She believes in me.
She thinks I can do this without resorting to violence.
And she’s the smartest woman I know.
I’ll find a way. I just have to fight my nature to kick these guys’ asses and send them to an early grave in a glorious flame of gunfire.
“Hold on a second,” I say, letting go of my gun and holding out my hands. “This isn’t what you guys think.”
One of them, a guy in his forties, with his hardhat askew, and an orange vest that strains to cover his bulky belly, steps forward. The others hold their places. Looks like I’ve found the leader.
“What it looks like, buddy, is that you’re poking your nose around a restricted area. It also looks like you’re asking to get your ass kicked.”
They think I’m a threat. And they’re right — if I wanted to, I could put every single one of these men in the ground before they knew what was happening — but I can’t let them know that. They have to think they have the advantage.
“It isn’t like that.”
He cocks his head sideways. His hat goes even more askew.
“Then why don’t you tell me how it is? You’ve got ten seconds before we kick your ass.”
The only way I get out of this is by making them think I’m not a threat. That I’m not worth their time, instead of being the badass who could tear this whole construction site down without breaking a sweat. I have to do the opposite of what I normally do; I have to talk shit about myself.
“Look at me, man, do I look like I matter?” I say.
“You look like an asshole in a fucking Backstreet Boys t-shirt and baggy jeans,” he says.
I could kill you in a blink, motherfucker. Put a bullet in your head and send half your friends to meet their maker before any of you sweaty cocksuckers even knew what was happening.
Instead, I’m nodding. Taking a half step back. Holding my arms out like I’m some peon trying to stave off a beating.
“I am. I mean, the Backstreet Boys are fucking great, so lay off about the shirt,” I say. “Look, man, I just was trying to get a fucking job. I thought if I came by and talked to the foreman, Howser, I could get hired on. My parents always said that was the best way to get a job. Standing in the fucking parking lot at the hardware store with all the day laborers ain’t doing shit for my finances, I just keep losing out on jobs to guys willing to work for fucking peanuts, and I got bills to pay.”
“You’re here for a job, asswipe?”
I nod. “When I came here, the foreman was just taking some boss-looking types into his trailer. Now, I ain’t the brightest out there, but even I know that it’d be stupid as hell to go knocking on his door. Instead, I’m just going to go back to my old Volvo, drive back to my mom’s house — where I live, in her fucking basement — and chill out until tomorrow. It ain’t nothing to me. Hell, I picked up Animal Crossing the other day, I can kill days with that shit.”
“Animal Crossing? What’s that?”
“A video game. I kick ass at it. My island is fucking awesome.”
“Well, I’ll give you one thing: you sure look the part of a fucking loser.”
I nod again. Even smile at the guy. It hurts, enrages me, every part of me is screaming to be done with this talking shit and show each of these meatheads how a real man handles business, but the second I do, I’ll have the whole fucking construction site on my ass and I’ll give away any element of surprise we’d have over the creeps trying to steal my mother’s house away.
But, what would bother me the most about going on a rampage, is that I’d end up disappointing that beautiful and brilliant woman waiting for me back at my mom’s house.
I have to humble myself. Tone myself down so that these knucklebrained chucklefucks pity me and let me go.
I look down at my feet.
Scuff my old sneakers against the dusty gravel of the construction site.
“Sorry, man. You’re right — I am a loser,” I say. “Well, except for maybe in Animal Crossing, because I kick ass at that. You should see my avatar in the game, he’s a badass. Maybe you want to game with me sometime? There’s room for you on my island, if you feel like kicking it.”
Now it’s the construction guy’s turn to take a step back and hold up a wary hand. “You want me to come hang out with you in your parent’s basement, playing with your avatar on some fantasy island?”
“I’ve got hella snacks. Cheetos. Seven different kinds of Doritos. Gummy bears. And I have a whole mini fridge full of soda. We could spend hours just chilling. You and me and my sweet basement and all the Animal Crossing you can handle. You down?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he says, waving for the rest of his crew to get out of the way. “And if I ever see you around here again, I will beat the shit out of you so bad not even your mother would recognize you.”
I start walking. Don’t even look back until I get to my mom’s car. When I turn the key in the ignition and see the looks of disgust on every one of their faces, I smile.
This talking bullshit worked better than I thought.
I’m still grinning as I pull out of the parking lot and head downtown. Tiffany and my mom are both probably still dealing
