Roomies

ROOMIES

John T. Schmitz

Published by Maple Hills Press at Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 by John T. Schmitz

All Rights Reserved

Cover design and photograph by John T. Schmitz, Copyright © 2011

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Please visit Mr. Schmitz at http://www.johnschmitz.hpage.com

For my wife, Megan, who knows many interesting ways to die.

—JTS

A workman who is a drunkard will not become rich; he who despises small things will fail little by little. Wine and women lead intelligent men astray, and the man who consorts with harlots is very reckless. Decay and worms will inherit him, and the reckless soul will be snatched away.

—Ecclesiasticus 19:1-3

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue – The House on Turtle Street

PART I: Kids

Chapter 01 – Rodney

Chapter 02 – Virginia

Chapter 03 – Halloween

Chapter 04 – College

Chapter 05 – Graceland

Chapter 06 – Grownups

Chapter 07 – The End

PART II: Roomies

Chapter 08 – Dead Rabbits

Chapter 09 – The House on Turtle Street, Revisited

Chapter 10 – Nick

Chapter 11 – The Lab

Chapter 12 – Business

Chapter 13 – Partners

Chapter 14 – Pie in the Sky

PART III: Family

Chapter 15 – Jessica

Chapter 16 – Rod, Revisited

Chapter 17 – Life and Death

Chapter 18 – Last Stand at Villain Falls

Epilogue – The Body Count

About the Author

PROLOGUE

The House on Turtle Street

Rodney Stiles was staring out the large bay window in the living room, an innocuous look on his face and a blank gaze in his eyes. Every few seconds he lifted the cigarette that was burning between his fingers to his lips and dragged deeply.

He wasn’t there; he had ceased to exist. He sat there forgotten and barely moving, trying not to upset the invisibility act that he seemed to be pulling off so well.

There was a factory across the street. He was watching some kid wander casually through the parking lot, stopping every now and then to jiggle the door handles of the nicer-looking cars. The kid’s hair was being tousled by the wind, which was also whipping and blowing clouds of fallen leaves through the air. The hand that he wasn’t using to rattle car doors was thrust in his coat pocket and his shoulders were hunched up.

It was cold.

Rodney Stiles really didn’t give a shit about the would-be car thief. The object of his attention was Andrew Lauber and Amanda Simmons, who were sitting right there alongside of him. He wasn’t watching them, of course—only listening. It’s funny, but it seemed like as long as he wasn’t looking at them, they couldn’t see him.

Rod risked glancing in their direction whenever he sensed that they wouldn’t notice. Andrew was playing solitaire with the battered deck of cards that was kept on the coffee table. Amanda was sitting on the couch next to him, her knees drawn together and her hands in her lap. She was wearing a forlorn look on her face, an expression designed to gain attention. Andrew’s eyes would not meet hers though, so she followed the movements of his hands instead.

Andrew baby, don’t be like this, Amanda pleaded.

"Why don’t you just go? Andrew said. I thought you were going to go."

They were speaking in hushed tones, but there was no other sound in the room to mask their conversation, only the snap and the scrape of Andrew’s cards as he laid them down.

"Not now; not when you’re like this, she said. You won’t even look at me!"

Andrew Lauber was one of the roommates and Amanda Simmons was his girlfriend. She didn’t live there, but she spent most of her time hanging around anyway, so she might as well have. This particular argument started because she told Andrew that she was going home to change and then she was going to spend the afternoon thrift shopping with her friend, Teresa Ronquist. Andrew was being typical, acting like a petulant little boy.

He’s sulking for Christ’s sake! Rod thought. He’s jealous that she’s going to be spending time with someone other than him.

Andrew—a thirty-four-year-old portly little man with no chin. He was bald, and he wore a goatee to make up for it. He routinely dressed himself in old jeans and dirty T-shirts, not seeming to care much about his appearance.

