on my shoulder and squeezed the muscles there and they twanged under his fingers like guitar strings. “You poor thing,” he murmured. “Do you want me to see if Lisa will close for you?”
“Uh, no, it’s okay,” I said. I had already texted Bunny several times and she had not texted me back.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Just worried about my friend. But I’m sure she’s fine.”
“You’re such a good guy,” Terrence said, and I knew he was more stoned than usual, and I felt like I was in a nightmare where everyone was on drugs but me. Except that it was not a nightmare, it was quasi-factual, because everyone present in that Rite Aid, every one of my coworkers and customers, was, if not already drunk or high, planning on becoming so within the next few hours.
Was I a good guy? Was Terrence a good guy? In many ways he was the kindest person I knew, but I also was aware that he was nothing but a sad, doped-up manager at a small-town Rite Aid, and that if he was the best guy I knew then there was really no hope at all for anyone.
“It’s fine,” I said. I wanted to work the extra hours. I needed the money.
* * *
—
When I got home, there were no lights on in Bunny’s house. I knocked on their door, rang the bell. It had been a hot day, but now the air was cool and the wind was picking up. I texted her from her front porch. I was still sitting there when Ray Lampert suddenly materialized in the darkness, having evidently walked home instead of driving.
“Michael, my man!” he cried. And I regretted all of my life choices leading up to that moment so intensely that I felt I was internally collapsing.
“Come in, come in,” he said, fumbling with his keys.
“That’s all right, sir,” I said, already standing and trying to edge past him down the steps to the sidewalk. He grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me like I was a dog toy. “Get in here,” he said. “Don’t make me spend the rest of the night alone. I’m not ready for it to be over! It can’t be over. You know why? Because we won’t let it be over!”
And it was exactly like when Bunny would grab me in the pool like an alligator and pull me under, only now, instead of drowning, I was inside a gaudy living room, watching Ray Lampert fumble with his phone trying to put a Patsy Cline record on the Bluetooth sound system, as he told me about how it had been stand-up comedy night at the Blue Lagoon and some comics had come from L.A. and that was something he had always wanted to try: stand-up comedy. I could not imagine anything more horrible than Ray Lampert doing stand-up.
“Where’s Bunny?” he asked, as he poured himself a glass of wine.
“I don’t know. She didn’t answer my texts, so I’m guessing she’s asleep.” It was always best to sprinkle your lies with truths.
“We’ll let her rest, then,” he said. “She’s so tuckered out from those practices. It’s a long day, she’s there from seven to seven just about.” His pride in her caused his face to become beautiful, and for several seconds I could see him as a younger man, the kind who would marry the prettiest, well-brought-up, good and sweet girl he could find, determined to earn her, to make a place for himself in this world, to build this house for her. The kind of man innocent enough to think that an all-black bathroom was compelling and chic. I had come to understand, somehow, over the years, that it was Ray and not his wife who had decorated their house. His touch was everywhere, in the grandiose marble and the gilt end tables, the oversize art reproductions in bold colors hung on every wall as though they were real paintings. He had tried, with a teenage boy’s imagination, to conjure a rich man’s house, and then he had made it a thrilling reality in every detail.
“Hey,” he said, “you wanna see pictures of Bunny as a baby?”
I had already mentally imagined at least a dozen ways this night could go, but I had not imagined Ray would suggest something I would actually want to do. “Of course!” I said.
He paused, gave me a smirk I couldn’t interpret. “You want me to pour you a glass?” He gestured with