Page 85 of I Heart Mason Cartwright
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The pub was boring.I’m not sure what I expected for two o’clock in the afternoon. But it wasn’t that. None of the people were interesting to talk to. I didn’t see any girls I might want to fuck. And the bottomless mimosas ensured that everyone was drunker than me and I wouldn’t be able to catch up.
I walk around downtown for a bit, then head over to a lookout near the ferry terminal to watch them for a while. I take out my notepad and start a small sketch of theSealth, one of the ferries running today. Not that they don’t all look similar. I finish theSealthand start sketching one of the islands, Vashon, I think. I wouldn’t mind living on Vashon Island.
If Bainbridge Island didn’t already have the perfect house.
I need something that will take my mind off everything. Times like this I wish I did drugs. Deciding on a plan to work out, I head back to the hotel, change, and hit the boxing gym. Because when all else fails, getting the shit beat out of you while trying to do the same to someone else, is a surefire way to numb your brain for a while.
Mom’s bookstore isn’t exactly on my way back to the hotel, but I go that route anyway so I can grab a few books to read. I see the coffee/juice cart in front of the shop that my mom mentioned, along with a couple of small tables for people to sit at. It wasn’t there the last time I was here, which was only a few weeks ago. But makes for a nice addition, I’m surprised no one thought of it sooner.
I had my fill of water at the gym, so I order arejuvenating orange-pineapple fusionfrom the kid working the cart and head in to the store. Amy, a young graduate student who hopes to be a writer, is working the counter in front while Meghan, a single mom with teenagers who likes to pass the time while they are busy, is at the help desk in the back. Both are nice and work hard. Mom trusts them, so I do too.
“Hey, Amy, how’s it going?”
“Oh, hey, Mason. I didn’t know you were coming in today.”
“Neither did I. Just want to grab a couple books if you don’t mind.”
“Help yourself.”
I peruse theNoirsection, like usual, and grab a Dashiell Hammett and a Dennis Lehane before also snagging a copy ofThe Postman Always Rings Twice, which I haven’t read in a couple years. Then I move over to literature and grab a copy ofA Moveable Feast, which Zach recommended. I sit in the lounge and start that one first.
Thinking of Zach reminds me of Willow. And thinking of Willow reminds me of the shit-storm that is AshLynn. And thinking aboutthatmakes me want to bury my head in a hole in shame.
Nine thousand dollars.
Better than jail, buddy.
What in the actual fuck was I thinking writing a check for over nine thousand dollars? I must be the world’s biggest idiot to pay for a fake wedding that wasn’t even my idea in the first place. My mom said it was chivalrous for me to do that. Chivalrous and generous. It was neither of those. It was stupid and moronic. Like I let them lead me by the balls to the bank of ideocracy where I opened the vault for them to take whatever they wanted.
I grab my phone and send a text to my buddy who was looking for help with a house in Santa Barbara a couple weeks ago, letting him know that I’m available. Then I settle in with my orange-fusion-rejuvenation-whatever drink and tune out everything else so I can read.
I finish a good chunk of the book before the girls are ready to close up shop, so I leave a note with what I took with me and head back to the hotel. By the time I get there my buddy has texted me back. He could definitely use my help if I have a few months to spare. And I do.
I text him back to let him know I’ll be there in a few days and start making plans to disappear for a while. The work will do my brain and my body some good. By the time I come back, I’ll have a plan for what comes next, I won’t be all tangled up in thoughts of girls with tree names, and I’ll have some extra money in my pocket to try and recoup the nine thousand that I burned.