In comparison, Amanda Simmons was a fairly attractive woman; she had long brown hair, an even tan, and a slim figure. She caused most men to look twice, somehow able to command that kind of attention wearing secondhand rags and little or no makeup. She was an elegant woman, but didn’t seem to know it. If she had, it’s doubtful that she would have attached herself to Andrew Lauber, who didn’t seem to appreciate anything that she did for him and did nothing for her in return.

Rod listened to her coddle him, and he listened with disgust as Andrew rejected her efforts. Amanda Simmons had patience—more than most women—but it still would only extend so far. The inevitable was so obvious that Rod couldn’t understand why Andrew didn’t see it coming; if it wasn’t this that caused her to finally lose it and go all to pieces, then it surely would be something equally as dumb.

If Andrew Lauber had been anything but a selfish prick, he would have given Amanda a kiss goodbye and told her to have fun.

If Amanda Simmons had been anything but an insecure head case, she would have told Andrew to go fly a kite and then never have come back.

But, things being what they were, the two of them would just sit there and go on squabbling ... and although Rodney Stiles found it frustrating, at the same time it provided him with entertainment—pure drama. It was his only distraction; the television sat dark and useless in the corner because the electricity had been turned off for non-payment.

The whole scene was depressing: no heat, no hot water ... and the two of them driving each other bananas over absolutely nothing. It was only a little past noon, but the light in the room was still dim. The day was dark and overcast, and despite the size of the window that Rod was looking out of, not enough light was getting in.

Rodney Stiles watched as a factory worker came outside and caught the thief trying to get into his pickup truck. The big man in coveralls took off after the kid, who had begun running as soon as he saw the angry giant approaching.

Rod ground out his cigarette in an ashtray that someone had stolen from a motel and shook his head. This is my life, he thought.

PART I: Kids

Do not deprive yourself of a wise and good wife, for her charm is worth more than gold.

—Ecclesiasticus 7:19

I would rather dwell with a lion and a dragon than dwell with an evil wife. The wickedness of a wife changes her appearance, and darkens her face like that of a bear.

—Ecclesiasticus 25:16-17

CHAPTER ONE

Rodney

1

Rodney Tobias Stiles was born on September 10, 1978 at Saint Luke’s Medical Center in Morrison, a bustling city with a half-million residents that had sprung up rapidly a hundred years before around a great river and a cascading waterfall—Villain Falls.

Rodney’s parents already had two children—a boy and a girl—when he came along. The pregnancy hadn’t been planned (none of them had), but like the previous two, it was a pleasant surprise and a blessing. Henry and Karen Stiles knew that this would most likely be the last time that they had to rush to the hospital in the dead of night ... and although that may have made them a bit sad, it probably also was somewhat of a relief, as people with children will surely understand.

Rodney Stiles’ childhood was a happy one that was full of love; he grew up in a quiet neighborhood along the perimeter of the park that surrounded The Falls and spent his time playing with Randall and Lisa, his older siblings. Randall had been first, followed by Lisa two years later—and like clockwork, two years after that, Rodney was born. The three of them depended on one another and almost always seemed to get along, a fact that Henry and Karen Stiles were proud of.

Rodney’s mother was home most of the time, interspersed with periods during which she would go to work as a secretary for a law firm. Rodney never quite understood what it was that his father did, who was employed by a corporation called Business and Investment Innovations, which had offices in a giant glass-and-steel monstrosity in the middle of downtown. Once, when Rodney asked his father about his job, Henry Stiles replied: Well ... I move money from one place to another and count widgets.—an explanation that did nothing to clear things up.

Rodney Stiles knew that his family wasn’t rich; at the same time he knew that they weren’t poor, either—an existence that left them content but never spoiled. He, along with Randall and Lisa, attended the various public schools that were in their district, which were divided into three stages: elementary, middle, and high school. Rodney was always depressed for a while after Randall, and then Lisa, would move on to the next institution, leaving him to catch up.

2

In 1978, Villain Falls had diminished in size and intensity due to various dikes and dams that had been built over the years to regulate the flow of water that supplied hundreds of locations all along the banks of the river. The Falls itself was nestled in the center of a luxurious, sprawling park that, despite its beauty, confused and frustrated the hell out of anyone trying to visit the landmark. Nameless, winding roads led inside and snaked all through it, interlaced with identically tangled footpaths that one assumed led somewhere ... but since there were no names or signs posted, the only way to find out for sure was to follow one.

