Strong Enough

By Ellen Harger

Starting over is hard.
And sometimes, you have to burn a few bridges to do it.

Whitney Brown is average--average height, weight, and personality--but she wants to be someone new. To kick-start her rebirth, she wears formal mourning, a black veil and vintage dress, to a wedding in her hometown, Woods Cross, a community that treasures family values. Is it an attack on marriage or has she just gone bonkers?

Emboldened but lacking a plan, she forces her foot in the door of a radio station in Sundown. A small metropolis of nearly 150,000, Sundown is a notch of urban flair along the Midwest's Bible Belt.

Getting in proves to be the easy part and the anonymity of being a DJ suits her well. But off air (and in person), Whitney must stand up to Sadi, an angry feminist and the bane of her college years while an old friendship with her former roommate, Leah, devolves around a guy.

It's 2002 and the Midwest radio scene is changing. Just as Whitney hits her groove, the radio station undergoes its own identity crisis. But what rocks Whitney to her core is the moment the condom breaks. Her abstinence only background leaves her embarrassed and facing a difficult choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Harger
• Release date: Apr 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301058334

Ellen Harger

Ellen Harger was born at the Air Force Academy in Colorado. As a military brat, she moved often during her childhood--something she never resented and continued as an adult. The constant starting over would later influence her first published novel, "Strong Enough." At 14, her family settled in Missouri as civilians, permitting Ellen to attend one high school. She stayed in the Midwest to attend a small liberal arts college, studying creative writing and art. After 11 years, she moved to Boston. While there, she continued to study creative writing in Cambridge. Ever willing to explore new places, she moved next to the San Francisco Bay area. After 11 years away, and loving the symmetry, she returned to the Midwest to finish "Strong Enough." She has published a poem, "Guidelines," and released her novel as an e-book.

Book preview

WHITE WEDDING

by Herman’s Hermits, When Pigs Fly

UPON arriving at the church, Whitney Brown achieves a new social status—a scandalous one. Before today, no one in Woods Cross, Missouri could have imagined wallflower Whitney attending a wedding wearing heavy black mourning. Normally unassuming in frumpy jeans and a t-shirt, she’s dressed to be noticed—her full figure shown to its curvaceous best in a vintage dress.

Despite the thrill of her dramatic choice, anxious beads of perspiration chill her skin on the bright March morning. She chose a heavy black veil to conceal her red curls but everyone knows it’s her; she’s the girl who called off her own wedding a week before the blessed event. In a town of less than three thousand, people know about a canceled wedding and who did the canceling. It’s been discussed in living rooms with the typical blustering she saw growing up—the threatening to tell the offender exactly what the righteous think. And yet, so often the message is passed across cold shoulders.

Adrenaline and anxiety mix in a heady combination. She shouldn’t feel so pleased. Emily Post herself would glare from the pages of her book at such flagrant flouting of a social consideration. But it’s a necessary evil if she wants to escape small town USA.

The movements of fidgety people, uncomfortable being formal, echo off the rafters of the cobblestone church. In contrast, the minister’s voice is barely a murmur. But it doesn’t matter. Whitney isn’t listening. She has no need to hear his words. As she reaches to adjust the veil, her hand actually trembles. Icy temperatures would be a reasonable, natural cause for the quaking, but extending each quivering finger, she wonders. A nagging prickle stings her skin, compelling her to lift her eyes and confront a caustic glare from the bride’s aunt. Instead of sticking out her tongue, she dabs her eyes with a black lace handkerchief.

Suddenly, real tears threaten. She made a good choice, right? Ever since childhood she’s dreamed of her wedding day. She was supposed to have the white dress and all the attention—for once. But the fairy-tale threatened to become more important than the reality. As she reminds herself that a wedding and a marriage are not the same thing, the tears vanish. Straightening her back, she shrugs off the doubt deforming her shoulders. If she wants to avoid a predetermined future here in Woods Cross, she needs to leave, to sever the illusionary safety net of home. Today’s exhibition should prevent the welcome-wagon even if she yearns to return.

It’s a good day to start again.

