In the Basement, In the Sky

Six

The next day is exactly as you expect it to be. You take your morning dosage of niacin and 5-HTP, go downtown to do your stupid drug test, get lost, arrive an hour late, finally get home, and go back to sleep. On the off chance you pass your test, you need to have your sleep schedule on track.

Twenty-four hours pass. Forty-eight. Seventy-two.

You're not getting that job. You'd have heard back Monday by the latest, and almost a week has passed with no call and no work. You spend most of your time sleeping when Kylie is home, because you can't face him. You can't bring yourself to tell him you failed after everything you put yourself through, after you tried so hard, after you told him you're probably never going to quit for good, if not in so many words. He'll hate you.

And why shouldn't he? You're a failure.

When your phone rings, you don't hear it at first. You think it might be your dream. But then you realize, you're trying to answer a landline, and landlines don't play music, and then you're fumbling your phone and you manage to answer it but you drop it and shout, "Hang on! Sorry!"

Once you have it off the ground and up to your ear, you ask, "Hello?" You're wide awake after that little debacle, so there's no exhausted slur. But if this is some asshole spam caller you're going to be pissed.

"Atreyu, hi," a familiar voice says. "It's me, James, the night manager."

You bite your lip. Your nose flares. You hold your breath until you get dizzy, and it's only when he says, "Hello?" do you realize he wants an acknowledgement.

"Yeah, uh, hi," you finally manage, a little weakly. "What's going on?"

But you know what's going on. It's been almost a week and only now are you finally hearing back from your boss.

"You know your test came back dirty, right?" James asks. There's no accusation. Hell, maybe he even smokes on his days off. But he's not the one whose job is on the line right now.

"Did it?" you manage weakly.

"Yeah. Like. Really dirty."

"Oh." A pause. "So I don't get the --"

"No. Sorry, Atreyu. If it were up to me, we'd keep you, because you never let it interfere with your work. But rules are rules. Don't bother reapplying. You won't get a callback."

"Okay."

He hangs up.

You sit there, head lowered and phone in hand, legs crossed until your feet start to go pins and needles. The screen eventually goes black. You press the power button to bring the screen back, unlock it, and go into one of your music apps. Which one? Doesn't matter. Internet radio? Sure. Why not.

You pick a station at random. Doesn't matter as long as it's not something you hate. Even once the music starts, you sit there silently, cradling your phone, feet going numb, waiting, waiting, for what, you don't know. A call back. An 'oops, your results got mixed up with someone else's, want a job?'

A call from Funshine. A text from Kylie. But no, nobody calls or texts, because you're useless, and you can't even pass a drug test.

The music plays, the only sound in the otherwise silent apartment. The heat is off, for now, as it goes when it reaches 70 degrees. The blinds are open and it's dark outside. What time is it? You could check your phone, but you'd have to leave fullscreen for that, and you don't want to. You don't want to do anything.

Eventually. Eventually! Hours and hours or maybe just minutes later, who knows, who cares, the door creaks open. A pair of soft thunks echo through the apartment when Kylie kicks off his work boots. The bedroom door is open, and he peeks in, letting out a soft noise of surprise when he sees you sitting, awake, with your phone instead of asleep while the music plays like you have been.