Many of the paths didn’t lead to anything more interesting than yet another intersection, and depending on which direction a person chose, he or she might find themselves at the foot of a towering stone structure that had been erected many years prior to the city’s conception by a forgotten band of what many people assumed had been Native Indian to the area ... but no one claimed to know for sure, and these lucky folks who stumbled across it went home with a snapshot to paste into an album.

Anyone going another way was likely to be led in circles for half the afternoon before ending up right back where they started. The only reliable way to get to the center of this labyrinth and get a glimpse of the hundred-foot cliff was to follow the sound of rushing water, because thick foliage and brush provided the waterfall with perfect camouflage. Even using one’s ears to track the elusive landmark was confusing—the sound of crashing water was intermingled with nature’s other sounds, and the racket seemed to emanate from every direction.

Naturally, this environment attracted a wide variety of people, ranging from families to roving bands of thugs to the curious hermits that called the park their home. This last group of people jealously guarded the place as their own, and felt constantly intruded upon by outsiders—noisy tourists carting around cameras and picnic baskets and their kids. In reality, the actual number of visitors was quite small, perhaps because most folks had such an awful time that they vowed never to return ... and then they went home and warned anyone that would listen to stay away.

But what did they know? Henry and Karen Stiles rather enjoyed Villain Falls—it had been a deciding factor when choosing their home. When their children were young, they made family outings into the park a regular activity ... and when Randall, Lisa and Rodney were old enough, they made it their playground.

As a boy, Rodney Stiles’ main interests were reading and the outdoors. Perhaps he was born with his passion for nature, or maybe it was from constantly being in and around it that planted the seed, but regardless of how it got there, it sprouted and grew with each passing year, finally blossoming into a ...

... goddamned obsession, I tell you, remarked Rodney’s father, waving a fork at his wife. They were seated at the dinner table, where one setting was conspicuously empty.

What the hell’s wrong with at least coming inside now and then to eat a real meal? continued the boy’s father, pausing to spear a chunk of potato on his plate. Do you know that I caught him foraging for food in the backyard last week? He was out there rooting around like a goddamned billy goat until I reminded him that the reason I go to work every day is so that he doesn’t have to do that.

Oh Henry, said Karen Stiles, you know that it’s just his interest in survival skills. They teach that sort of thing in the Cub Scouts, I think.

"Karen, Rodney’s never been in the Cub Scouts, for Christ’s sake! Why, I’ll bet that he could outlast a whole den of Cub Scouts if he was stranded on a desert island and they were all stuck at McDonald’s!"

Rodney’s mother shook her head and clucked. "You know how your stomach gets, Henry—if you don’t calm down, you’ll feel like you’ve been eating tin cans ... or whatever it is that goats eat."

You know that the neighbors think we abuse him, don’t you? The way he sleeps in the garden, as if we refuse to allow him inside after dark? said Henry.

I put a stop to that after he caught that chill and it made him sick, Karen retorted.

Sure, Henry said. And have you noticed how depressed he’s been? Maybe we could compromise—I’ll build him a kennel as long as he agrees to bring me my newspaper.

Just then, the door opened and a very dirty, disheveled thirteen-year-old Rodney Stiles stepped inside, looking momentarily surprised to see his family seated there (Randall and Lisa at least returned home for meals), as if in his many travels he had forgotten that there might be anyone anywhere waiting for him.

Hello, Rodney said, smiling and bending at the waist simultaneously in a curious little bow—all of which seemed to indicate that he had indeed been introduced to his mother and father at some point, but it was better to maintain an air of formality until he knew them better.

Oh Rodney! exclaimed his mother. You missed dinner again.

I already ate, was the boy’s reply.

You see? cried Henry Stiles triumphantly. If this keeps up, I can stop mowing the lawn.

