance to my brothers of Gamma Kappa Psi. He bolted out of his seat. Started asking me all these specific questions. When did I cross? What chapter am I with? And I start making shit up left and right.”

“It never crossed your mind that’d he check this stuff out eventually if you got the job?” Jake says.

“Hold on. He gets up and walks to the other side of the desk. He’s about two inches from my face, and grabs my hand. Then, he says, ‘Kappa handshake.’ I say, ‘Yes, how can I forget?’ I grab his hand and try to follow his lead, like it’s a junior-high-school dance and I’m a twelve-year-old girl name Tiffany. But that doesn’t work, so I wing it. I do a bunch of hand motions. Then, I let go of his hand, do the Harlem shake, then make my hand look like a bird flying away, and then make my hand look like a gun and shoot it, kind of like on the intro to
21 Jump Street
. He was pretty upset and kicked me out. Kept calling me a motherfucker over and over again.”

Jake and Dontrelle are too tired from laughing now.

“Then there was the other interview with a woman. She looked very cute and demure. Nicely dressed and all of that. And about twenty minutes into the interview she farts.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” Dontrelle says.

“Swear to God,” I say. “Then, she ignores the fact she farted right in the middle of our conversation and goes on to the next question.”

“But you don’t let her, right?” Jake says.

“Damn right I don’t. It smelled so foul. Like there was something wrong with her insides. I don’t know. Maybe she was vegan.”

“Hey, didn’t Felicia make you become vegan?” Jake says.

“Yes, but that was only for two weeks. And that’s also how I know what a vegan fart smells like. But back to my story. She tried to play it off and pretend her chair made the noise when I asked her if she farted. I told her I wouldn’t continue with the interview until she admitted it. I got up and walked out.

“This other interview only lasted two minutes. I walked in, he shook my hand. I don’t know what’s wrong with some of these dudes. Especially older men. Maybe they were jocks in school and are trying to prove they still have it. Or maybe it’s the other way around, they were nerds who bought Bowflexes and bulked up. But this asshole was a handshaker. We shook hands when we greeted, and he tried to crush my fucking hand with his Terminator grip. He damn near brought me to my knees. I simply asked him ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ as tears of agony were welling up in my eyes. I called him a big-forearmed asshole and walked out. Had to drive home steering with only my left hand.

“And another chick must’ve watched too much TV, because there were five of us interviewing at the same time. I don’t like group interviews. All that competition and shit. I like one-on-one. That’s it. So I was already caught off-guard. She then turns to us and tells us she wants us to go out and get six hot dogs from six different street vendors, a John Cougar Mellencamp CD, a WNBA jersey, and a picture of us standing next to a male prostitute wearing a leather vest. We looked at her like she was joking, but she wasn’t. And whoever brought all that shit back first got the job. One of the girls interviewing then asked if she needed to wear the leather vest or the prostitute. I can’t believe everyone went through with it. They all scattered out the room like maniacs when she fired that starter’s pistol into the air, which was a bit theatrical for my taste. Everyone was hauling ass, except me. I grabbed the first hot dog, ate it, and went home.”

“Enough, enough!” Jake says. “We can’t take no more.”

“Yeah, dead that shit, son,” says Dontrelle. “I’m glad I ain’t looking for a job.”

“That shit is too pathetic, you’re really ruining my evening,” says Jake.

“You sure? I got more stories. Well, you wanted to hear them. I told you I think I’ve been blackballed.”

“That might be true, but there’s still stuff you can do better. Like, are you still using your barber, Sputter, as a reference?” Jake says.

“He’s known me for twenty years,” I say.

“You need to listen to me more,” Jake tells me.

“Why would I need to do that?”

“Have I ever steered you wrong?” he says.

I think about it.

“No,” he says before I answer. “What happened when you kept falling asleep at work?”

I smile. “You told me to take a shit when I get tired, because, as you so aptly put it, ‘when have you ever fallen asleep after taking a shit?’”

“Exactly,” Jake says. “My theories have a one hundred percent effectiveness rate. Trust me. I wouldn’t have you do anything I wouldn’t try myself.”

“I never thought of that. That’s fucking genius,” Dontrelle says.

“There’s more where that came from,” Jake continues. “I can solve your employment situation.”

“How?” I say.

“You should get a job as a campus recruiter. You know, those guys who go to college campuses for internships and jobs?”

“The job-fair motherfuckers?” Dontrelle chimes in.

“Why would I want to do that?” I say.

