PART TWO: QUAALUDES AND INTERLUDES

  Nobody ever tells you that emptiness weighs the most.

  – Unknown

  Patrick sat in his pickup and counted the money he had collected so far.

  $800.

  $400 for his guitar and $400 for some odd jobs he had done around town. That wasn’t enough. Not that any amount would ever be enough, but he had to make sure Laila was taken care of after he was gone. He had hoped to get $800 just for the guitar, but the pawnbroker was stingy.

  The fat mustachioed man had sweat dripping down his nose as they negotiated. He looked like a balding, moist sea lion. Patrick had tried to explain that this was for his wife’s wellbeing, but the semi-aquatic store owner cheerfully said that he would not budge on his offer.

  How can someone so awful be so happy? Patrick thought to himself as he left the shop, sans guitar. Truthfully, Patrick wasn’t sure how anyone could be content with life, but the ignorant joy that he saw in the worst people around him filled him with a disproportionate rage.

  It’ll all be over soon. He thought, the implication bringing some morbid relief to him. Just a bit more money and it’ll be over.

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  Patrick sat on his bed counting the money again, as if it would have multiplied by itself since he had last checked. He sighed when his count revealed no such luck. Back at it again tomorrow, I guess. He thought. He stuffed the cash into an envelope and put it into the drawer of his nightstand, right next to the loaded handgun. He closed the drawer and sat there for a moment, just staring off into space.

  He was brought back to Earth by Laila gently rubbing his shoulder. “Patrick, are you okay?” She asked, her brow furrowed. He smiled sheepishly and pushed her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, sorry, just lost in thought.” He said. “Did you need something?” Her gaze lingered on him skeptically for a moment. “Is it the interview?” She asked. He shrugged. “Kind of, yeah.” He said. “Just nervous, really. I don’t wanna fuck it all up again.” Laila sat next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. They sat like that for a moment. “You don’t have to do it, you know.” She whispered. Patrick kissed the top of her head. “I know.” He said. “But I want to be able to support you.” Laila patted his thigh and stood. “Well, you’re gonna need some food first.” Patrick smiled. “Oh goodie, more mac and cheese?”

  “Keep it up like that and you’ll be lucky to get anything.” She said.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Patrick sat in the waiting room bouncing his leg. He loosened his tie a bit and checked his watch. It felt ridiculous to be so nervous, but this interview would decide a lot. He had spent the last few years fucking around in one way or another and was having a difficult time trying to get back on track. This one was the last in a string of interviews that had yet to go well. As it turns out, it’s hard to get a well-paying job with no work experience outside of some semi-regular guitar gigs. The bills didn’t care, of course. They still came, regardless. That was fine when it was just him, but he was married now. He had to get serious.

  A slight man in steel toe boots and work pants stepped into the waiting room. He seemed to be about Patrick’s age and was holding a clipboard. Patrick suddenly felt very overdressed. The man rubbed his eye and looked at the clipboard. “Patrick Thompson?” He called. Patrick stood and walked towards him. “That’s me,” He said, offering a handshake. “Nice to meet you.” The man shook his hand very briefly. “I’m George.” He said. He gestured toward the room he had emerged from. “Come on in.”