MillVille Chapter 5: Maddie’s Helper Returns

Editor’s note: The Agenda is serially publishing this novella by local author Eric Linne. This is the fifth installment. You can read the previous chapters here, and look for new chapters on Tuesday and Thursday. Heads up: There is adult language and adult themes. Read about Eric’s other work here.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“Hey Maddie, nice of you to show up this morning,” I hear from the back room where all the magic happens. It’s Beth, one of my co-workers. She’s maybe a couple years older than me and has been a pain in my butt since I started working here. She blows her dyed, bright blue hair out of her eyes as she gazes at the piece she’s working on — brush raised like she’s Rembrandt or something. “Alex wants to see you in his office.” I drop my bag in the corner, peel off my light jacket and toss it on top. Beth stares at me, with her mouth slightly agape, like I’m not jumping fast enough to fulfill her every command. Even though she’s not my boss. She’s getting worked up. “He wants to see you…like now. So be sure to take your time,” she snarls.

I glance over at her as though I hadn’t heard. Bitch, I think but don’t say. Instead I look behind Beth, where Ivy is set up, working on a client’s upright wooden china display. She has super-short spiky blonde hair. As she works painting her furniture, she has a way of moving around the piece like a dancer. Like an Indian dancer from a Bollywood movie. Saw one once in a music class back in Felton. Anyway, Ivy is cool. She and I have become friends. Work friends. For now.

“Hi Ivy.”

“Hi back, stranger. Long time, no see. And how was your Thursday evening? Lovely, I hope.”

“Good. The usual. A beer at The Shop, then over to the Hound, to the Art Stop for a PBR (since they’re free) then met a couple friends at the drum circle. We hung out there till the cops broke it up about 11. They’re much cooler here than back in Indiana. Just told us that it was time to go home. No hassle about a beer in public or any sweet smells. Just told us it was time to go home. So I did. Go home that is. You do anything fun?”

“Same old. Dinner on the porch with the roomies, a little guitar. A little singing. Oh, wait till you hear this!” Ivy says excitedly. “We’re going camping this weekend! Going up to see the Brown Mountain lights. It’ll be super scary and fun and we can…”

“Did you not hear me?” Beth asks loudly. We both stare at her as if she were some kind of alien.

“What?” I reply, knowing full well what she’s talking about. I’ve only worked here a few weeks, but Beth is becoming really annoying. She let me know loud and clear on day one that I took the job (“stole” was her exact tem) that was supposed to go to her friend Vicky. And she hasn’t let me forget about about it in all the time I’ve worked here. I stare at her quizzically as if trying to work out a puzzle. It doesn’t take much to get her worked up, so that might be worth a few minutes’ diversion this morning.

“I said that Alex wants to see you…in his office…like now?” I could see that she was starting to get a little red in the face. I wondered how far I should push it. Too much effort for a Friday. Just one work day before the weekend.

“Oh, you mean he wants to see me right now?”

“Duh…he said that…”

“Beth,” Ivy chimes in, “you don’t have to get so upset about it. Maddie is just getting settled in and she’ll go see Alex when she’s ready.” Beth stares at her with her mouth agape and says nothing.

“Yeah, Beth, I’m heading over there right now. If it was something urgent, you really should have told me.”

“But I told you to go right away…right when you walked in and…”

“Beth, can we talk about this later? You’re making me late. I’m on my way to see Alex.” Beth sighs loudly, spins her piece and herself away from the two of us, picks up her brush and slaps on a dab of paint. A little too roughly, so she stalks off in a huff, grabs a towel and dabs it away. Ivy and I exchange knowing smiles. Then Ivy shakes her head and points toward the office in the front corner of the building. I nod and walk slowly in that direction.

I know what this is about. Coming in late. This is twice in three weeks. Oh boy…

*********

Since I moved here from Indiana, I’ve had my eyes opened a few times. Did I mention that I come from Indiana? Yeah, I thought so. Felton, Indiana. Small town. Farm town. The kind of place where 800 or so people live. All white, all Christian and all heterosexual. At least that’s what everybody parades around in public. In private, who knows?

But here in MillVille, in the big city of Charlotte, things are different. I’ve seen a lot of things. Things I’d never seen in public before. For one thing, people around here dress any way they damn well please. I’ve seen women dressed like lumberjacks. I saw a guy walking up Henderson Street the other day wearing a skirt. In all fairness, it may have been a kilt. But still, not something I saw in Felton. Not ever. We have four tattoo parlors that I know about in the neighborhood. And business is good for those dudes, because pretty much everybody around here has a tattoo. Some have more than one. And a few have them all over — arms, legs, back, face. I even had a girl pull down her pants in the Hound the other night to show me the new tattoo she got on her butt. It was little music box, with pink petals floating above it onto her lower back. Very pretty. But not something I’d ever see at home.