"I really wish that you would make more of an effort, Rodney. Your father and I go to a lot of trouble for you, and God forbid that there should ever be an emergency, I don’t know how we’d track you down...." His mother trailed off, letting her silence fill the void.

I know, said Rodney’s father, when we want him home, Karen, we’ll burn a tire in the front yard.

Rodney Stiles considered this for a moment and then nodded. That sounds good, I guess.... Yeah, do that.

3

A few years later, when he was sixteen, Rodney Stiles had conceded to living normally, more or less. Honing his ability to survive in the wild had only been a phase that he went through, and he emerged from it with the certain knowledge that if he indeed were ever to be stranded on a desert island such as the one that his father had imagined for him, he would not succumb to either starvation or the elements as he had once feared.

Besides all of that, he had grown sick and tired of his father relentlessly burning tires, completely spoiling being outdoors by flooding it with acrid black smoke. Henry Stiles was a man who believed in making a point, even if it meant a weekly trek to the dump and being forever alienated from anyone living within two miles of his house. These days, Rodney Stiles made sure that he arrived to dinner early.

Of course, the main reason for the shift in Rod’s habits had to do with priorities. He was becoming a young man, and gaining the favorable attention of young women now took precedence over everything else.

Son, his father counseled after Rod approached him about girls, "maybe you should just forget about American women. I can’t picture any girl that was raised in the States putting up with even half of the weird shit that you pull. I don’t know ... I think there’s still places in the world where people like you live—try there."

What Henry Stiles didn’t realize, was that he and his wife had raised their son in a community of eccentric screwballs living so far out on the fringe that most people had no idea that they even existed. They didn’t necessarily share Rod’s devotion to nature—that was his own private kink—but it was accepted as perfectly normal and by most was thought of as rather conservative, in light of what some of the others were into.

Rodney’s brother might have been able to offer him some advice—Randall Stiles was a very studious and responsible young man—but by the time that Rodney needed it, Randall was gone. He had joined the Army right after graduation, and when he did, it didn’t come as too much of a shock to his family. He had always been the rock the Lisa and Rodney leaned on, and had spent nearly as much time as their parents keeping them out of trouble. With Randall gone, Lisa and Rodney began experimenting with some of the more colorful things that life had to offer, such as drugs and alcohol and sex. They each had their own circle of friends by that time, and so for the most part, they pursued these activities separately, except maybe to occasionally borrow some pot or a condom from one another.

4

Rodney must not have been at home one evening when Lisa happened to need a prophylactic, because it was during the fall of her senior year at Morrison Central High that she became pregnant.

Oh my God! Lisa cried, bursting into Rodney’s room one night. I’m a goddamn pasta sauce!

Damnit, Lisa! Rod shouted, jamming the copy of Slut magazine that he had been looking at underneath his pillow. Did you drop acid again? I warned you about that stuff—don’t you remember what happened last time?

No, Lisa sobbed, "I mean that I’m prego ... you know? Pregnant?"

Jesus, Rod replied. "Are you sure?"

I wasn’t at first, Lisa said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue that she had taken from her brother’s nightstand.

At least I didn’t use that one yet, Rod thought, picturing the centerfold in Slut.

But I took a test, she continued, "and it was positive!"

When did it happen? Rod asked.

What’s the difference? Lisa cried, wringing her hands.

Lisa ... you’re a slut, Rod said. "It makes a big difference."

Let me think....

Oh boy, Rod thought.

It might have been the night that Mom and Dad went to the movies ... do you remember? Lisa said. You weren’t home and ... Paul came over?

Don’t you know? Rod asked.

Yeah ... sure, Lisa said. It was Paul.

Oh wow, Rod thought, and then: What’re you going to tell Mom and Dad?

I can’t tell them! Lisa shrieked; what little color was left drained from her face.

Lisa, Rod said, "you have to tell them. What—do you think they won’t notice?"

Oh God oh God oh God, Lisa moaned.

Get a grip on yourself, Rod said; he reached inside his nightstand drawer and produced a pint of whiskey. Here—have a drink.