GET THE PARTY STARTED

by Pink, M!ssundaztood

DJ Kelly Carter adjusts her headphones so only one ear is covered. Outside, beyond the radio station’s walls, she’s Whitney Brown, but she prefers being someone else on the air—someone new and unknown even to her.

Good Morning, KFXT, thanks for calling in to be one of our Consumer Critics. What’s your review of the new movie ‘Serial Blues’? asks DJ Rick Grant, of Rick in the Morning. She still prefers for him to take the calls. Whenever he gestures to her for a big smile or more enthusiasm, Whitney either giggles or becomes flustered and says things like Serial Blues...is that the movie about Cornflakes and skim milk? Luckily that happened at 6:20 this morning and the caller laughed.

Today could have been a normal June day in Woods Cross. At this hour she would have just dropped Doug off at work before heading to her own job. Thankfully, she’s an assistant DJ at a rock station in Sundown, Missouri.

Coming up, the first drawing in our weekly give-away, but before we get to all that, Kelly Carter is here to give you a traffic update.

She can do the report without her notes, but Rick likes to coach her in everything—even the excitement of non-moving traffic—so she keeps her eyes trained on the thrilling copy. Thanks, Rick. Traffic has dwindled since the nine o’clock update but Route 35 still has only one south bound lane due to an overturned semi. Like a machine she churns out the words to the listening public, wrapping up the morning report and leaving the news tidbits for the next crew. The clock on the computer rapidly steals seconds, marching her live time down to twenty minutes. Each morning she finishes the show on such a high, thrilled to have enjoyed yet another glorious day on air. If she has no flubs, she floats at least two feet above the ground.

Guess who’s coming to town at the end of November? Rick brings her and their listeners back.

I don’t know. Do you have a hint? she asks and laughs on cue at Rick’s hint. When they first started working together, Rick provided scripts that read laugh here.

Well, gosh my brain isn’t working. Do you have a guess, Andy? she quips to another DJ in the booth, carrying on the banter. Rick likes lots of banter. It feels a little stale to her, but that’s the morning show. Rick and Andy, the other DJ, carry on in an effortless exchange created from years of working together. They aren’t excluding her. It’s up to her to interject, as Rick has told her several times. In fact, during her precious few months at the station, she’s learned that she has to make opportunities. Putting herself out there is difficult, but she finally wants something. Almost three weeks ago she put in her request for live promotions. Live promotions—just the sound of the two words pressed together sends her resident butterflies into a frenzied flutter of anticipation.

She’s doing it. She’s surviving. When she left her hometown with no job, she never imagined she could be here, wanting more. She returned to Sundown, to her second home, already wavering and scared but she kept begging herself to stay, to try one more day, to hold out one more hour and not return to Woods Cross. It’s not just that she wants more; it’s that she finally knows what she wants.

Living off her savings, she stalked the various radio stations scavenging for an opportunity. Her tenacity paid off when a young woman tacked up a job posting. In her race to read the page, Whitney tripped in her usual graceful manner and plastered herself against the bulletin board. It ought to have embarrassed her but the words were too important to waste time blushing: WANTED: researcher, commercial voice, office gopher. Intern experience preferred, communications degree necessary, ready to start at the bottom. The paper was still warm from the copier. She knew it was fate as she snatched it asking, When can I start?

Suddenly Whitney hears the silence, the dead air filling the small soundproof booth, threatening to suffocate everyone inside. They’re staring at her, shocked that she would allow dead air into the show. She squeaks back into the moment. Anti-Light?! It’ll be a great concert! I am so excited about this show!

Every other time they discussed the concert she had trouble injecting consistent enthusiasm, but the dead air adrenaline pumped the ra-ra to whole new heights. Rick gives her the cut signal and motions her out of the booth. Knowing he’ll want to discuss her flub, she flees downstairs to her desk to do her daily research.

Whitney fell in love with radio in college, first as a listener of X99.5 Orion, the alternative radio station, and then later through her Communication courses. The campus station was as popular as a religious revival at the Sturgis motorcycle rally, but Whitney loved the freedom that it brought. She was safe to learn the equipment and talk on air without anyone judging. Despite her preference for no audience, she dreamed of working at X99.5. However, her mother, the financier of Whitney’s education, insisted she find a job with insurance benefits. Janette Brown assured her daughter that it was better to listen to the radio while enjoying paid medical. Browns, after all, don’t accept government handouts. After graduating with a double major in Business and Communications, she returned to Woods Cross to enjoy her benefits. A few years later, Orion morphed into KFXT, Your Rock Music Fix, a more popular rock station to which she listened during her free time.