I’ve seen guys holding hands with guys. Girls kissing girls, on the mouth, right out in the open. I’ve seen two guys walking down the street, both holding hands with a girl in the middle. I’ve seen black guys with white girls. An Asian girl with a Latino guy. I’ve seen a person walking down the street and I couldn’t tell if they were a boy or a girl.

I’m not a prude or anything. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging anybody. It’s none of my business, what people want or what they do or who they love or whatever. It’s just…I don’t know. It’s just taken me a little while to get used to how things are around here. How open things are. How everybody just accepts everybody else for who they are. It’s not like it was back in Felton. But I’m getting used to it. It’s changing me, slowly. I like the new me I’m becoming.

While I’m getting used to new things and new people and new relationships here in MillVille, the two people who really have me stumped are the people who live closest to me: my housemates, Richard and Kelly. When the two of them are not at work, they are together constantly. Seriously, never apart. They almost seem like brother and sister. Maybe even twins. Except that Richard has a short afro, mocha colored skin and is tall and thin. His little shadow, Kelly, is at least a head shorter, and more full figured. She also has the whitest skin of any white person I’ve ever seen. As if she’s never been exposed to direct sunlight. Like a vampire. And she’s got the hugest head of naturally curly red hair. A grown up version of Little Orphan Annie.

So what I’m getting at is: I don’t think they are brother and sister. But they kinda relate to each other that way. They seem to really like each other. And they are together constantly. I see them look at each other like they can communicate without talking. But I’ve never seen them be lovey dovey. No hand holding, no hugging, no arms or legs intertwined. No kissing. They each have their separate rooms one floor below me in the orange mansion. And like so many other things in the neighborhood, I’ve learned to say (or think) My name is Paul, and this is between y’all.

Yeah, I’ve started saying y’all. The folks back in Indiana would laugh. But the hell with them.

*******

So when Richard and Kelly walk into The Shop after work tonight, side by side, I’m not too surprised. In fact, I’d be shocked if they weren’t together. But tonight, and I’m not joking about this, they are wearing matching T-shirts — for The Shop’s softball team. OK, I give up, they are twin son and daughter from another mother. Something like that.

We tend to always start off at The Shop. It’s a cool old rehabbed mill cottage that has been restored into MillVille’s favorite gathering place. It’s like everyone in the neighborhood’s communal living room and front porch. Everyone who lives in the hood and is going out at night makes at least one stop in The Shop for a beer and a little friendly conversation. The owners know everybody in the village and everybody feels welcome here. It’s the kind of place that when you walk in, you expect the young woman working and everybody sitting at the bar to raise their glasses and call out “Maddie!” in unison. You know, like they used to do in that old TV show. That one that was popular for a while. The one with Woody Harrelson. You know the one I mean.

Anyway, we’re at The Shop and I’m on my second beer. Local beers only around here. I’m having the house favorite, the MV Red Rover, from the MV Brewery, right here in the neighborhood. It’s one of the few bright spots that I pass riding my bike down that gritty stretch of Tryon Street. Usually just before I see Orange Flag Man. The brewery is my one shining beacon of hope that my daily ride up grimy Tryon Street might be a little more tolerable some day. But I’m guessing that the light rail will be finished and 36th Street will open before that street gets better. A girl can dream, can’t she?

So Kelly and Richard each give me a quick friend hug and pull up chairs beside me at the big communal table. The one that was salvaged from the top floor of the MV Brewery when they remodeled the old pickle factory that was there before. I told you The Shop owners know everybody. Kelly has to be at work in a bit, so I know she won’t be drinking. And Richard doesn’t drink (alcohol that is) so I’m the only one here with a beer. Just me and my old buddy.

“So how was work today, honey?” I have no idea whether Kelly is older or younger than me, but she always calls me “honey” or “sweetie” or “darlin’” She’s from the South, so it doesn’t bother me. I start to give my stock answer of ‘fine’. But then I think back on my day. Especially my morning. It was a fine ride into work. Sun shining, birds singing, flowers blooming, dogs walking, people waving. All the good stuff I’ve come to expect in MillVille.

But even after a couple of beers, I get a little chill down my spine when I think of the change that came over my boss Alex this morning. Usually, he’s so laid back. But today, there was a different tone in his voice when he asked me to take a seat in his office.

“I had a little trouble at work today,” I start.

Kelly does about ninety percent of the talking for Kelly and Richard, so I’m not surprised when she’s the one who follows up. She spends all night giving instructions to the junior chefs who work for her at The Publican. So she’s not shy about carrying a conversation.

“What happened, sweetie? Was Beth being her usual pleasant self?” Beth has lived in the neighborhood for a few years, so everybody knows her. She’s generally tolerated or ignored in most of the favorite nighttime gathering places. Kelly has told me stories about her being a pain about her food at The Publican. And pretty much nobody complains about the food at The Publican. It’s that good.

