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Inroads: Stories
Inroads, my second short-story collection (and fifth book), is now available. Thank you to everyone who helped produce and promote this.
And now for this month’s story.
“Punk”
William Auten
Copyright William Auten
The intern strides through cheers, music, liquor shots, and beer and offers a ginger ale to Tobin and, leaning against the table of computers and notepads, tells him she remembered he doesn’t drink.
Tobin toasts her. “I appreciate that.”
“But I really did it to make sure you write good things about me when I leave.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Everson.”
“You were professional. More than them.”
“You helped me so much this summer.”
“You did a great job. You’ll get your letter of recommendation.”
“Thank you. For everything. You’re the best boss I’ve ever had. We all think that. Seriously. You were so good to all of us.”
Two colleagues tug at Karey and flash a pipe to Tobin who brushes it off.
“Go get your fun. You deserve it.” He downs his ginger ale and banters with his team playing a drinking game. When they suggest video-calling Everson and inviting them to the party, he says, “I don’t want to anything to do with them until Raj gets complaints.”
“Give me until Wednesday, at least, please. But you’ll be out next week.”
Tobin exaggerates his grin.
Raj pops a jello-rum. “Help me, Tobin-Wan Kenobi.”
“You can do it.” Tobin gravels his voice. “The student is now the master.”
The music cycles genres; dancing picks up near the front; groups break apart, reunite, spin, drink, eat. Whiffs of pot, vape, and cigarette waft through the office as people lean out doors and windows. Tobin turns toward the kitchen where Karey giggles and passes the pipe to a silhouette. He rubs a lighter in his slacks, but when his manager blocks his escape, he fake-smiles and squirms over to her.
“I wanted to thank you again,” Mimi says, drink in hand.
“You’re welcome. We all did it.” His eyes dart between her, smoke, silhouettes, and noise in the kitchen and his office far from the party.
“I hope to see your application for the regional position.”
“You will.”
“Good. See you when you’re back.” Her heels buckle as she wobbles toward the kitchen.
Tobin fills water in his cup and slinks off to his office. Heart racing, he sinks under his desk, but halfway down, he tightens after he bumps his mouse and his laptop glows on. When no one walks by and the screen sleeps again, he pulls papers from his trash basket and digs out his lighter. He clicks on the flame; its colors and shink sound open him, and days, hours, and years seep until his pulse calms, his heart pumps more than blood, and he floats over his body and shivers while the lighter warms and chills him. He circles the flame around the papers’ edges, and its gold wings chase him as much as he chases them—burning but never burning away. But when two shadows stop outside his door, he dumps the water onto the paper and snaps shut the lighter. Sweat runs down him; his pupils dilate. The click of the lighter’s lid pings through him.
“Do you smell smoke?” one shadow yells over the music.
The other shadow nods at the kitchen. “It’s them.”
The shadows leave, and Tobin opens a desk drawer, unseals a sandwich bag, and adds the char-tipped papers to the burned papers inside. He stuffs away the bag and his lighter, reviews Mimi’s email announcing the position, and confirms he has his credentials to log in offsite. He undocks his laptop and sneaks out the back door.
After he arrives home, he heads to the garbage bin alongside the garage and, double-checking the house, empties the sandwich bag, rips it, and churns junk mail and food scraps until they cover the bag and burned papers. He returns the lighter to its groove hidden behind a dart board.