Yeah ... okay, Lisa said, taking the bottle from her brother and unscrewing the cap. She put it to her lips and took a long swallow, grimacing at the taste.

There—is that better? Rod said, reaching for the bottle, which Lisa took another gulp from. "Holy cow! I said a drink, Lisa, a drink!"

Sorry, she said sheepishly, handing it back. "I just don’t know what to do!"

We’ll figure it out ... but being a single mom ain’t gonna be easy, Lisa.

Single mom? Lisa said. But Paul and I could get married.

Oh man, Rod thought. Lisa, he said gently, "be realistic. You’re seventeen ... do you think that Paul’s gonna agree to that?"

Maybe....

No. He’s not. You’re a whore ... you’ll have to go on welfare, I guess, Rod said, shrugging his shoulders.

"I’ll never do that!" Lisa said.

Oh brother, Rod thought.

5

Lisa Stiles did go on welfare, of course ... and she decided almost immediately that it wasn’t all that bad; in fact, she thought that it was a fine thing, especially when she became pregnant a second time and learned that with another baby, she would receive even more money.

Rodney Stiles worried about his sister sometimes, her living in a shitty apartment that she shared with her current boyfriend, Rex Reid. Rex was a volatile man with a lot of tattoos and not much stomach for working, so twice a month he would beat up Lisa, whether she needed it or not. Lisa explained to her brother that the whuppings, as they were apparently called, kept her thinking straight and even brought a little spice to her and Rex’s otherwise dull relationship.

Meanwhile, Rodney Stiles had graduated from high school, managing not to father any of his own children along the way. He enrolled at Douglas University, a private college that his parents could afford to pay for, now that Lisa apparently had no use for her own part of the tuition money that they had saved. Randall hadn’t needed his, either; in fact, Henry and Karen Stiles’ oldest son seemed to enjoy military life so much that he had signed on for another tour of duty.

Douglas University had a large campus, a lot of amenities, and it was located in Morrison. Rod had decided that living in one of the dorms was important if he was going to get the most out of his college experience (he presented this option to his parents as a compromise; what he really wanted was his own apartment, which—outside of belonging to a fraternity—was the very best way to explore college life), but it was possible—and cheaper, his parents pointed out—to remain living at home.

And so, Rodney Stiles kept his room in his parents’ basement. He rode the bus each day to the campus with his childhood friend, Brian Finnegan, who was also still residing with his parents. Rodney and Brian had grown up on the same street and were as close as brothers—much closer, incidentally, than Rodney had ever been to his own brother, Randall.

Rodney Stiles had the idea that he would like to be a writer; he spent a great deal of time sitting at the secondhand electric typewriter that he used for composing everything from homework assignments to short stories. The latter often went unfinished, Rod having decided that whatever it was that he was working on wasn’t such a good idea, after all. He dreamed of being a famous novelist with his books on the bestseller list ... but so far, the ideas for these books had eluded him.

Rod was majoring in English, a subject that at least interested him and that he excelled at. He had always been an avid reader, devouring books of every description at a fantastic pace; often, after finishing one that he particularly liked, he would think to himself that if he had come up with it first

(why not?)

he wouldn’t be stuck getting up five days a week and going to class for at least the next four years; consequently, he would turn the plot over and over in his mind, isolating the parts of it that he liked and then trying to conjure up something of his own that was equally brilliant.

It was his friend, Brian Finnegan, who suggested that Rod ought to see about getting on the staff of the student magazine, Supply.

You should check it out, man, Brian said.

They were walking along one of the campus streets, drinking forty-ounce bottles of beer wrapped in brown paper bags. It was a Friday evening in September; the sun had gone down and the air carried a crisp, autumn aroma as well as a chill; the street was full of activity, other young men and women taking advantage of the weekend and the fine weather.

"I don’t know if I could do it, though—even if they did hire me."

Why not? Brian said. I’ve seen what you can do with that typewriter of yours—you’re a lot better than you think.

Writing for a magazine is different, though, Rod replied. It’s journalism; there’s pressure and deadlines....