An email enters her inbox giving her a welcome break. Toggling over she sees her manager’s name and the subject line RE: Expansion of Kelly Carter Position. She blinks hard several times to check her vision but the words consistently inform her that she’ll be hosting a minor promotion at Backdoorz for Little Izi this Thursday. It’s pushing alcohol and t-shirts, but it’s all by herself—no Rick, no Andy. Just Whitney…well, Kelly Carter.

She. Is. Presenting! Whitney thrusts away from her desk and sends her chair into a rapid spin of celebration. She’d rather be dancing on her desk, screaming hooray at the top of her lungs.

Spinning in tight circles turns her stomach. She stops and waits for the sick feeling to calm. In that moment the pessimistic voice her mother implanted whispers, won’t there be an audience with actual live people watching?

They’ll be watching her. Whitney, not Kelly. Closing her eyes against her instinctive negativity, she focuses on enjoying her success. This is what she wants. She asked for this and she’ll do her best. Plus, she reminds herself, it’s a no-name band in a no-name town, so it’s fitting that a no name DJ hosts their first five minutes of fame.

Her desk partner, Erin, interrupts the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde struggle by announcing, Lunch!

Whitney glances at the clock surprised to see two hours have passed since the morning show ended. As quickly as the fear washed over her, it washes away and she grins at her friend. Erin is another female low on the radio totem pole and working for one of the other stations crammed into the building. She drew the country spot at her intern party and remained faithful—faithful enough to wear boots and keep her long hair a lovely bottle blonde.

I...sure but...I mean...I got a live promo! It spills out like fairy vomit, all sparkly and gross, but Erin grins.

When did this happen?

Just now! Read, Whitney squeals, bouncing in her chair, high on excitement once again.

Erin leans down to read the screen. Congratulations! So does this mean it’s time to find a real apartment?

The question is like a pin-prick. One night over drinks she explained why she rents a room by the week. It’s cheap and temporary, which makes it easy to leave but also a motivation to succeed. She absently lifts her hand to her mouth to chew a thumbnail. I suppose so.

Do you need help searching?

Thanks, but I’d better call an old friend of mine first. She rubs the rough tip against her palm and feels the clammy sweat. I’m pretty sure she owns some lofts near here.

Downtown? Wow, I hear those are amazing.

The bounce has completely deflated. She knows Leah owns lofts and restaurants and more buildings; she read the cover story in last month’s Sundown 411 Magazine. It’s time to call her college roommate, something she’s avoided for months.

* * * * *

The center of old downtown Sundown is a small grid of streets that work out from the center in one-way right angles. At the center is a square cement park mostly used by skateboarders. Four-way stops at every corner still ease what little traffic drifts through to the angled parking along the sidewalks. Few buildings rise higher than four stories, all are square, squat, and some are even squalid. Back when Whitney was in college, Goths haunted the deserted center and rumors of gangs and cults made their mysterious gatherings a little more interesting. There was a paintball center nearby that drew a young crowd, and she knew a few friends who played Dungeons and Dragons at a secret locale.

She recognizes a few businesses: MacArthur’s Furniture, the DMV, Gordon’s Sports Bar still serving dollar burgers on Tuesdays. The second-hand clothes, antique, and junk stores remain but in different locations with different names. In college, she shopped with Leah for Halloween costumes and dorm furniture at various versions of these standby stores. It’s like the businesses have been shaken in a Boggle™ board—the small squares bounced like crazy and then shaken back into the tight modular grid in a totally different order.

