Page 21 of Unhinged

“Or they’ll use you as a transient sexual partner.”

“All because I live with my mother doesn’t mean I’m a homeless horndog. Thanks a lot for mentioning it, psycho.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“And why in the fuck do you talk like you fought in the Revolutionary War? And not Team America? Why wouldn’t I want to get laid?” Shit. The last time I got laid, I didn’t do much laying.

“Because you’re still…adjusting.”

“I’m not adjusting to shit.”

“And that’s the problem.”

“Leave me alone! Jesus didn’t bother his groupies as much as you hound me.”

“Well, like Him, I’m steering you away from temptation and debauchery.”

“I want to dive in, head first, asshole!”

“Rod—Greg, don’t forget I’m your boss still.”

“Why are you acting weirder than usual for you? Piss off,” I grumble, leaving the kitchen, actually relieved to return to the bar. However, when I look for Kleo, she and her friends are gone, and I’m both disappointed and relieved.

Soon after, Amos leaves, probably finding a transient of his own.

“So, your name isn’t really Rod?”

“No. That’s why I’m asking you for a new name tag.” I stare blankly at the brown puff-haired dim bulb behind the customer service counter, where they hoard all the employee supplies, including mistaken identities.

As she half-ass searches for nothing, I roll my eyes as I grow more impatient to shed this burden. She shuffles aimlessly from counter to counter, as if searching for a place to die. And she’s probably in her forties. She blinks translucent brownish eyes at me, almost as if in Morse Code. “Can’t you just scratch it out?”

“Uh, no. People will ask why. I’ll pass on that story.”

“What story is it?”

“It’s an NSFW one.”

“A what?” She strains her eyes through her cloudy glasses as if it helps her hear better.

“It’s a painful story.” No kidding.

Puffy drops an empty box, and when she bends, her elastic pants pull down, exposing her beige underwear and pasty skin. A tramp stamp should be a necessity in her case. I turn my head, stifling a gag.

As I end my Friday shift at Home Depot, I’m kind of amazed at how I’ve avoided Amos and my mother. Though, that’ll change tonight when I’ll meet her for our mandated Friday night dinner at the county club.

Puffy sighs. “Well, I don’t know if we have one.” She digs through a small basket and pulls out a square. “Here’s one for Fern.”

I gape, probably looking like I’m melting. “How does that help?”

She giggles, and it sounds like a baby choking. “You could always change it to Fernando.”

Rubbing my temple, I sigh. “Damn ABBA.”

“Hmm?” Glaring at the scratched gray counter, I shake my head. “Just hang on to the one you have for now.”

“What? No. Come on. It’s like a thorn in my side,” I plead as she stands in the middle of the customer service area, looking like her plane crashed in a cornfield, and she’s the lone survivor. She continues to stare past me, probably hoping I’ll spontaneously combust. She’s as useful as tits on a worm. Though a month early, I say, “Please? It’s my birthday.”

She blinks from her vegetable state. “Well, happy birthday. Do you want me to announce it over the intercom? People will sing to you all day.”

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