Jake, shaking his head, goes into his explanation: “I gotta lay everything out for you. First, you get to go to campuses all over the region, maybe all over the country. That means young, impressionable coeds. Second, you’re in a position of power. Or so they think, and that’s what matters. They want jobs. And you got jobs. You hold the key to their futures. As soon as you hit the campus, tell the broads you got a job opportunity they’d be perfect for. You get a lunch break or wait till after the fair. You want to see where they live or whatever. Maybe even tell her you want to see her place as part of the interview process. Then, you bang them out. Maybe even bang out their roommate too. At a different time or at the same time. It’s college, time for experimenting. Grab their resume and roll out the door. They ask you if you’re gonna call and you hit them back with ‘I got your resume. I’m a get the contact info off that.’ Go to the next campus and repeat. It’s like you’re touring as a fucking rock star.”

“You’re a fucking mastermind, son,” Dontrelle says.

“One hundred percent effectiveness rate,” Jake says.

I don’t think it’s quite 100 percent, but his schemes do work more often than they fail. I sit and think about it. Not sure I can go through with that whole charade once, let alone repeat it several times. But Jake is a diabolical genius. He always has elaborate plans for getting certain outcomes, or knows the right way to manipulate a situation. I can give him that, but I guess it comes natural to certain types of people. “I couldn’t pull that off,” I say.

“I knew you’d say that. I should keep that one for myself if I’m ever looking for a career change,” Jake says, as we gather our stuff and exit the pub. I unlock my car and try to gauge if I’m too tipsy to drive. I’m not. Dontrelle has already walked off without saying goodbye. He does that sometimes.

“Why do you still have these Ivy League bumper stickers on your car?” Jake says as he looks at the back of my car. “I told you that was a horrible idea.”

“It gives me that smart edge and feel,” I say as I laugh.

“Whatever, dude, it looks lame. Do me a favor, though. When you get a chance, give my idea some thought,” Jake says.

“I told you, I don’t want to be a campus recruiter. I’m lucky I graduated, I can’t go back to those places.”

“No, not that one dummy. Setting up Chloe. It’ll work.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll think about it. I gotta go pick up Lex.” I get in my car and drive off.

B
y my usual standards
, I wasn’t late picking up Alexis at her apartment. I raced over there as soon as I left the fellas at the Foggy Glass. She must’ve recently finished getting dressed, because of the lack of complaints about me being late when I got to her place. Her apartment is a lot nicer than mine. Another great reason we should move in together. It always smells so pleasant. Her fridge stays stocked with different types of food, not just the kind that you poke holes in the plastic pouch to heat up, and every room looks like she’s just got done cleaning. Everything is so organized too. Alexis Martin is medium height and very elegant. She has the overall grace that I occasionally lack. She pronounces her last name
mar-teen
, even though I’m convinced it really should be more like Martin Luther King, because no one else in her family follows suit with the same pronunciation. I guess that adds to her overall exquisiteness. Always well put together, no matter where we go. Like tonight, she has on a light blue dress, face made-up, and expensive shoes I bought her last Valentine’s. And these aren’t her work clothes either, like what I’m wearing. She went home and put this on to come over to my apartment to eat take out and watch movies. If I go home first knowing we’re meeting later, the most I will do is take off my work clothes so they won’t get wrinkled. Then, put them back on when I have to leave.

Often people question whether and how we are a couple. Refer to me as her brother. Or best friend. Shit, her only brother, Phil, is a hard-core meth head. Nice guy, full of energy, but a druggie nonetheless. I chalk up people’s questioning the validity of our relationship as jealousy. It’s hard to accept the notion of two young, attractive people finding each other and being in a blissful relationship. I try not to waste time on the insecurities of others.

We head right over to the video store near my apartment to pick up some DVDs for tonight. Then, we’ll go and grab some take-out. Not sure what we’re eating yet. She’ll let me know what she wants. I always prefer to get the food first, because the type of food I get influences the types of movies I want to see. But she doesn’t want the food to get cold, so as with most things, we do it her way.

Our small talk consists mostly of her talking about her day. She never really wants to hear about my day or the funny and strange occurrences that go on at STD. She’s only interested in the promotions and commendations I get at work. That leads to me being way more comfortable with her talking about her job. One would think being a public relations specialist would be more interesting than my bullshit job, but it’s not. It’s just as bland, if not worse, regardless of how she tries to dress it up. I’ve learned how to pretend to be enthused anyway.

I’m not a fan of big franchise video stores. Big corporations remind me too much of STD. And I like to think of myself as a mom-and-pop-shop type of guy. Makes me feel like I’m giving back to the community, and helps me have something in common with other do-gooders, such as firefighters, teachers, and such. Harvey’s Movie Hut is what I am. Simple. Gets the job done. And for the people. They know me here. I’m not just a number on a laminated membership card to them.

