Page 16 of Camp Bliss
When I found myself envying homeless guys my age drowsing in their Eno hammocks on the Esplanade, I knew things had to change. Because it started to feel too much like a time in my life I never want to go back to.
I loved Boston, but what’s the point of loving something you can’t enjoy? What’s the point of working yourself to death to be able to afford a Somerville condo you only see from ten at night to six in the morning? What’s the point of being able to walk to Martsa on Elm for South Brinjal Curry if they’re always closed by the time you get home?
What’s the point of any of it?
As if answering, a Cajun chorus frog sings from under the porch, and I break into a grin and check my watch. 7:12. I’d already be on the T. Past the Charles River. The best part of my day behind me.
I raise my coffee mug to the thought of Donny and Ship, my closest buddies at work. “Poor bastards.”
“Who, us?”
I nearly slosh coffee on myself as Greta and her dog step into view of the porch.
I bite back a curse, but I know she saw me jump. “You scared the hell out of me,” I mutter.
“Well, Russell and I are very scary,” she teases as the dog, who’s panting already after the hundred-yard walk from their cabin, flops onto his belly.
Greta’s playfulness makes my skin itch, so I gesture to the lodge with my thumb. “Coffee’s fresh.”
She murmurs a thanks and goes in, screen door slamming behind her. Russell doesn’t move. He’s still recovering.
I shake my head at him. “Good thing you’re domesticated, Stubby. You’d never last a day out in the wild.”
His big, golden eyes just shift up to meet mine, but, otherwise he doesn’t move. At least he isn’t baying at me anymore. For a whole week after I moved in with Josh and Greta, every time I walked into the room, the little butthole would tip his pointy face up and go berserk. Bellowing for a solid three minutes.
Stupid dog.
No, I’m not an asshole. I like dogs. Labs. Germans. Pit bulls. Boxers. Gimme a dog who can keep up with me on a hike. Chase after a ball. Jump into a lake and swim around just for the hell of it and then come out and shake off, drenching everything in sight.
By my definition, Russell isn’t a dog. He’s a footstool.
The door squeaks behind me, signaling Greta’s return. I don’t turn around. Usually, she just takes two mugs back to the cabin. Josh requires the caffeine to get his ass out of bed.
But instead of walking past me with a mug in each hand, Greta rounds the empty Adirondack on my right.
“Mind if I sit?”
She’s only got the one mug. And a pinched look on her face.
“Uh… sure.” Now that I’m paying attention, I notice that the skin under her eyes is ashy, like someone’s who hasn’t slept in days. “You good?”
Greta shapes her mouth into a polite smile and sits.
I press the tip of my tongue hard to the roof of my mouth to keep from gritting my teeth.
I really hate her polite smiles.
Sure, I appreciate that she’s trying. Trying to be friendly. Cordial.
But I don’t need her to be friendly.
“So… I’m gonna work on fences with you today.”
After I stop my eyes from launching out of my head, I scowl at her. “What?”
Greta blows over the surface of her coffee, her lips drawing into a Cupid’s bow. I press my own lips together and look back into my half-empty mug.
“Josh needs a break.” But the way her voice croaks, she sounds like the one who needs a break.
