Hello, my name is Loser

Chapter 2: My life in boxes

I grab the garage keys from a cupboard in the kitchen.  It's a relief to know my parents are too stuck in their routine to ever change it's home. A relief and also slightly worrying because I might be breaking that reliable routine. 

The night is still stifling in its heat as I clamber out of the house and onto the back deck. The wheels of my suitcase put up a brief fight that leaves me sweating, and I know I'm being loud as all hell. Swearing and fumbling. I'd be surprised if the nosy neighbors aren't panting at my parents' front door tomorrow, practically foaming at the mouth with curiosity. 

"Did you hear that noise last night?"

"Anything new happen here? "

"We thought we saw a figure through our window at 2 in the morning while we were watching your house for any signs of movement because we're retired and our kids don't visit and we don't know how to work the TV."

I smirk then swear as I stub my toe through my sneaker. 

The garage is detached from the house, set against the forest that carves out the right side of the backyard. It's a small square structure with walls the same gray blue as the house. Outside, in the unlit walkway, it feels like I'm leaving civilization behind, like I'm on the run to another galaxy through the dark of outer space. The quiet is almost nice.

But then I reach the side door and sink the keys into the lock. It doesn't open. 

"Oh, come on," I mumble and jiggle the handle. The refusal for admittance conjures an image of my parents and brother with their arms crossed, shaking their heads. I guess even objects are stubborn here. 

I have to lift it by the handle and push hard to get it to open. I can feel sweat slithering down my spine. 

When I flick the lights on it's just like I remember; like opening a junk drawer and finding all of the things you thought were lost. A family of bikes are huddled in one corner where they share space with a Casio keyboard, broken roller skates, and a bookshelf stuffed with eclectic book titles. Most of the garage is occupied by boxes of various sizes and content. Old picture frames, clothes meant to be donated, measuring tools. It's a prime location for a game of I Spy. And just like mom promised, two mismatched armchairs wait under the only window. Moonlight illuminates their patchwork and sunken cushions. 

I close the door and prop my suitcase against it then rest my hands on my hips. Mom was also telling the truth about the pullout bed...only. At this point in its life it looks more like a melted candle than a usable piece of furniture. Or maybe just a couch that was once set on fire. I squint. Hard to tell. 

It rests against the wall opposite the window, about 5 wide strides from me. I can smell it. Mildew? Sweat? Cigarettes? All three?

"Huh," I say to no one. I have to wonder if it looked like that before or after my brother stayed here. I can picture his tall muscular frame folded onto it while still wearing his uniform, including his muddy work boots and I don't fight my gag of disgust. 

My footsteps are muffled against the dusty carpet as I navigate my way around boxes. Locks of  hair cling to my damp neck and I push a dark strand behind my ear. I spy a square fan peaking out from one box and sigh in relief. Maybe all is not lost yet?

A stubborn box meets my foot as I try to nudge it out of the way, and I bend to push it with my hands. 

"What the fuck," I can't help the words or the sharp spear of hurt that cuts me. The belongings that decorated my room the last time I saw it three years ago are in a handful of boxes. My paintings and supplies. Photos of me at various stages of my life before 22. Notebooks and journals. A calendar and hair supplies. Shoes and tops I left behind when I moved to Boston. 

So this is it, huh? A person can be whittled down to five boxes of stuff tossed into a dingy garage only visited by a neanderthal who doesn't know what a shower is. 

I snatch a photo from the heap and plop down on the couch's lumpy cushion. It's the only picture not framed. The edges are bent and a crease runs down the middle as if it spent a long time folded. My lips turn up at the corners even as I feel my eyes moisten. It's a photo of me standing next to a lanky boy who is sporting badly bleached hair with sizable black roots and acne on his chest. 

Bobby Park. 

It was taken just after we celebrated my thirteenth birthday that summer. We're standing in front of the local diner flipping the camera off. His tan skin is a stark contrast against my paleness, and we're both wearing bathing suits beside a "No shoes, no shirt, no service" sign. Of course, neither of us are wearing shoes and the shit eating grins on our faces says "don't tell us what to do." 

Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. I close my eyes. The next year he moved away. I exhale slowly and wipe my arm across my wet face. I doubt he ever even thought about me after he left. 

 A yawn splits my face. Oh, God no. I glance at the crusty cushions and wonder what the bed beneath looks like. 

It's easier than thinking about what the morning will look like. 

_________________________

Hello! 

Thanks for reading! What was your favorite part? I love Bobby so much and I can't wait for you to meet him. 

Love, 

Heather