Page 11 of Collin: Episodes 1-3
“Thank you, sir.” Collin blinked.
Mr. Reevesworth’s smile widened. “Keep it up, Collin. We’ll have you ready yet.” Then he turned and continued down the sidewalk into the city crush.
Collin’s class readings on geology made little sense. His head throbbed, and the back room at the bar for employees was stifling. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and checked the clock on the wall. At the rate he was going, he was not going to keep his scholarship. He should have dropped this class and picked something, anything. else, but it was the last Gen Ed that he needed and the only one that fit into his work schedule and his class schedule. So, he was stuck with a professor who should have retired ten years ago.
He closed the book and stood up, reaching for his apron. It was time. And he might as well get out there and earn tips.
By eight thirty, he remembered he’d forgotten to eat. By nine p.m., he had a roaring headache behind his right eye. At nine thirty, his coworker had cut her hand open to the bone on a broken glass. He wrapped it and helped her type the address to the local ER into a rideshare app. Then between pouring rounds and making drinks, he texted his boss.
No answer.
He texted two other people on the call list. One texted that they were in Wisconsin at their in-laws. The other didn’t respond.
Collin walked into the back and pressed a cold towel against his face and took in a deep breath. It was just four more hours until the bar closed. And five more hours until he could go home. He could do this. He could.
Somehow.
By midnight, the world had blurred. At one a.m., an angry divorcée threw a full beer down his shirt when he got her order wrong. But the bar was still full. He rushed into the back and pulled on his T-shirt with some band on the front from earlier in the day. But his skin was sticky underneath. He could feel it with every move. There were weird bits of color around every face, streaking out from the lights overhead, the TV on the far wall, and the streetlights through the windows.
At one forty-five, he made last calls for drinks. It should have been one-thirty, but he’d gotten lost in the haze of work, as if he was going to stand behind that bar forever.
One particular drunk didn’t want to leave, but he was finally cajoled out the door and into a cab at two fifteen. Collin closed the door after him and locked it, then slid down to the floor, and pulled his knees up to his chest. How long he was there, he didn’t know, but at some point, his phone rang. It was his sister, Alice.
He thumbed it on.
“Hey, Collin, you still awake?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m awake.”
“I’m stuck on my essay. Could you help?”
“What time is it?”
“Like eleven. I have to have it in by midnight. And Mom’s asleep. She took her meds already.”
“Okay. Okay.” Collin used the door to pull himself to his feet. “Let me grab my headphones.”
“Where are you?”
“Work. I mean, bar’s closed, I’m just cleaning up.”
“Am I bothering you?”
“No, no, not at all. You can keep me company. My partner for the night had to get her hand stitched up, so I’m on my own. Go ahead, talk.”
Alice’s problem was fairly straightforward. She needed to include another source in her argument, but her argument was already made. Collin listened to her talk while he wiped down tables and put up chairs. She submitted her essay just as he was closing the dishwasher and turning it on.
He wished her good night and grabbed his backpack, heading for the door. The lights of a bus blinked and pulled away. He raised his hand and dropped it. He wasn’t even on the sidewalk. They wouldn’t wait for him. And he hadn’t even yet locked the door.
His shoulders slumped, and he checked his phone. Almost out of battery after the call with his sister, and there wouldn’t be a train for thirty minutes, at the very earliest. And no more buses for sixty minutes.
He could stay in the bar. But…he really didn’t want to. And it might not go down well with his boss. He could walk home, but that would take hours. And he still hadn’t eaten. And he wouldn’t be caught dead taking food from the bar kitchen.
But he did have a leftover sandwich at Linda Reevesworth’s office. And they’d never said he couldn’t be there outside of hours.
He pushed outside into the rain, locked the door, and started to retrace his footsteps.
He was barely conscious when he reached the high-rise. Security waved him through when he scanned his badge, giving him a look but not saying anything. He shivered in the elevator all the way up to the twenty-second floor. In the break room, he stripped out of his shirt, tossing it into the sink. It smelled like beer. He smelled like beer. And he was cold. His pants were soaked. But he still had mostly dry jeans in his backpack. He toed off his shoes and stripped out of his slacks. They also smelled like beer. Perfect. He dumped those in the little sink along with the shirt. There was sticky all over his chest. He soaked a couple of paper towels and put soap on them and scrubbed. His skin turned pink, but the relief was worth it. He scrubbed all the way down to the waistband of his briefs. They, too, were soaked with beer.
