The Incredibly Consequential Life of Charlie Zappala

Chapter One: Charlie Zappala and the No Good, Very Bad Adulthood

Charlie Zappala took a deep breath, contemplating their words before deciding to spew. They sunk into their seat, jacket coming up to meet their chin.

"I don't know. I'm going to sound crazy if I say it. But I grew up in the age of 'you can do anything', right? Like it was this universally accepted ideal that this generation wasn't confined to the standards they were brought up in--you know, considering you were white and at least middle class.

"So I had this grand delusion that I could be greater than the normal confines of man, that I could be someone special. I read a lot. I was a big reader as a kid. But I wasn't about that realistic fiction. No Babysitter's Club or Nancy Drew for me. No, sir. I was a high fantasy, science fiction loving nerd child. I liked castles more than arcades, you know? And that's fine. That's normal, right? Kids have active imaginations anyway.

"But I took it one step further. I saw myself in those stories. I became so convinced that I was going to live out one of them stories someday. I was going to be this great protagonist. I was so ready.

"But then I grew up and nothing happened. No call to adventure, no Hogwarts letter, no memo. I had to learn to grapple with complete mediocrity. But I didn't. I mean, at least not well. Learning to accept you are but one grain of sand in the Sahara of the universe isn't an easy pill to swallow. But, hey, Xanax is, so here's to the rest of my life baking in the hot desert sun of the unexceptional."

"So how does that make you feel?"

Charlie looked up at their therapist with a long, hard look. She was a nice enough woman with a kind smile and laughter lines that suggested she lead a more stable life with tired eyes that objected, but she didn't quite get Charlie. Not that a lot of people did, but Charlie at least hoped a healthcare professional would. Ailments were easier to understand than personalities, they figured.

Charlie knew nothing about psychology.

They debated on replying with a smart-ass comment before ultimately deciding to swallow their own words. Their therapist chose to follow with an exercise in positive thought and self-validation which was...

Fine.

They guessed.

When the session was over, Charlie left without argument. They debated whether the session was worth the $3.20 bus fare over.

Or the $70 copay.

The ride back to Charlie's apartment wasn't terrible. Well, it wouldn't have hurt if the bus was ever on time, or more than half of the riders wore deodorant, or if they had any sense of personal boundaries—but it wasn't terrible.

Charlie's apartment wasn't much to gawk at either. It wasn't one of the luxury high-rises that decorated the city horizon amongst the skyscrapers. It was a three-story building constructed during a time where the government hated people with disabilities more than they usually do and didn't require them to install an elevator. The steps had divots in them from the constant, methodical treading of its residents. The hallways smelled like mothballs and insecticide constantly.

The inside of the apartment itself was fine. There were three people in the unit: Charlie, Charlie's friend Anna, and Anna's friend Umberto.

It was a big space.

Enough.

Big enough.

There were stains on the carpet that had probably been there since 1968, but even that was at least a good century after the last time anyone had cleaned behind the refrigerator. Bert claimed an entire sentient race had evolved and thrived in the crawlspace. Charlie didn't not believe him.

Still, they couldn't complain about the place. Well, they could. And they did. A lot. But, like, not about anything that was fundamentally wrong with the place they lived.

It was fine.

The kitchen table that was probably too small for a household of three people was covered in the day's mail. Charlie rummaged through the pile looking for their name. There was a handful of bills and junk mail, including a letter from a university they didn't even go to, asking for alumni donations.

"How'd your doctor's appointment go?"

Charlie looked up. Anna emerged from the hallway into the kitchen. Her hair thin hair framed her diamond face and fell over sloped shoulders. She looked tired, like she'd just been taking a nap.

"It was fine," they mumbled.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. "You say that every week."

They frowned. "So?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I just figure that if you go to a doctor for that long then something should change. You're the exact same as when I met you."

"The therapy isn't for me to get better," Charlie explained. "It's to stop me from getting any worse."

Anna hummed. "Maybe you just don't want to get better because it means you'll have to stop being a massive edgelord."

"I'm not--" Charlie's voice cracked. "I'm not an edgelord. I'm a cynical and disillusioned twenty-something coming to grips with the harshness of reality."

"Right. And that makes you different than anyone else your age how?"

They chewed their lip. "Nothing. I'm just pretentious about it."

"There you go, edgelord." She reached out and patted them on the shoulder, smile lurking just underneath her tired eyes.

They resisted rolling their eyes.

Anna started to leave the kitchen. "Hey, do you have the money for the electric?"

"I get paid on Friday," they answered.

"It was due last week, Chal."

"I'm paid bi-weekly," they defended.

She hummed again and left.

Charlie hovered in the kitchen for another minute, unsure of what to do. It was 5:06. In Charlie logic, it was too early in the day to go to bed, but too late to really be productive. There were plenty of people–like most of the ones on the planet—who could get plenty of things done starting at five o'clock, but Charlie wasn't that put together. They sighed and pulled themselves out of the kitchen.

"Bert!" they droned as they plodded down the hallway. "Hey, Bert."

The door to their roommate's room was wide open. The messy room was a bit of an eyesore, but it was somehow not even the worst looking room in the apartment. Bert sat at his state-of-the-art home office: a desk fashioned out of a folding table and an old beach chair. On top of the desk sat a computer that probably cost more than Charlie's yearly salary. Bert used it exclusively for gaming.

Charlie leaned in the doorway. "Bert."

Bert looked up and removed his headphones. "Yeah?"

"You want to go grab a drink?"

His expression strained. "Now?"

"It's five o'clock."

"Yeah, on a Wednesday."

They didn't falter. "Still five o'clock, though."

Bert turned back to his computer. "Count me out on this one, Char."

They drummed on the doorframe. "Alright, fine. I'm still going, though."

"Are you going to drink alone?" he asked, question soaked in skepticism.

"I won't be alone," they called back as they turned around and left. "There's tons of people at the bar."

Bert called even louder. "Okay. Stay safe. Don't be an idiot."

Charlie waved it off, even though Bert couldn't see. They left the apartment as quickly as they came.