From the 5th Floor

Six

R E U T H E R

Windshield, gone. Front tire, gone. The hood, crinkled up like origami. All four of my goddamn windows blown in from the impact of hitting a fire hydrant.

And no sign of Jake anywhere. No definitive proof that Jake took my car, totaled my car, and abandoned my car in the middle of some random neighborhood. I hear my own blood whooshing in my eardrums. I've got this tremble in my fingers that I can't control and I'm sweating the hardest bullets humanly possible. What do they mean they can't arrest Jake for this?

"Look, we can swab for finger prints, check for DNA, but the hydrant has been raining down on the inside of your car for at least a few hours now. It's doubtful we'll find anything in there." This cop. I want to fist fight this cop. His eyes still have morning crusties in the corners. There's a smear of something white across his cheek that I can't be sure is toothpaste or breakfast. He hands me my keys that, by the way, were still in the ignition when they found my car, and walks back to his own cruiser.

I kick my heel into the driver's side door over and over again. One for Jake, one for Claire, one for Senora Leon, one for each of my parents, and the final one for me. For me being such an idiot and not kicking Jake out of my life the moment he asked me when the last time I vacationed in Cancun was.

I call Jake. No answer. My mom, who I had to call to bring me to my car, is sitting in her car down the street.

"I'm just happy you're safe," she said when I explained what happened. I knew what she was really saying, though.

At least you weren't stupid enough to get in a car with that idiot.

The thing is I probably would have, if he had bothered to wake me up before he took off.

Sorry, before he allegedly took off, since they have no proof that he absolutely did this.

I intend on making him pay for this. I know he can. He could pay my Harvard tuition five times over if he wanted to, but that would mean giving a single shit about me. And he doesn't. He never has in the twelve years we've known each other.

Never, never, never.

I kick the door one more time, feeling completely and horrifically defeated. I have nothing and no one. I have no way to support myself, and no life skills to fall back on.

I live with my parents in the same one bedroom house that I grew up in, and they can't ever look me in the eye because I rejected a full ride scholarship to some college that wanted me to play soccer for them. I lost my job, I hate my only friend, my girlfriend left me because I'm a loser by the very definition.

The thing about that scholarship was that it was never something I wanted for myself. I never wanted to play soccer, I never even really wanted to go to college. At least I don't think I did. I actually have no idea what I wanted to be or what I wanted to do because all that time that I should've been exploring those things I was playing purse-pet for Jake in order to ensure I had something to eat for dinner.

I haven't belonged to myself in so long and it feels like it's too late to learn how to. I'm disgusted at my how much of my life depended on Jake's handouts. Latching onto him was a survival tactic that has left me drunk, alone, and angry over and over again. And I'm done.

I type a text,

I'm not angry, but I really need a car for work. Can you or your parents please pay for the repairs so I can still get to work somehow?

Not even four minutes later, on the drive home he texts back,

I have no idea what you're talking about.

I grip my phone so hard I hear the plastic crackle under my fingers. Truly, I don't know what I was expecting. Some accountability? From Jake? Hilarious.

When we get home, my dad's on the phone in the kitchen. He mumbles in quiet monotonous Spanish while my mom continues cooking whatever she had to pause to come get me from Ivan's apartment.

The smell of chorizo takes me back to the mornings of third grade, back before my dad was injured and taken out of the mainstream workforce.

We had breakfast every morning back then, not every two mornings. We had dinner every night and not just whatever leftovers we hadn't eaten from breakfast.

From fifth grade to ninth grade it was every kid for himself in my house and lucky for me I was the only kid. Then Jake, my golden goose, came along and my parents really only had to worry about feeding themselves.

I'd been able to contribute a little money for groceries and essentials, but most of my money went to putting gas in my car to get to work in order to make money to put gas in my car. I want to tell myself that getting fired just means that I can break out of that cycle. Maybe I can get a job that pays decently and isn't too far from my house. I can start saving up, move out, meet a girl or a guy who sees some value buried deep inside me.

I want to tell myself these things. But I can't. It's hard to give myself a pep talk when I'm faced with my parents' disappointment so head-on. My mom's back is to me as her spatula fills the room with the tasty sizzling sounds of food I'm too ashamed to feel entitled to. My dad is still on the phone, I can only pick up pieces of what he's saying because he's being way too quiet.

This would all be fine, I could ignore it, shut myself off in my room and sleep until the sun came back around tomorrow. Except I don't have a room. I have a couch in the living room I'm standing in right now. With a full view of the kitchen and dining room. And my parents.

I could leave. I could go find a park to sulk in or window shop all the things I can't afford and never could afford ever. Except I don't have a car. It's like a can't breathe. The walls feel like they're closing in constantly. I feel my skin aching and burning with frustration. How do I live? How do I keep living?

"Oye!" my dad shouts once his call ends.

"Mande?" I say back, preparing for a lashing.

"Are you sick?"

"No?"

"Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so."

He nods once and turns his back to me. He's like that. Concerned without telling you why he's concerned. I imagine he's worried about the car and the money he spent on it going down the drain. Sometimes I wish he'd look me in the eye and tell me that he's not mad at me. Sometimes. Other times I know I wouldn't believe it either way.

There's nowhere for me to run. I can't hide. So I sit on the couch, invisible in plain sight.