Gypsy

Chapter 4

·Adam·

I toss my keys onto the table in the foyer and slip out of my coat. From down the hall drifts the sounds of gameplay and I smile at the familiarity of it. At least that's one constant in my life, I think as I hang up my coat and head toward it. I enter the living room where Micah is bent over his game controller and playing a game with more intensity than he puts into anything else in his life. But then, that's his profession.

When he'd told us years ago he was going to become a professional gamer, we had all scoffed at him. But, looking back now, I kind of wish I'd had the same idea. He makes a hell of a lot more money than I ever will, and though he sometimes gets pretty intense over it all, at least it looks like fun.

Without interrupting his practice, I ease myself into a chair and wait to greet him. I found out early on in my stay here that it doesn't pay to screw with him when he's in the zone. Normally Micah is as mellow as they come...unless you get him virtually killed. That's the only time I've ever seen him lose his cool, and I had had to patch the hole in the wall myself after he'd extracted his busted controller from the drywall.

That was a lesson learned that I have no need to take a refresher course in.

As I watch a virtual soldier duck behind a rundown minibus on the television screen then wait to ambush an approaching target, I reflect on my day, which in turn leads me to a reflection of my current life. I frown at my thoughts and shake my head. I'd once had my dreams in the palm of my hand. I had the house, I had the girl, I nearly had the degree. But ten months ago that had all been slowly ripped away from me, beginning with my dad's introduction to a stripper named Yvette.

Out of all the crap that came after, at least that part ended on a mostly happy note. They'd tied the knot, he'd handed me the reins to his business, and then they'd shot off to bigger places and a more exciting life than the one they'd left here with me. I hear from him from time to time--a postcard from Vegas, a hastily scribbled note from New York City, a colorful 'Wish you were here!' card from New Orleans.

He's happy, and I'm glad for him. Whether or not this is a mid-life crisis he'll eventually overcome, I'm glad he's doing what makes him happy. As I think about that, I wonder to myself if it will take me as long as it did him to find something even slightly similar. Not a stripper, per se, but the unbridled spirit--dare I say joy?--that he's found. As it stands now, I don't think I will. Thirty and rooming with an old high school buddy doesn't exactly scream prosperous, or on the right rails that will eventually lead me to better things.

Nor does a divorce, court summonses, or nonsensical sentences.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of my seat. Trash collector. That's what I've been reduced to. In the park and in my business, that's what I collect. At least at work, I get paid to store all the crap other people can't bear to part with. And if I'm lucky, they pay me on time for doing it. If I'm not, I cut a lock, auction off what will sell, then set the rest out for pickup by the local garbage men to gather and haul away.

My job isn't glamorous, but at least it pays the bills, something my ex just couldn't understand. I may not have the law degree she'd pushed me toward our entire relationship, but then, I never really wanted that. That I did solely for her benefit. She'd said she wanted to see me successful and happy, but I know what it really boiled down to now. She'd wanted to see me rich, so she could continue to have and buy whatever she wanted, just like she had with her folks.