The Bad Decisions Playlist by Michael Rubens Read Free Book Online Page A

Hey!”
    Holy crap. It was Alison. Of course​—​Todd famously lost his license after only three months, DUI. She must have come by to pick him up.
    â€œHow
are
you?” she said.
    â€œUh, I’m
OOOF!
”
    Shoulder check from Todd as he passed by. He turned and walked backwards a moment. “You’re not gonna last,” he said, and winked. Then he pivoted and sauntered the rest of the way to Alison’s car, jumped over the door into the passenger seat, and looked straight at me as he turned Alison’s head with his paw so they could kiss, going at it for
juuust
a bit too long.
Yeah, I get it. You’re back together.
    âˆ—  ∗  ∗
    When I finish my shower, I stay up in my room as long as I dare, taking a few drags from a pinch hitter and blowing the smoke out my window as I review this shipwreck of a day and the larger shipwreck of my life.
    Here’s the real secret of my Big Secret Plan: The secret is that even
I
know it’s a joke.
I’m
a joke. I won’t be going to New York. I won’t be writing songs that will make people think and feel and performing those songs onstage. I won’t be going anywhere. I’m stuck at the bottom of a ravine, totally alone, useless, unable to get the lawn mower of my life started. And it’s never going to change.
    My mom and Rick are already seated at the dinner table when I get downstairs, and they turn in unison to smile creepily at me.
    â€œC’mon, the food’s getting cold,” says my mom.
    I sit, easing myself cautiously into my chair. There’s a fresh salad, bread, and a big bowl of linguine with clam sauce that Rick made, my mom’s favorite food. I do a quick scan to make sure there’s no sharp knife within easy reach.
    â€œLinguine?” she says.
    â€œSure,” I say, and she serves me.
    Salad?
    Sure.
    Bread?
    Sure.
    She and Rick serve themselves, trading little glances. I catch a whiff of exotic herbs from the infusion my mom is drinking out of her big Renaissance festival earthenware mug, a calming potion prescribed to her by her wicca/Reiki/ovary-magic psychic, Terry. It must be effective, because she’s so uncannily relaxed right now.
    â€œSo,” Rick says, “how was work?”
    I stare at him.
    â€œReally good,” I say. “Really”​—​I make a little rah-rah punching gesture​—​“good.”
    Rick smiles and nods, apparently pleased that I’m gathering precious life lessons by virtue of manual labor.
    â€œAnd the tutor?” asks my mom.
    They’re toying with me.
    â€œSo great,” I say. “So, so great.”
    â€œFantastic,” says my mom. “Austin, we​—”
    â€œMom, I know. I
know.
It’s just that I​—”
    The doorbell rings.
    We all look at each other.
    â€œI’ll get it!” I say, and practically leap out of my chair.
    Save me save me save me.
    It’s a UPS guy. I dart past him and sprint across the lawn and dive into his truck and roar away to a new life in Yuma, Arizona.
    It’s a cult recruiter. I say,
Yes, yes to all of it, where do I sign, let’s go now, now, now!
    It’s a Girl Scout selling cookies.
Quick! Let’s swap clothes! You go inside!
    But when I open the door, it’s none of those.
    It’s the least likely option of all, an option that drives every thought out of my head other than
I must stop smoking weed,
which is clearly damaging my brain and causing hallucinations.
    Because facing me is Shane Tyler.
    âˆ—  ∗  ∗
    As in Shane Tyler the singer-songwriter Shane Tyler.
Blue Limbo Blues
Shane Tyler,
Good Fun from a Safe Distance
Shane Tyler. CD in the garbage disposal Shane Tyler. That Shane Tyler. Standing at my door.
    I goggle at him, no words coming out.
    He’s got his hands in the pockets of his faded and torn-up jeans, shoulders a bit hunched, his face squinted