Lofts at the Hargraves presides over old downtown, occupying four buildings and offering a third-story view. Height is an untapped resource in the land of sprawl. She’s not sure how many lofts have been carved out of the upper stories, but the businesses at street level are all open. There’s a new coffee shop, a photography studio with an attached camera store hosting a window full of old cameras, and on the corner a trendy clothing store. All the businesses have extra large windows to help display their wares while the upper stories have evenly spaced, rectangular windows framed with brick. The cream stucco facade barely wraps around the corner, exposing chipped brick walls—as if Hollywood propped up a set.

She tries not to pace or chew her nails, but she’s nervous. When she wandered back to Sundown, emotionally bruised and future impaired, it was a daily bargain to stay. Then she found sanctuary in secrecy as Kelly Carter, so she promised to contact people once she had something to show for herself. But she has always been average—average intelligence, average height, average weight. Of course, average is a size 12 in a size 6 world. The only thing that makes her stand out in a crowd is the long mop of red curls she struggles to control. So she procrastinated. Procrastination is something at which she excels—an art form she practiced for twenty-nine years before taking a gamble with life.

According to the 411 article she read, Leah is a huge success in her family’s legacy of owning property, dealing in property, buying property, and practically breeding property all over Sundown. Now she’s called her old friend, trying not to feel like a charity case.

When she dialed, her stomach bunched up in her throat as she practiced her HI! over and over. An assistant answered. The assistant called back with a time to meet and here she is, waiting to see her old friend and still practicing her HI!

She instantly recognizes Leah walking on the other side of the street, cell phone to her ear, gold hair shining. She’s dressed in crisp khakis and a vibrant blue blouse, perfectly pressed and looking amazing. Whitney crosses the road and waves, calling, Leah!

Leah holds her finger up as she finishes her call. Then she pops her phone into her monogrammed bag and embraces Whitney. This is so exciting and I can’t wait to show you the space I have for you. You’re going to love it! She unlocks the front door then takes Whitney by the hand. She describes the renovations as she leads them up the stairs, gesturing at the banister, the paint, the lighting. Apparently, Hank the electrician was a darling and she adored Craig the contractor. Whitney suspects that Leah doesn’t remember her and thinks she’s just a potential client.

Finally, at the top of the second floor, Leah stops speaking and smiles before she inserts the key into the lock. The heavy door swings easily and quietly. The ceilings are high. The floors are a glossy wood. Windows on either side of the rectangular space let in light, the west side flooding the loft with evening sun. Most of the space is open with square pillars like straight white trees keeping the ceiling aloft.

Whitney walks around and feels real excitement build as she realizes that this is the last hurdle to making her escape from Woods Cross a reality. She wanders by each window into the kitchen, turns on the faucet, and opens the oven then the dishwasher. She pokes her head in the cabinets and then makes her way toward the bathroom. As she passes a metal staircase winding up she looks to see where it goes, but the stairs spiral into the ceiling. Puzzled, she stops and looks at Leah. What are these for?

They lead up to my place. We can be neighbors!

To your place?

Leah claps enthusiastically. I planned on using this space as an office but decided I liked getting out. I thought maybe if I lived with someone we could use more space, but then I realized I like living alone.

Alone? Whitney opens her mouth to say something but Leah doesn’t pause for breath. So then I didn’t know what to do because of the stairs leading between the two apartments. Well, I mean, didn’t want a stranger having access, did I? And then ta-da! You call needing a place and I knew instantly this would be perfect! Are you excited?

Whitney smiles and nods, surprised she can move her head. Shock has filled her up like cement. Leah is single again and wants to be roommates. Sort of. With her. She didn’t expect this. She doesn’t know how to process it. It’s so weird and kind and sweet and.... Taking a few strides across the room she hugs Leah. Thank you. She presses all her gratitude and excitement into Leah’s narrow shoulders, finally feeling like they’ve actually said hello.

Come on, let’s go upstairs. Leah takes her hand, again, giving it a squeeze before leaving through the front door. I can’t wait to show you what I’ve done with my space.

Hey, what about the special stairs?

They’re barricaded. Leah holds open the door to the hallway. So how big of a truck do you need?

Just a car. Whitney ascends the stairs first. At the top of the landing there is an elaborate rug, plants, and a pre-weathered bistro set.

Don’t worry. I’ll help you fill the place up. Unlocking several locks, she swings open the door and smiles. Welcome!

