Impish

CHAPTER 3: THE DUMPSTER

Kathleen Hanna's screaming vocals drown out the thoughts in my mind as I drive my shitty car to the 7-11 on the way out of town. Roux is in the passenger seat, looking genuinely terrified of the look in my eyes and trying to convince me that this is a horrible idea.

"Come on, Ike, you're scaring me," they say, still talking. "Come on, please, this can wait. You're been acting more rashly lately and I think this is just some sort of catalyst and I think it would be better if you just calmed down and thought this over."

I don't listen. I tune them out. Have I gone fucking crazy? Perhaps. But at least I'm following traffic laws, unlike some of the assholes out here. The Bikini Kill album playing out of my speakers from the CD player is only amplifying my mood. It's making me angry enough to keep going on with this.

And is there a part of me that wishes I could get to know him, that doesn't care whether or not he's a demon, and that wants to be kind to him? Is there a part of me that wishes he were there to do the things suburban dads are stereotypically supposed to do, like riding a bike and building a fire and what it means to love my mother with all his heart? Undoubtedly, yes! But, truth be told, I'm more pissed than I am mournful.

"Slow down, you're pushing forty-five," Roux says, looking over at me.

"I'm fine," I reply a little too quickly. I'm fully aware that I look like Cruella de Vil, hunched behind the wheel of my car and looking a little too crazed. I catch my eyes in the rearview mirror (terrible driving etiquette, I know), I go back to my previous train of thought. How am I going to go back to living a normal life? How can I go back to being a person when it looks like I've pierced my fucking forehead? How can I be normal when everything I thought I knew about myself is imploding?

I was okay with the way things were. If they continued on, they would be fine. I'm supposed to be an eighteen-year-old future college student preparing to move into my dorm and major in criminal justice or feminism or something like that. Things were supposed to stay the same. Things were supposed to keep going on, just me and my mother and my best friend.

And now they can't.

I shake my head to clear the roiling, boiling thoughts. I turn a little too quickly into the 7-11 parking lot. Something shifts and falls in my back seat. That's what I get for tossing my trash back there instead of into one of the many plastic bags we keep under the sink. It's probably an old paper cup of now-flat Vanilla Coke, spilling all over my yellow seat covers. I may hate the corporation behind it, but I do love that sweet soda. I've never been good at denying my vices, like Vanilla Coke and the rage I give into so easily.

After a terrible parking job and an abrupt pausing of "Anti-Pleasure Dissertation," I pull open the double glass doors and march up to the front counter. In the reflection, I can see Roux climbing out of the car and looking out at me with a mixture of confusion, concern, and absolute annoyance. Their face is interrupted by a turquoise and yellow poster advertising Slurpees, cutting it with a severe ninety degree angle.

There is a young man working up there. I can't imagine that he's the infamous Doug. He's much too short and much too covered in acne. He doesn't seem nearly cool enough. I don't bother trying to buy anything. I'm here for one thing and one thing only.

I slam my hands on the counter. "Where is Doug?"

"What?"

"Doug. He works here, right? Where is he? Is he in today?"

"He's in every day." This teenager, probably a year or two younger than I am, has a voice like a vacuum.

"So is he here?" I'm starting to lose my patience, if I had any to begin with. I'm about to snap. My fingers curl into a fist on the countertop.