So what? Brian said, drinking from his bottle. "Maybe that’s exactly what you need. Shit, you’re not getting much done on your own ... and besides, the money couldn’t hurt."

I doubt it pays very well, Rod replied.

"Maybe not ... but they do pay—the ad that I saw said so."

I’ll think about it, Rod said.

6

Leaving his last class the following Monday afternoon, Rodney Stiles had forgotten about his conversation with Brian ... until he saw the discarded copy of Supply in the last two rows of seats. He leaned down and picked it up, studying the cover as he left the auditorium.

There was a photograph of a band, Stupid Circle, and a caption promising an interview and review of their latest show inside. The magazine wasn’t printed on slick paper, but the thing looked professionally done all the same. He thumbed through it as he walked, noting that it was in color and that there were a number of advertisements for local businesses and bars ... and Rodney Stiles knew enough about the publishing world to realize that how well a magazine pays its writers is determined by its ad revenue.

Supply seemed to have a section for everything: Letters, Athletics, Dining, Arts, Music, Classifieds.... Rod was impressed with the content and layout; he felt a rush of excitement surge through him, followed by a feeling of intimidation.

I’ve never done anything like this before, he thought.

But his feet had been carrying him toward the building that housed the offices of Supply, and as he stood outside, he made up his mind that he was at least going to go inside and talk to someone.

There was a feeling of urgency in the large room, which was filled with desks and chairs occupied by people using computer terminals, drawing, or answering ringing telephones. He could see several doors with frosted glass inserts bearing lettering, which appeared to lead to individual offices and conference rooms.

Rod was standing in the reception area, separated from the chaos by a desk belonging to an attractive girl with shoulder-length brown hair and eyeglasses who was writing with one hand and holding a phone to her ear with the other.

Can I help you? she said a moment later, setting the telephone down.

I was wondering about the staff positions that you’re hiring for, Rod said, pointing to the ad appearing on the back cover of the issue that he still held in his hand.

I see, she said. Do you have an appointment, or …?

Uh ... no, Rod said. I was just kind of passing by.

The receptionist—Jessica Strom, according to the nameplate on her desk—looked over her shoulder and then back at Rod. Well ... I’ll see if Ed’s busy, but you’ll probably have to make an appointment.

Rod waited while Jessica picked up the phone and punched a four-digit extension. Ed? Yes, there’s a guy here asking about the staff positions ... no, he doesn’t ... his name? I don’t know ... whiskey? I’ll send Josh ... okay, Ed.

Jessica smiled at Rod and said, You’re in luck—Ed wants to see you in his office. She pointed at one of the doors that Rod had noticed earlier and continued: Just stop on your way and ask that guy in the red shirt to pick up a bottle of whiskey ... it’s for Ed.

After relaying the message regarding the liquor, Rod approached the door that Jessica had motioned to. Emblazoned on the glass was:

JEFF ELLIS

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Rod knocked on the door; a voice inside called, Yeah! Come in!

Rod stepped inside the office, which was small and cluttered. An oversized wooden desk dominated the room; its surface held a typewriter

(the same as his!)

and was littered with papers. Another smaller desk was home to a computer. There were a few file cabinets, some bookshelves, and an extra chair filling the remaining space.

Seated at the typewriter was a scowling blonde-haired man that Rod guessed was at least a few years older than himself. He wore a white-and-blue-striped collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows; the intense face sported a severe-looking mustache and flared sideburns.

You the one lookin’ for a job?

Uh ... yeah, Rod replied, extending his hand across the desk. I’m Rodney Stiles.

Jeff Ellis, the man said, shaking Rod’s hand with a firm grip.

I thought—

What? That my name was Ed? That’s short for ‘editor’—you ever work in this field before?

Actually, no ... I had some questions about that, Rod said, his voice trailing off.

Jeff

(Ed)

motioned to the empty chair. "Sit, sit. Tell me why you’re interested in Supply—you a writer?"

Sort of, Rod said. I do short stories, and I’m an English major.

You been published? Jeff asked.

No ... not yet, Rod said, his cheeks flushing.