A brick wall forces people to immediately turn left or right to enter the loft. On it hangs a painting with large swashes of paint smeared thickly over canvas and pieces of metal, scraped away in places to reveal layers and layers of color in the hues of a setting summer sun. Leah leaves her keys in a leather bowl on a long glass table beneath the painting. Red irises stretch from a cracked green vase. Another vase mirrors it on the other end of the table—same crack, same irises.

Whitney follows her around the wall and onto a showroom floor. A modern slate blue leather couch divides the room from the kitchen and joins a matching armless chair and a glass coffee table in an angular configuration. She notices that the exposed brick walls have a slightly pinkish tint and all the lampshades have the same tone as the couch. Decorating the room are expensively framed photographs of Leah with her family or friends and several vases of fresh flowers. An Andy Warhol style portrait of Leah, done in the four main hues of the room, adorns a wall. In her shack by the week, Whitney has a cockroach stain and a moist odor. But she’ll be living here now—right downstairs. Already she feels the healing powers of being near beauty. It’s an intoxicating bouquet and suddenly so familiar.

Leah, I’m sorry to just appear and expect so much out of you. But I really apprec...

Stop. Please. Would you like something to drink? Have a seat and I’ll bring some refreshments over.

Sitting on the couch, she’s surprised that expensive leather can be uncomfortable—all style and no function.

So! Leah sets down a tray ladened with iced tea, bread and cheese. Stephen and I have been divorced for a little over two years now.

Whitney just crammed her mouth full of creamy cheese, but Leah waves off any comment before she can choke down the bite. I didn’t make a big announcement or hunt people down with the bad news. It’s all been fine. He didn’t really like it here and I wasn’t about to leave my hometown. He really wanted children, which surprised me because I told him I wasn’t interested at all. I admit it. I don’t want to force my body through such abuse. Anyway, we just couldn’t remember why we got married. He’s in San Diego now. Fun in the sun. I don’t think I could ever like California. It’s so...well, whatever. I love Sundown and I don’t plan to ever leave. Ever. She adds with emphasis as if Whitney’s purpose in coming was to drag her off.

You’ve probably noticed that a lot’s changed here. Daddy and I have been instrumental in helping to wake up our sleepy little town without disturbing its balance. You know, it takes a careful hand to handle modernity and Midwesternism. Daddy is still the best and I’ve really enjoyed working under his guidance. Now, where is it you work?

Oh! Whitney says, unprepared for the sudden focus on her. I’m at KFXT. It’s practically here in downtown so this will be an ideal...

That’s right—the radio station. It’s so funny to think of little Whitney talking all sexy into a microphone. You were a Sociology major, right?

Actually, I studied Communications and I don’t...

Of course. So why did you move back here, anyway?

Whitney grabs her glass and takes a drink. The time has come. The first person from her Sundown past is asking about her life. She’s a little nervous because, while she thinks it’s funny, others might not. Her mother didn’t.

I was engaged for...

Was engaged. Did he break it off?

She cocks her head in irritation but the tiny fire wilts before the glory of Leah—the woman she’s always admired and who is now her benefactor. Smiling away the sting she says, No, I ended it. Mother was less than...

Oh! How is your mother? Last time I saw her was graduation. I used to have our picture right over there, Leah says, pointing to the table beneath the portrait. I probably just put that picture away a few months ago. It’s so funny but I swear I’ve been thinking about you, and poof! Here you are. I can’t get over it. But I’m sorry! I keep interrupting you. Go on, I’ll be good.

Whitney notices her glance at her watch. Leah always did over-book herself.

Do you need to leave?

Am I that obvious? Leah laughs. I promised daddy that I would dine with him—he absolutely insists I join him—and I hate to be late but I really want to visit with you.

Leah, we’re going to be neighbors. We’ll visit plenty.

You’re an angel. I promise we’ll have a serious pow-wow and talk about all the dirt from our missing years. Maybe we should even binge on hot wings and beer. Make it feel like old times. Leah stands, giving her the cue to leave, and Whitney follows her to the door, dizzy from the conversational vortex.

