Screwmates(3)

Actually, I couldn’t imagine him in a celebration situation, low key as he was, but it was Friday and he’d had quite the day. Surely he had a buddy to go out and drink with. Or a girlfriend. I was fairly certain he had one of those. She frequently left her wine coolers in our fridge and once I saw a bottle of her strawberry-basil bubble bath when I’d helped Marc unload his groceries.

Of course Hot Marc’s girlfriend smells like summer all the time. Le sigh.

“Celebrate?” The spot above his nose crinkled in confusion. It made him seem younger somehow. Less serious. More fun. I bet his students love that crinkle. I wish I was his student. “Oh, yes, that’s right. I do. Lots of celebration to be had. You’re off to work now?”

“Yeah, as soon as I clean up. Maybe, um, draw for a hot minute.” I twisted my lips to one side of my mouth than the other, a habit I had when I didn’t know what else to say. I mean, what else could I say? It wasn’t like I could invite myself to his party, even if I didn’t have a job and responsibilities. Even though I was awfully tempted, purely for curiosity’s sake. “I guess I better go and do that now.”

“Okay. And I’m going to change too. Have to get ready to, uh, celebrate and all.” He grabbed the tie off the couch and smiled awkwardly before heading down the hall.

“Right then. Bye.”

I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me before letting out a sigh of relief. All in all, it had been a pretty decent encounter. We’d exchanged about as many words as we ever had at a time, and no dicks were injured in the process. Maybe there was hope for us as roommates after all.



So I worked full-time for SplatScreen, but I didn’t consider it my real job. The indie shop specialized in custom T-shirts and screen prints. Though we did have a small storefront where people could walk in and buy prints or shirts, most of our jobs came in over the internet, everything from labels for craft breweries to shirts announcing local sports championships.

I’d started at the counter but was quickly moved to the back where I could operate the screen printing machines. Every night I came in at five, an hour before the store closed to the public, then I spent the rest of the evening pumping out orders. I was usually done by ten or so.

If I got done at a reasonable time, I got to play with my own designs, often staying another two or three hours to knock out some new pieces. I liked to consider that my “real” job, but it was more like my goal job. The SplatScreen work itself was easy (boring) and paid the bills (barely) but the two main reasons I kept it was for the free use of equipment and the health insurance.

Those were things my Etsy store and occasional convention booth would never provide, no matter how successful they became. Even with a roommate and a car older than my (mom’s) high school diploma, health insurance would be impossible to pay for on my own, and I couldn’t even imagine being able to afford my own studio. Just keeping a single press in my room would be a lost-deposit waiting to happen.

I couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining an ink explosion to Marc. The horror!

Anyways, it took every extra dime just to keep me stocked in supplies. It is the eternal struggle of many an artist, and I’m not saying my struggle was any more difficult, just that it’s real. The struggle is real. Hashtag, full stop.

And so, for that sad but reasonable reason, I put away the commissioned piece of Jessica Jones that Marc had mistaken for Orphan Black, threw on a pair of jeans and the new Stranger Things graphic tee I’d made a few nights before (#FreeBarb) and headed out to work.

The Closed sign was showing on the front door of SplatScreen as I pulled my car in front of the store, but sometimes it accidentally flipped as people were walking through so I thought nothing of it. The lights were on inside, and I could see JD, my boss, talking to a man dressed in jeans and a blue button-down. Obviously we were open.

Except, when I pulled on the handle of the glass door, I found it locked.

With my brow furrowed, I used my key and walked in to find the retail space’s carpet was squishy and damp. Beyond nasty. Beyond. And the smell? Bee. Yond. I was unpleasantly surprised, to say the least.

“Surprise!” Jack said pleasantly. “A pipe burst next door. Take the night off.”

I looked around to notice the wet floor extended through most of the store. “I can’t leave you to deal with this alone.” I had perfect attendance at work, thank you very much, and yes, I was bitter I didn’t get a little ribbon for it like I did in elementary school. “I could still go in the back and knock out some screening jobs, couldn’t I? You don’t want to get behind.”

“There’s too much water back there to run the machines safely. The plumber here is working on the pipe. Everything’s already off the floor, and I have a company coming in to take care of soaking everything up. You’ll only be in the way if you stick around. Plus, it smells like dead ass.”

That was an extremely accurate description of the smell. Perfect attendance or not, he didn’t have to tell me again. I was out of there like last year. A whole entire night to myself on a Friday? That was a three-day weekend. Another thing you don’t get nearly so often outside of school.

But wait. I turned around. And opened my mouth. “You’re still getting paid,” Jack yelled over. Closed my mouth and carried on. Score.

The situation definitely called for some celebration of my own.