How old are you?

Nineteen, Rod answered.

That means this is what? Your freshman year? Sophomore?

I’m a freshman, Rod said.

Okay, Jeff said, lighting a cigarette. You’re young—not having experience is normal. This is a student rag, so that’s what everybody’s here to do—gain experience and learn as much as possible. You got a writing sample with ya?

A writing sample! Rodney Stiles couldn’t believe that he had just walked in here on a whim—he was completely unprepared for any of this. You know, I really hadn’t planned on coming here today—I was on my way home from class when I picked up a copy of this issue and saw the ad. I’m sorry.

Hmm.... Jeff was drumming his fingers on the desk and staring at his cigarette. He seemed to make a decision, suddenly reaching into a drawer and producing a bottle of bourbon that was nearly empty. He poured what was left of the whiskey into a tumbler glass that Rod hadn’t noticed until then. I’d offer you a drink, Jeff said, raising his, but this is it. I have someone bringing more, of course....

Josh, right? I gave him the message on my way in, Rod said.

You did, eh? Jeff said, his face brightening. Then you might like to join me for one of these when that little weasel gets back here.

A drink would be just fine right now, Rod said, thinking that a few slugs of booze on his way over might have been an even better idea.

I’m glad to hear you say that, Roy—

Rod.

I’m glad to hear you say that, Rod, Jeff continued, because this is a shitty business. We go to press tonight—that’s why this place looks like such a fuckin’ zoo this afternoon. Deadlines ... pressure ... hysteria! A man that doesn’t drink will start, and a man that does drink will drink even more.

So, then it’s always this busy around here? Rod asked, wondering how the staff kept up with their classes.

Fuck no! It’s a damned ghost town most of the time ... until their deadline is staring them in the face, and then every one of these yahoos shows up at once to drive me bugshit!

Why is everyone under such a strain, then? I mean, if they have so much time to complete their assignments? Rod asked.

"Not them—me! Jeff cried, lighting another cigarette with the smoldering butt of the last. Any editor has it tough. Each department has its own, and I’m the ringmaster. Right now I got no Music Editor—is that what you’re applying for?"

Uh ... I thought the best I could hope for would be writing tiny reviews ... or maybe occasionally something bigger, once I had some experience—

Write? Jeff said. But you got no writing sample! No, I think that I better put you in an office until I know what you’re made of. You’ve got the next ... four hours, Jeff said, squinting at his watch, to make a Music Section out of this bunch of crap, he concluded, thrusting a stack of papers into Rod’s hands.

But—

Don’t worry, Rob—

Rod.

—you’ll have plenty of time to write your own stuff for the next issue. I’ll give you $250 a week, plus expenses and a press pass into just about any-fucking-thing that you’ll ever want to see around here. You can set up two doors down from me—it says ‘Music Editor’ on the glass. Take anything that you need ... do anything that it takes! When what’s-his-fuck gets back with that booze, I’ll send some over along with some pills to keep you sharp.

7

Rodney Stiles settled into his new role as the Music Editor of Supply ... and quickly came to share Jeff Ellis’s conviction that it indeed was a shitty business to be in—one full of fuckoffs and misfits and losers. A writer assigned by Rod to cover a major concert was hauled off to the drunk tank during the opening act, while another habitually turned in his copy scribbled on cocktail napkins and beer coasters.

In the end, making sense of it all and filling the pages of his section was Rod’s responsibility, a task that he accomplished by writing most of the stories himself. As for the deadlines and hysteria that Jeff had spoken of, Rod found that it actually helped him complete his work on time; when he tinkered with his short stories, he had only self-motivation to rely on—an asset that was in short supply.

Time was something else that Rod had precious little of—for fiction or anything else. After taking his first job, Rodney Stiles discovered that juggling school and what was supposed to be a part-time gig (Rodney took his position at Supply seriously; he often spent nearly as much time as Jeff Ellis picking up other people’s slack) could be difficult, to say the least. Still, Rod managed to keep up with his classes and wow his editor with witty and insightful prose; when one is nineteen, going