It’s so great to see you. Leah gives her another quick hug. We’ll take care of the lease and paperwork this week, but why don’t you plan on moving in this weekend? I’ll help you fill in the apartment with a few spare pieces that I have sitting around and, of course, I know the area. It’ll be fun.

Whitney finds herself in the hallway, smiling. Thank you again. So much. I can’t tell you how happy I am that I called you.

Me, too. And by the way, have you seen Sadi yet?

Sadi? She’s here? Did my voice just squeak?

She turned her grandparents’ house into a bookstore, if you want to drop by. Leah waves as she closes the door, saying, Have a good evening. I’ll see you soon.

Whitney can’t seem to move. Her feet are glued to the floor by the one thing she never imagined. Sadi. Here. A few blocks away. She expected Sadi to have relocated to New York or landed in a Mexican jail—preferably under a life sentence.

THE MIDDLE

by Jimmy Eat World, Jimmy Eat World

RETURNING home, Sadi Chavez crosses the overpass behind a cherry-red truck. There’s nothing special about a red Ford pickup, but the white swoosh down the side is distinctive. Rolling to a stop at the light, Sadi glances in the cab. The driver’s hair is centimeters short and his profile Adonis-like in its perfection. No flaws reveal themselves as he reaches over to the passenger side of the cab. He twists the plastic cap off of a 20 oz bottle adorned with the trademarked script. Lifting it high, he gulps down the iconic cola. It’s practically a damn commercial in the middle of her drive to work.

Sadi’s window is rolled down, permitting the summer morning breeze to slip around her like an affectionate cat. It tickles her skin, cooling the sweat already dripping down her back at 9:40 in the morning. When it feels like August in June, it makes for a long summer—especially in a car without power windows. She snaps the radio dial off in disgust. The jabbering of the DJs doesn’t interest her.

Shania Twain croons from the truck behind her but Sadi refuses to roll up her window. Staring at Adonis, she runs her fingers through her own short hair. A Hellenistic master could have sculpted his profile. The shape of his lips, jaw, and his nose are regular and even, perfect in their masculinity. As he holds his drink high in the air, his right bicep bulges like an ad for protein powder. Does this guy have any lifestyle choices not sold to him? Still, she imagines the breadth of his chest. He would probably look good holding only a discus.

As the Midwest Adonis slips away in the left turn lane, Sadi’s meditation on his body and likely limited personality is interrupted by a short, high honk behind her. Glaring in her rearview window, she receives a wave and a smile. Taking the car out of neutral, Sadi follows the rest of the line through the light, turning the radio back on just in time to hear the final phrase of a jingle play, It’s the real thing.

She-it, she curses, exaggerating her Midwestern drawl.

Sadi pulls into her space in the tiny parking lot behind her grandparents’ house and gets her groceries out of the trunk. She dumps the bags in the small kitchen and races up the back stairs to her private quarters on the third floor. After she freshens up, she hurries back downstairs to open her bookstore, Well Fed Head.

In a practiced, fluid motion she unlocks the front door, opens it to grab the morning mail, and turns around the closed sign announcing the store is open at 10 am sharp. The stately grandfather clock in the foyer begins its gonging. Absently she counts each strike and it stops at nine. Nine o’clock? She double-checks her watch. The grandfather is losing time again. Setting the mail on the counter, she opens the face to move the hour hand with her finger. It always feels like she’s playing with its belly when she adjusts the weights for the pendulum. Dust along the decorative edges of the clock catches her eye. Either her assistant, Christian, is giving her a defiant answer, or despite his effeminate nature, he’s as oblivious to dirt as most men. That’s another to do for this morning.

Stepping around the counter, she unlocks the door to her office. One of the two front rooms on either side of the staircase was relegated to be her private office when the home was renovated for the bookstore. Her uncle tells her every time he comes by that both front rooms should be filled with merchandise. Sadi is certain he’s correct but she still doesn’t care.

The office is silent. Her computer is off and only the flashing message light of her phone disturbs the stillness of the curtained office—time to bring the place to life. Luckily no one has arrived this morning to make her feel guilty for being so slow. She snickers. Her uncle, Dale Crawford II, would not understand being relieved that no one was pounding on her door demanding Well Fed Head be open and stocked to the ceilings with only best-sellers. She slides in a classical CD. If it’s a slow morning, she’ll slide in one of her favorite bands later. Pulling out her chair, she takes her seat, ready to attack business matters until the front door opens and someone saves her.