We browse the aisles separately for our DVD selections. Then, we’ll reconvene to cut down our lists to two movies, one each. Each of us has one veto we can use at our own discretion. This system has been working out for us for a few months now. And not surprisingly, it was her invention. But I coined the word
moveto
(a hybrid of
movie
and
veto
), but so far, I’m the only one who actively uses the term.

I glance over, and she already has three DVDs. I have none, but I’m still looking through the racks. It feels like I’ve seen everything already. And I know her so well that I can predict which one she would use her moveto on. She’s walking over to me, and I can tell by the impatient look on her face that she’s ready to leave. I panic and grab a few flicks.

“What’d you get?” Alexis says.

“How about
Best of the Best
?” I say as I show her the DVD case.

“No,” she says.

“
Best of the Best 2
?”

“No, no Eric Roberts. Not tonight.”

“Wait…he’s only half of the highest-grossing brother-sister acting duo of all time.”

“Whatever, that’s all you have?” she says.

She takes both of my movies and puts them back in the rack and takes her two movies to the checkout line. I don’t even know what she has.

“If I have to tell you what’s wrong with Eric Roberts, then I really should be picking both movies tonight,” she continues.

“You only get one moveto,” I say.

“Would you please stop saying that. It’s not a word. You sound ridiculous. Someone might overhear you,” she says. “It turned out tonight that I’m picking both movies. That’s all.”

I hand the cashier my membership card. He scans it and looks at his little computer screen. “It looks like you owe $87.45 in late fees.”

“What? That’s impossible, Harvey, check that again. I always return on time,” I say.

“Sorry, Kev, but you never returned two movies, and we had to charge you retail price for them. Look.” He tilts the screen toward me. “It says it was
Australian Ass Licking Lesbos
and
Pissing Milf Midgets
.”

Alexis and I both look around to see if anyone else heard him, because he did say that aloud. Since he’s old, he really has not control over his speaking volume. And now, what was once a modestly crowded store seems to have transformed into a healthy line behind us. I turn around for a split second and see the people giving me uneasy looks. I turn back around and focus on Harvey, but I can still feel their eyes on my back, as they if I have a thing for pissing midgets. I turn up my speaking voice’s volume to a level where everyone in the store can definitely hear. “I never rented those. That’s preposterous.” And I use the word
preposterous
. How can they not believe me if I say
preposterous
? “I don’t even like midgets. Why would I want to see them erotically pissing on one another.” I turn around to see if the rest of the customers have bought my response. By the scowl of the woman directly behind me, I don’t think so.

“I bet midgets don’t like fucking nasty-ass fetishizing pervs either,” she says.

“What I meant was, I don’t like fucking and sucking midgets. And pissing. And definitely not midgets pissing on one another. I don’t even like that stuff with regular, normal people. I work with a dwarf, for god’s sake.”

I turn my attention back to Harvey. He says, “I remember the night you came in and these transactions took place.”

“Oh really?” I say. Because I would like to know. I think he’s making this shit up. And I’m about to go home and start searching for a new mom-and-pop video store to take my business to.

“Some guy I’ve never seen before and haven’t seen since said he forgot his card,” he says. “You were right behind him in line. Then, he told you a story about him needing to rent some movies for his daughter’s slumber party. And how upset she’d be if he came home empty-handed. He asked you if you could put the movies on your card, and you did.”

Aw, fuck. Now I remember. That did happen. “He promised to return them. So you’re saying he didn’t?”

“Bingo,” he says.

At that moment I look at Alexis, and she bolts for the exit. I follow her out the front door. We get in the car and drive back to my place. I guess we’ll see what’s on cable tonight.

After a few silent minutes in the car, the adrenaline of our daring escape wears off. “Good job, baby. Didn’t know how we were gonna get out of that one, but you really saved us. Storming out. Thought I was gonna have to fake a heart attack.”

“You’re an ass, you know that?” she says.

What? I’m thinking we worked with precise synergy, and she picks now to jab at me for no particular reason?

“A complete jackass,” she continues.

I shrug because I don’t know where this is coming from.

“How do you let a complete stranger rent movies under your membership? And porn, at that? You’re always letting people take advantage of you.”

I hate when she starts an argument while I’m driving. There’s no way for me to build great rebuttals while I’m trying to focus on the road. Everything always comes out in short, mildly coherent responses. “Huh? How?” Or blanket statements that always blow up in my face. “That never happens.”

She pounces like a leopard on a rabbit suffering from a twisted left ankle and a charley horse in their right leg. “Cashing checks for strangers.”

“That guy didn’t have an account. Who knew it would bounce? I was trying to help him out.”

