My Dad had been gone for many years and I’d like to think I made him proud while he was here. Though he wasn't pleased that I never remarried, the copious amounts of money I made did please him. Wealth, to him, meant guaranteed happiness. Maybe it was the old way of living, and maybe that's what success actually looked like in the 70s. But I had been wealthy for many years and I'd grown more and more unhappy with each passing year.
It was okay, I knew, to occasionally be lonely. That was part of life. But it was how normal it felt now, to be so profoundly alone that my entire being ached, feeling hollow and devoid—that was what scared me. That I'd grown accustomed to my loneliness and had simply accepted it.
A house full of people and I was still alone.
A warm body in bed next to me and I was still alone.
The back nine of a beautiful golf course with executives and I was still alone.
The rush I’d gotten from seeing Britta, how the warmth of her soul radiated when I stood next to her in the kitchen, those brief, fleeting moments—it all made me think of my Dad, and his advice that investing and money would create happiness. As I had grown more and more comfortable with the overwhelming feeling of loneliness, I realized how wrong he was. And how uncomfortable I was with being so complacent in my current life.
6
Brooks
Closing my computer, I made my way downstairs, grabbed my wallet and keys and slipped on some socks and shoes from the mudroom. As soon as I was in my car, her address filled the screen and I started driving.
I hadn't been downtown in ages. Last time I was downtown it was so fucking overrun with drug users and pan handlers that I opted out of being an angel investor in a struggling t-shirt printing company. The location was cheap but the number of vagrants and crime in the area deterred me. I couldn't imagine Britta—the thoughtful young woman from the kitchen who recited my words like poetic gold—living fucking downtown. I didn't want to imagine it, either.
After an aggravating drive on the freeway, I found myself navigating the downtown streets, hunting for South First. My car alerted me I'd arrived at my destination but once I sidled up to the curb and peered up out of the passenger side window, I'd wondered if Ed had given me the wrong information. But, no, surely, he knew where she lived if he went there twice a week? And then, just as I was about to pull away, I spotted a small rectangle sitting on top of the Chinese restaurant sign. Apartments above. It was painted in red on a piece of wood, and it was so subtle I was sure that no one would see it if they were just walking by. That reassured me somewhat, hoping that none of the vagrants from the street ever wandered up to her apartment.
Making my way through the outdoor seating, past the restaurant entrance, I gave a nod of acknowledgement to a kid taking a drag of a cigarette at the bottom of the stairs.
"You sure you're in the right place, my man?" he asked, exhaling a cloud of sweet-smelling nicotine towards me. Greasy unkempt dark hair with clean shaven face, he pulled a breath of smoke from the cigarette again. He wore a white tank top which fit his torso like a glove and he had sweat shorts and high tops on and as he gripped the railing to the stairs, I wondered if this was Britta's boyfriend. My fists curled at my sides, thinking those rough, cigarette smoking hands got to cradle her soft face and kiss her sweet lips.
"I am," I said, walking up the stairs past him. I didn't turn back to see, but I heard him follow me up. Once I found her apartment door, one of the only three on the second floor, I turned to face him. He tossed the cigarette down to the ground and stepped on it, blowing one final exhale of smoke into my face.
"Who you looking for?" he asked, narrowing his eyes on me. He was trying to intimidate me, I think, but he was short and therefore had to look up at me, which was more childlike than intimidating.
"Britta," I said, wondering if I should be sharing her name with him, in case he was a stranger.
"Oh, no shit?" he smirked, pulling a stray cigarette out from behind his ear, resting it between his lips.
"You know her?" I asked, watching him pull a Bic lighter from his pocket and light his smoke.
"That's my girl’s cousin. But Britta ain't home. Sliced her hand open at work or some shit. She's getting stitched up," he said, this time turning his head to exhale the smoke. A sign of respect, perhaps. I didn't care to decipher. Britta wasn't here and her hand was worse off than I thought.
"What hospital?" I asked, my tone stressed.
"I don't know. Give me twenty bucks and I'll find out."
He smirked, a strand of oily hair falling over his dark eyes. Something told me this is how he made his money, swindling and hassling people. Immediately, I pulled a crisp bill from my wallet. I don't care about twenty dollars, or how this individual makes money. I just want to see Britta.
"Aight, let's find out," he said, climbing the next set of stairs, pushing open the first
