Karolina Waclawiak - The Invaders

Things had changed for me at school, though. They didn’t want me around at their parties anymore and I was suddenly known for having bad drugs — too cut with under-the-sink garbage. I was just aggressively pursuing my natural entrepreneurial skills for pre-MBA practice, I wanted to tell them. But I got the boot anyway, reasons kept quiet, thankfully. There was no need to add further stress on my poor father’s heart. They kept it simple — I had missed too many classes. It sucked to know that no one gave a shit that I was leaving. No one was crying at my door or begging me to stay in my apartment, to be with them, to pretend I was still enrolled in school to keep the party going. I mean, there were people I knew still needed me. They were just preoccupied when it came time for me to leave. No one was telling sentimental stories about sophomore-year bullshit or laughing about the time I convinced the freshman guys who followed us around like puppies to slap each other until they threw up Jager. They all did the same thing. Why was I the one getting forced out? Well, fuck them. I was moving on early. I didn’t need to be dwelling in a broken-down house with vomit and turds floating in the bathroom toilet. I didn’t have to scrounge for burrito money, either. I was coming back to being taken care of. Laundry done. Dinner set. Lounge chairs poolside.

I could live my future state now. Isn’t that what they taught you in sales? It was all about future states and stretch goals. I drove past the club and saw the last sailing group of the day pulling their boats into the water. I parked and walked along the seawall, ignoring the No Trespassing signs tacked to the concrete. Everyone around here used to make sure you knew you weren’t welcome in less obvious ways, but this was a nice touch. Let’s just be direct with it. You are not wanted. Stay the hell out. Especially against the punny names of the houses around here like Wander Inn or our house, Dew Drop Inn. Was Cheryl serious? No one ever came around.

I sat on the wall and watched the kids on the Sunfish boats amble around in the bay, trying to keep themselves steady and their masts from rocking right to left as they fought to catch the wind. They were already allowed to sail without a partner, the teacher nearby in a Whaler. Who was the guy they had teaching this year? He didn’t even seem to be making sure they were in control of their boats. I could do better, but they didn’t let club members work here. They had to keep the divisions clear and not confuse anyone about their place in the hierarchy.

Maybe that could be my career goal — sailing instructor for wealthy seven-year-olds. Somewhere else. I watched the boats shudder out of the bay and into the sound and knew they would make it through just fine. I turned and watched the older members cross the parking lot to the club and it scared me to think that these people might have had a clue once and then had just given up and started wearing khaki shorts.

This was my prodigal-son homecoming. Isn’t that how it always played out? Arms out and my father saying, “We knew you were having a rough time; we’re just happy to have you back.”

I laughed at the thought of it, almost begged myself to believe it.

Money wasted. I didn’t quite make it through. Last time they talked about final chances. I had worn them out. No one was going to say it though, they would begin acting out some family fantasy as soon as I walked through the door and they would talk about the things I would do instead — plans and goals. I was hoping for this outcome. I really, really was. I wanted to hear all the ways I could still be successful. I wanted to know that these things happen.

I walked toward our house and at the door the key was under the seashell just as Cheryl had said. The tail of metal was sticking out. Anyone could have seen it and walked right in. There was such a sense of trust in this neighborhood. I didn’t get it. A couple years ago we went rifling through summer houses in the middle of winter. We’d find the hidden keys and party all night long, wandering around strangers’ houses looking at their family photos, eating whatever snacks were leftover from their stay. We thought they were probably in Florida wearing visors, floating out into the ocean, and it’d be months before they found clogged toilets, puke-lined beds, and empty booze cabinets.

Cheryl was just asking to become a statistic. Not that they ever went anywhere and I had no idea when my dad was planning on retiring or if he’d even be taking Cheryl with him. But still. I didn’t want people going through their stuff.

Inside, the house was dead quiet. All the windows were closed like we didn’t live at the beach. I opened the refrigerator and found nothing but boxed salad and a couple tomatoes and a carton of half-and-half. Some questionable leftovers in Tupperware. She was really falling down on the job here. The freezer was even sadder. A wall of Tupperware filled with fucking chicken soup as if she was stockpiling for the apocalypse. I got a box of Triscuits from the cabinet and took my stuff upstairs. I don’t know why Cheryl insisted on showcasing shit from high school around my room. Old lacrosse sticks on the wall and yearbooks fanned out on my desk like it was a fucking coffee table. I was going to have to talk to her about coming into my room when I wasn’t home, again. I put my bags in the corner; I’d go back for the boxes in my trunk later. You know, start small, and ease into this. I looked through my stuff and couldn’t find any weed. This was unacceptable. I had put it in one of my bags last night and now it was gone. Someone must have gone through them while I was asleep to get their rent money or whatever. I went through my drawers because I knew I had a stash somewhere, even if it was super stale. Maybe I could talk Cheryl into letting me have space in the freezer for my unmentionables. I laughed just thinking about it. Put your frozen peas over here and I’ll put my eighths over there, Cheryl.

My room came up with nada. Now I was gonna have to stress about finding someone to get weed from. Who was even still around? Probably fucking Steven, and I hated doing business with him. I could do a trade — my bad shit for his twigs and sticks. Or Pauline. Pauline would give me anything I wanted.

I headed to my dad and Cheryl’s room. I was nervous about what I’d find in there. Spent K-Y Jelly squeeze tubes? I doubted it, actually. I hadn’t found one of those in a long time and I hadn’t even seen them even touch each other in years. I pulled open my dad’s bedside table and looked through the pill bottles to find something I could munch on. Heart medicine, arthritis medicine, blister pack of Viagra. I thought about grabbing some for later, because why not, but I checked the expiration date and they were dunzo two years ago. Damn, nothing more depressing than expired Viagra. I put it back where I found it and went through the rest of the bottles.

And there, like a beautiful light, was a half-full bottle of oxycodone. I opened it and my chalky white heaven poured out. Thank you, Dad. Thank you and your fucked-up arthritis. I love you so much. I took a few and figured I’d steal more as needed, or until he figured it out and hid them. All those low-voiced commercials of dread, commanding parents to keep their pills locked away from their children, hadn’t scared him into hiding them from me.

I took the pills back to my room and crushed one on my desk and snorted it real tight. It was just gonna be a little bit to tide me over because the Vicodin wasn’t doing shit. I went to take a shower because nothing feels better when you’re high than hot water. It’s like you can imagine standing under a warm waterfall and there’s a numb buzz in your head and maybe it’s like being inside something bigger than you. Maybe, like, I don’t know, a vat of warm honey. Just soft. I left my clothes in a pile, turned on the shower, and waited for the big mirrors to steam up.