“Yeah, who knew?” she says. “Giving crackheads money?”

“You’re getting a bit judgmental. You’re not sure if he was a crackhead. He had to pay for a tow truck, ‘cuz he broke down. And he didn’t have his wallet on him.”

“He wasn’t wearing shoes,” she says.

“What does that mean? You need shoes to drive now? Guess I missed that chapter in my DMV handbook.” See, if I wasn’t driving, I could’ve thought of something much better to say.

“You even tip the Chinese-food delivery man when he’s always two hours late with our food.” Her nostrils flare, and all that elegance I once described has now been replaced with an intimidating forcefulness.

“He has to ride a bike with a basket on the front. How demeaning is that? This isn’t
E.T.
, and he’s not a little kid. What good would it do if I verbally assault him for doing his job inadequately?”

“I don’t know . . . he might do his job better next time?” she says. “He gave you an egg roll with a bite taken out of it.”

“That could’ve been the people who prepared the food playing a practical joke on him,” I say.

“He was chewing on an egg roll when you paid him.”

“I don’t remember all of the specific details.”

She goes through her memory and all of the so-called fuckups of mine she’s catalogued in there. She probably wishes she had her trusty index cards.

“He curses at you in Chinese right to your face,” she says.

“How am I supposed to know that? I don’t speak Chinese.”

“I do. Fluently. He calls you his American bitch boy. Then, makes lewd comments about my breasts,” she says.

I didn’t know she spoke Chinese. But to my defense, she does have great tits, and I’ve been totally in the dark about the disrespectful delivery guy. “I like the food, MSG or not. Plus, I don’t want them to put pubes in the chow mein next time I order.”

“What’s with you and pubes in your food?” she says.

“I know the types of things people do.”

“Forget about it. I don’t even want to know right now. Anyway, people look at you and see an easy target. You might as well walk around holding a neon sign over your head. When we move to the city, I don’t know how you’re going to survive when I’m not around.”

Now this shit is really pissing me off, and I almost run a red light. “Who said I’m moving to the city?”

“But . . . but we agreed we’re going to get an apartment together.” Out goes the defensive accusatory tone and in comes that of a confused woman.

“Like we
agreed
on the movies tonight?” I say. “Tell me, when do I get my way?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she says.

“It means, I’m not moving anywhere. I need to make some decisions. And I’ve decided my home is here. My home is Eric Roberts!” I stop the car. She looks at me, because we’re at her place, not mine.

“My night bag is already packed,” she says. “I don’t need to stop here.”

“I’m gonna need a rain check for tonight. We didn’t get the movies. It’s too late to eat. For digestion purposes, you know? It seems pointless,” I say.

She gets out of the car and slams the door. “Passive-aggressive asshole!

She’s taking a liking to calling me that lately. I’m beginning to think that’s my new pet name. But she was really pissing me off tonight. I love her, but she loves to push my buttons. Even though I handled everything correctly, I’m still fuming. I’m gonna need to bounce some ideas off my dad and cool down. He always has some type of answer for me.

P
ulling
up to my parents’ house in their suburban New Jersey neighborhood is always a sobering experience. I hesitate a bit when it’s time to get out of the car. It’s not too late, but it is the evening. And I didn’t call ahead of time. They’re my parents, so I know they always want to see me and wouldn’t mind. But at the same time, it’s not an overly welcoming feeling when I visit. That’s probably because this isn’t the house I grew up in. They moved out of that house two years after I moved out. One would think once the house became empty they’d have gotten a smaller home, because their main life focus for the past twenty-three years had moved on. But this house is much grander, and our old place wasn’t exactly paltry by any stretch. This neighborhood’s atmosphere is more serene than our old one. The streets are lined with beautiful trees and immaculately manicured lawns. My mom is always on top of the outside upkeep of this place, even to a dictator-like extent, but that’s nothing new. I always remember her waking me and my dad up early the day after Thanksgiving to have us take down the turkey-day decorations she forced us to throw up in front of the house and replace them with Christmas ones. I see she’s still on her A game, because the shrubbery is different than I remember from the last time I was here. She must be waiting for this place to end up in an issue of
Better Homes and Gardens
. In the driveway sits a SUV towing a small boat—my dad’s. A light blue BMW roadster takes up the space right next to it. They must have company over.

As I approach, I notice the lights are on in the basement. I go to the side of the house and walk down the steps and through the basement entrance. My dad is sitting in his recliner, watching his New York Knicks on his big-screen TV. Even though the two of them moved to Jersey two years before I was born, he’s still an avid New York sports fan and is always glued to the TV watching his Mets, Jets, and Knicks.