Page 33 of Forging Chaos

ME

Yes, Stag. Your wiener was also hard to see with the naked eye.

ODIN STAG

That is no way to talk about Gungnir. Are you naked with those tongs right now?

He’s funny today. I like it.

ME

Working the Black Sox game and then closing shift at the bar.

ODIN STAG

Don’t you have finals tomorrow?

ME

Yes, Mom. What of it?

He doesn’t need to explain to me that I’m burning the candle at both ends. It’s nothing my mother hasn’t done before. If she can pull doubles for weeks on end, I can handle it for a week until I finish my exams. Then I can probably almost get eight hours of sleep per day while I save up the rest of what I need to get my ass to England.

I ignore my phone for the rest of the ballgame, which ends at the top of the ninth because the Sox are losing like usual. Mom and I part ways, her taking a bus home and me heading into Oakland to work the closing shift at Fuel Up.

When I glance at my phone again, I see another text from Odin:

You’re acting like me, Janssen. Get some rest.

Tuesday and Wednesday bring more of the same, except I’m getting fewer messages from Odin during the day, and I need to remember to see my advisor one last time before the end of the week. I’m feeling pretty good about my performance on my last few exams, considering my legs and lower back throb constantly now, and I’m running entirely on coffee and anxiety.

I figure, these baseball players are knocking out games three days in a row. That has to be at least as much work as scooping up fries and nachos in the same amount of time. I’m basically a pro athlete, but my sport is food service.

I’m starting to feel the impact by the time it gets dark on Wednesday, though, and I’m messing up drink orders. I drop an entire pint of dark beer when I look up and see Odin sitting at the bar along with two of his roommates.

“Hey, now,” Gunnar says, reaching around the tap for the glass I dropped. There’s still an inch of beer left in the bottom, and he swallows it quickly with a wink in my direction. Odin looks at him with murder shooting from his eyelashes.

“Sorry, boys. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” I don’t even have to force a smile; seeing them lifts my whole mood. “What are you having?” I tap my chin and squint at them, all lined up on bar stools. I know Gunnar and Odin are brothers, and Stellan is their cousin, but they really do all look very similar. The Stag genes must be potent.

That’s an extremely delirious thought to be having right now, and if I needed further proof that I’m working too hard, I forget their drink orders the second they’re done speaking. “Sorry.” I pull out a notepad, something I never need unless it’s swamped and we’re serving food. “Tell me one more time?”

Odin frowns as his cousins order lite beers. “Just a lemonade, I think,” he says, and they tease him. Truthfully, I don’t know if I’ve ever served just a lemonade at the bar. Mostpeople who aren’t drinking alcohol get a soda or a mocktail. I first slide Odin's unusual drink and work on the foamy beers for his entourage.

Gunnar slides me a credit card and asks me to start a tab. I eavesdrop while he and Stellan ask Odin about his progress in rehab for his leg.

I immediately feel bad that I haven’t asked him more questions or any questions since the first day I drove him there, when we changed the tire.

He talks about doing his regular upper body workout under supervision, as well as one-legged deadlifts and things on his good leg. “And then,” he says sadly, “I’m almost up to spelling out the alphabet with the toes on my right foot. You know, real taxing shit athletes do.”

Gunnar winces and wraps a thick arm around his brother while I wipe off the bar, trying not to look like I’m listening to every word. “I’m really sorry, brother. You know that, right? We all hate this for you.”

Odin grunts and stares at the television, where pro hockey game replays dominate the four screens along the back wall. Soon, all three of them are watching in silence and I busy myself serving other customers. No wonder Odin was eager to work on our project in person and hang out afterward. He’s really working through an identity shift from god among us to…a dude who has to work hard on ankle circles.

I can’t dwell on this too long because a big table orders tater tots and vodka sodas. A wave of tiredness hits me as I’m waiting for the tots to come out of the fryer, and I almost cut myself slicing the limes for the drinks. I rally and arrange the drinks on the tray just as the bell rings for the appetizers. Happy I can bring it all out together. I turn around to grab the food from the service window and bring it to the kitchen. I guess I turn too quickly, though, because I’m lightheaded as I step behind the bar.

I’m not fully aware of tripping, but I do notice the wet slosh of the drinks hitting my shirt and the hot burn of the tot oil on my throat. The pain passes quickly as I am enveloped in strong arms, the smell of cottony laundry detergent and spicy deodorant.

CHAPTER 26

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