The Bad Decisions Playlist by Michael Rubens Read Free Book Online

turn on the shower to help block out the sound and call Josephine.
    â€œNope” is the first thing she says.
    â€œJosey​—”
    â€œJosephine.”
    â€œJosephine, please, I’m really sorry about what happened today. I was a total jerk. I was hoping you’d​—”
    â€œAustin, I can’t be your tutor. I made a mistake. It’s not you, it’s me.”
    â€œYou know, I hear that from girls a lot.”
    â€œFine. It’s
not
me, it’s
you.
I don’t want to be
your
tutor. You specifically.”
    â€œJosephine, I just​—”
    â€œSorry, I have to go.”
    She cuts off the call.
    I cry in the shower. I cry partly because most of my body is either a bruise or an abrasion and it hurts so much. But mostly I cry because of
everything.
It’s actually just a follow-up to lots of earlier weeping, the first occurrence being a few hours ago when I was at the bottom of a ravine, soaking wet, bruised, bleeding, and draped over a commercial-grade lawn mower that was refusing to start. This after an hour of yanking fruitlessly on the starter cord, until my hands were blistered and my arms so weak I had to stop. If that’s not a low point in one’s life, I’m not sure what is.
    Which is an even better metaphor.
    Yes, Josephine. Thank you.
    I kicked the thing. I hugged and stroked the engine and murmured pathetically like it was a wounded animal. I sang it several songs.
    And, yes, if anyone asks, I can say I’ve kissed a lawn mower, because following the tears and stroking and singing it finally roared to life after a single feeble pull, and then it was one long mow of shame up a side path to continue my work.
    Then, when I was done, Kent fired me.
    He was waiting for me by his pickup truck, checking his watch. Nearby, Todd Malloy and Brad Zohlner were leaning against a car, grinning in anticipation. Brad being the third member of the close-knit and harmonious crew of Rick’s Lawn Care. My strongest memory of Brad is that he likes heavy-metal T-shirts and that he was good at using a spot welder to fuse two triangular pieces of sheet metal into throwing stars in eighth grade shop class, which was about the limit of his achievements.
    â€œAustin!” said Kent. “I told you. We have to finish by six. It’s nearly six twenty. That means you’re fired.”
    I instantly burst into tears again, babbling through sobs and snot about contracts and losing my tutor and begging him not to fire me, while Todd and Brad fell all over each other, the hilarity too much for them to handle.
    â€œPlease,” I said to him. “Please, please, please.”
    Kent stood there, arms crossed, not saying anything.
    â€œPlease,” I repeated.
Bloop,
said a snot bubble as it burst after ballooning from my right nostril.
    Silence. Then Kent nodded.
    â€œCongratulations,” he said. “You passed.”
    â€œI w-w-what?” I blubbered.
    â€œAustin,” said Kent, “I will take this passion that you’re showing right now as evidence of your commitment to this team.” WHERE DO PEOPLE LEARN TO TALK LIKE THIS? “Are you truly committed?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re committed to this team?”
    â€œYes, I am truly committed to this team.”
    â€œCan you apologize to your team members for letting them down and making them late?”
    Arrraaarrrraarrrr. . . .
    â€œI’m really sorry, team members, for letting you down and making you late.”
    â€œExcellent. All right, Austin, if you are truly committed to this team, I will give you one more chance. One more.”
    Okay, I exaggerated. Kent didn’t fire me. He fake-fired me as a humiliating loyalty test.
    I was still sniffling while I loaded the push mower onto the flatbed trailer hitched to Kent’s pickup, and was just stepping off when a convertible Mercedes eased past and stopped, its top down.
    â€œAustin!