Three Years with the Rat by Jay Hosking Read Free Book Online Page A

gives you a hard time because she knows you’re capable. We also know you’re going through something, something that started just a few months after you joined the team. But I can only guess, because you haven’t said anything.”
    He pauses. I’m supposed to start speaking, here. I don’t. He continues.
    “It’s hard to be empathic when you don’t tell us what’s going on. Are you all right?”
    “I’m all right,” I say. He meant
empathetic
, not
empathic.
    “Is it drugs?”
    I look at his sincere face and I can’t help but smile a little. “It’s not drugs.”
    “What is it, then?”
    I pause, hesitate. “It’s a long story.”
    “Fine.” He shrugs angrily. “Well, you know you could have always come to us. We would have listened. Since you didn’t, we’regoing to have to assume that you’re fine. You’ve been around for a while and you know how it is in the nonprofit sector. We have a limited budget and we need to use it wisely.”
    “O.K.”
    “You may be good at your job, but quite frankly there are other people who would be just as good
and
more consistent.”
    “O.K.”
    “So what I need to hear from you, right now and for the last time, is whether you can be consistent. Can we rely on you or do we need to find someone else?”
    We make eye contact and I don’t answer right away. I’m not sure how old my boss is, maybe forty or forty-five. He always seems freshly showered and well dressed, always punctual and socially engaging. But the effort he’s put into their company is noticeable in the deep, dry lines around his eyes, and in the few extra pounds he carries in his face and around his belly. He is a good man who has worked very hard and it is diminishing him. I can tell by his words that this is tough love, that he’s trying to help me.
    I say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you can rely on me.”
    He puts down his latte and stares at me, puzzled. I speak before he can respond.
    “I know you want me to step up, and in some way, it would be nice to be the reliable worker you need. But I’m not going to be, especially not right now. I just don’t give a shit about this job. I think you should find someone else.”
    We sit in our wood and iron chairs for a minute, sipping at our drinks and not saying anything.
    I say, “I’m happy to stick around for a couple of weeks and help somebody new learn the ropes, but I’m done.”
    He nods. “To be honest, this isn’t how I expected this talk to go. But I was your age once, working in an office doing admin crap I didn’t like.”
    I want to correct him, tell him that the work is fine, but I keep my mouth shut. We put our empty mugs on the counter, walk back upstairs, and the only sound between us is his soles on the wood. While I’m booting up the computer, I can hear him debriefing with his wife. Her voice is deep and then shrill.
    —
    A few weeks later my back is free of stitches and I have no job. The toast in Buddy’s cage moulds, the leaf of lettuce browns, and Buddy remains absent. The large box is still disassembled and leaning against my couch. John’s notebook is under the bed, thrown there in a fit of drunken frustration and never retrieved. My phone shows six missed calls, one from Officer 2510, one from Lee, and the rest from our mother. There are new empty whisky bottles next to the couch and beside the bed. Each day my stomach hurts for the first few hours after I wake up. My beard is just long enough to make the skin underneath itchy and red.
    I spend a week walking at night and sleeping during the day. I flip aimlessly through some of the books Nicole left behind, Camus and Kafka and Dostoyevsky. The days shorten and sap the city of any last heat. Autumn comes early this year.
    Brian calls one afternoon. I’m lying on the couch with my arm hanging off the side and my fingers grazing the smooth exterior of the disassembled wooden box. The phone vibrates along the floor and I let it go to voice mail. A