Mail. Where’s the mail? She looks in her briefcase and glances around the room. The grandfather clock strikes ten fifteen. Oh, the clock. I left the mail by the clock, she mutters as she slips out into the store.

Sadi glances around and realizes how much still needs to be done before she can settle into her office. The percolator isn’t dripping. The sales receipts from last night are waiting for her to finish. The orders are in Christian’s neat, color-coded piles for her sign-off. Various other until later projects compete for space on the counter, and glancing into the main reading room, Sadi realizes that the whole place has passed the charming state of bookish disorder and is passing into a new phase of sloppy. It’s slow. Maybe she’ll slip that CD in now and do a little cleaning.

* * * * *

Todd and Marc’s footsteps echo across the floor, white-gray with dust. Fifty feet of brick walls are nicked and slightly scarred. The windows spill giant squares of speckled light across the dusty floor. At the rear, a large delivery door is clamped shut with a padlock and three-inch chain.

Marc is glaring at Todd, his best friend since childhood, and now, strangely, his business partner. It goes against logic. As kids they explored the woods, performed reconnaissance in their neighborhood, roof dived into trouble, and laughed over fart jokes. Yet, by the time they reached high school, they hardly hung out. Todd became fastidious, combing his hair for hours to make it look just so. And he became girl-consumed, dating everyone he could. The friendship barely survived Todd’s fraternity days, but somehow the tenuous bond held.

Marc thought he knew what he was getting into when they decided to open a restaurant. And yet, inexplicably, they’ve returned to view an available piece of real estate so Todd can dream about the next big adventure while the first project stagnates in renovations. Through his clinched jaw, Marc growls, Why are we here? Again?

If we had this building we could have a dance floor. Tables could surround it and some of them could be elevated. Even Todd’s ridiculous loafers cause echoes in the cavernous space, each expensive step tossing up small clouds of white dust. The ceiling is high, dotted with fresh plastered circles and steel light fixtures like giant upside down mixing bowls.

We can’t have a dance floor and we can’t have this place, Marc declares, his neck arched until his backward Ram’s cap hits his shoulders as he calculates how much the renovation would actually cost. A bird flies in an open window and dips around, finally alighting on some crates stacked by the giant delivery door. What a mess, Marc mumbles, avoiding the echo. The cavernous space of the building fills his lungs with dusty air. Todd continues to check sections of the floor with a miniature tape measure for the umpteenth time. The place has not grown so the action irritates Marc.

Why not? Todd asks.

Why not, what? Marc snaps.

Why can’t we have a dance floor?

Marc has no illusions about what a jackass Todd can be, but until they began working on their restaurant, he never realized how obstinate Todd was—obstinate and deaf. He knows his friend isn’t listening, so he answers truthfully. Because it’s stupid.

I still think there’s plenty of space at the other location.

Not after they finish my damn kitchen. Grabbing a lonely metal folding chair, he plants himself in the middle of the barren warehouse to wait out Todd’s trance.

Can’t you imagine what this place could be?

I’d rather keep my mind on the renovations at our restaurant. Marc enunciates all three syllables of the last word.

I was out with Tiffany the other night and there just wasn’t a place with enough atmosphere. It got me thinking about this place again.

How is Tiffany?

Fine, Todd answers. Lost in thought, he marks a dividing line in the dust with his shoe.

Marc has to leave. There’s been too much together time. He’s ready to duct tape Todd to a wall. I’m going for a walk.

We’re meeting Leah Hudson at one so don’t take too long.

I thought I’d walk to the overpass and jump. If that’s all right with you.

Todd slides his shirtsleeve above his watch. It’s almost noon now.

You’re right. It’s too low. I’d only break my legs. Marc exits the cavernous space with the snap of the measuring tape reverberating across the rafters.

Old Downtown—Todd’s crazy or greedy, but it’s his money; Marc just cooks. Commerce in the area is slow. The streets are narrow. Parking is bad. Most of the businesses