Trombley was on his back, trying to get to a hard to reach spot on the ice machine’s compressor when Katrina walked into the utility room underneath the bleachers. The sounds of minor league soccer bounced around the cinderblock building.
Trombley almost said “Hi Katrina,” but realized he could only see her shoes and was embarrassed, but not surprised that he had committed her forest green Vans to memory.
Katrina scooped rapidly melting ice out of the broken-down machine as Trombley fiddled with a clamp on one of the hoses.
He dropped his Phillips head, just like his jaw had dropped when she walked into the team offices to apply for a job.
Captain of the robotics team, captain of the volleyball team and homecoming queen at Ecorse High School and her spaceship cult parents wouldn’t let her accept any scholarships to “false indoctrination schools.”
So here they were, the summer after their senior year, Katrina was selling soft drinks for the Stingers instead of attending M.I.T. and Trombley was Assistant Facilities Manager, Seasonal, a job that lasted 4 months out of the year and had exactly one $14,000 a season rung on the ladder above him.
He was overachieving. Katrina was a tragedy. And there were fourteen more tragedies in her family younger than her.
The only reason Katrina even got to go to high school is that Child Protective Services told her parents that they couldn’t home school ’em all.
“This thing will be fixed and cranking out good ice by halftime,” Trombley said, purposely not using Katrina’s name even though he knew it was her scooping ice.
“No hurry,” she said. Trombley thought she was the sweetest woman in the universe he believed in and all the universes her parents apparently did.
“Wilbert,” she said in her buttery toast lilt, using the first name that made him furious when anyone else said it, “May I ask you a question?”
Trombley’s heart pounded like last Fourth of July when Carter Ramsey talked him into doing one line of meth.
Trombley’s mind scrolled every category of Question he could think of in the time it took him to blow his hair out of his eyes and sit up.
Give her a ride home? In an instant.
Beat up someone for her? Gladly. Anyone.
Make love to her? Life couldn’t be that wonderful, could it?
He wondered what she would think if she knew he played the MegaBall lottery twice a week, using her volleyball number as one of the six numbers, hoping he could get rich enough to marry her.
“Sure, of course, yes,” he said, overeager by thirty decibels.
“Is it true you put a nitrous setup in Liza Watson’s dad’s Camaro?”
Trombley’s disappointment in the topic was tempered greatly by the fact that at least they were having a real conversation.
“I sure did.”
“Is it true you did it for free?”
If the hose of the ice maker wasn’t partially attached Wilbert Trombley would have beaten the ground and probably himself with it. He knew what was coming, just like he knew Katrina was coming when he saw the forest green Vans.
“Umm…yep…a favor.”
“Is it true that you did it because Liza’s daddy was mad because you got her pregnant?”
Was it possible to stab yourself to death with a Phillips head screwdriver?
Trombley thought he could try.
He pulled at the stubble on his chin. He and Katrina were still separated by a rusty ice machine.
He should have known the secret wouldn’t last.
“Yeah, Freddy Watson was mad,” he said, as honest and noncommittal an answer he could give.
Katrina set down her ice bucket and stepped to the back of the ice machine. Trombley stood up, nervously twirling his screwdriver in his hand.
“Do you still like Liza?” Katrina asked, softly and pleasantly as though she cared about Trombley and Liza as a couple.
“No, he said “I mean, I don’t and she doesn’t like me back. Mutual.”
“Do you still use meth?”
This question was sterner.
“No!” Trombley’s voice cracked when he protested. “I only did it Fourth of July weekend with Carter Ramsey. I swear to God.”
“God doesn’t exist, Wilbert.” She scanned his face for a reaction. He was just staring at her, if anything, looking a little frightened. “Can you answer me one more question?”
“Sure. I think so. Sure,” he said.
“Can you try to get me pregnant so my parents kick me out of the house and I can go get a goddamn education?
***
I’m resharing some pieces that didn’t get much notice in my early days on Substack.
If you like this one it would be great if you could buymeacoffee.com/JimmyDoom
or Venmo James-Graham-80
Indeed it does! Your blast of cool detail alongside concise sweeping plot synopsis is super effective.
Was it possible to stab yourself to death with a Phillips head screwdriver?
I love this line lol