“No, it wasn’t Beth,” I reply. “But she did get a kick out of what happened. The bitch.” There, I said it out loud.

“So spill it. What’s the trouble, chica?” Is this a long story or short story kind of thing? Mom would be glad that I’m even considering the question. I decide to go short.

“Alex, my boss, called me into his office this morning.”

“We know who Alex is,” says Kelly, speaking for Richard. He smiles and nods. She continues. “So what happened?”

“He gave me a warning. Said that it’s the second time I’ve been late. He didn’t say anything about the first time. I was just a little late.”

“So why were you late?” Kelly asks. No judgment, more like she’s curious.

“The time before was on my second day of work. First time I rode my bike. I guess I just got lost. Rode up Henderson, missed the turn on Craighead Street and went all the way up to Sugar Creek. Only to have to walk my bike through all the construction stuff. The guys working there said they weren’t supposed to let me through. But they took pity on the poor little new girl. By the time I got over to work, I was like fifteen minutes late. I offered to stay after to make it up, but Andrew just waived it off. So I thought the starting time was kind of…optional?”

Kelly glances over at Richard. He gives her a little knowing nod. I swear those guys are telepathic. “What about today?” she asks, taking the tiniest sip of her Diet Coke. I’m impressed with her patience. I’m a bit more of a guzzler.

“Why was I late? Well, I headed up Henderson as usual, but the morning train…you know about the morning train?”

“Uuugh, yeah, we know,” Richard and Kelly say in unison. How do they do that?

The Shop is starting to fill up around us. Customers stand three-deep at the bar waiting to get their drafts. I should take off soon because I don’t want to wait in line to get my next one. I glance out to the tables in front and purple balloons wave in the breeze, attached to the cute white picket fence surrounding the front yard of the place. A birthday party, I think. Must be the old guy. The one walking around with flowers sticking out of his baseball cap. Looks like he’s having fun. Good for him.

“So, no way am I gonna wait for the morning train. You know what I mean?” Kelly and Richard both nod. They’ve been there, waiting. We all have. “So I turned around and took the long way over the Matthews bridge.”

“It’s the only way over there, now. With the construction and the train backing up things on Craighead Street,” Richard chimes in. Miraculously, he does talk every once in awhile.

“So Alex starts reading me the riot act because I’m like ten minutes late.” Kelly and Richard glance at each other, then back at me. Damn, they’re perceptive. “OK, twenty minutes late. Maybe twenty-five. But he’s only mad and all because they’ve got so many orders in right now. He’s under stress, so he’s just taking it out on me.” I know a thing or two about stress. Stress has been my unwelcome companion the last few years. Just sitting there on my shoulder. Waiting to jump into my head and totally control my life when I need him least. Never thought it before, but I always think about my stress as a guy.

I continue my saga. “I offered to come in tomorrow, even though it’s Saturday, to help get caught up. Said he’d think about it and text me if he needs me. Probably doesn’t want to pay any overtime.”

“Overtime?” Kelly snorts. “You’re not gonna get paid any overtime. C’mon girl. You’re lucky he hasn’t fired your ass already.” Kelly is a boss at work and she can be a tough cookie when she needs to be. Can’t a girl get a little sympathy? “You know there are bunch of girls…check that…a bunch of qualified people who would love to have your job. You better get your act together.”

I start to mumble something, but then shut up and drop my head. I’ve heard this kind of talk before and I know where it’s going.

Kelly reaches out and gently lifts my chin with the palm of her hand, so we are eye to eye. “Hey sister? Are you listening to me?” I was. And I am. I nod. “I’m telling you this for your own good. Tom went out on a limb to get you this gig. And you’re just being stupid if you blow this. You’ve got a good thing going here: the job, the house, the free bike…”

Shit, I’m starting to tear up. Damn it! I hate this. I feel one fat tear squeeze out of my right eye. It rolls down my cheek and parks itself in the vicinity of my lower jaw. I reach across with my left arm and wipe it off, then look over at Kelly and Richard. They’re not mad at me. They seem to…I don’t know…they seem to care and… “And you’ve got Richard here…and me. To look after you.” Kelly scoots her chair a little closer, to me reaches out and rubs my arm a little. “Don’t get down baby. It’s Friday niiiight!” she half sings. But she leans close to my ear and whispers so only I can hear. “But get your shit together. We don’t want to lose another roomie.” Not sure what that means, but I nod like I do.

I point over to the left and make my way to The Shop’s unisex communal bathroom. Those are becoming pretty popular in MillVille these days in response to that stupid HB2 law. On my way over, a tall man in a tight black T, jeans that fit just right and cowboy boots reaches over and gently takes my arm as I pass.

I start to tell him off when the man says, “It’s Maddie, right? Remember me? Mark? Your highway rescue man?”