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Designer Children by OneShot20XX

Chapter 3

My fever broke during the night, but my limbs creaked as I stepped out of bed. I lumbered toward the bathroom, feeling like my legs had been replaced by massive tree trunks. Each step brought discomfort in my joints and a discernible cracking sound like someone popping a sheet of bubble paper. Monique wore me out usually, but with my fever broken, I should have felt better. Every step made my couch/bed more and more inviting.

I reached the shower and let the powerful water stream soothe my aching muscles and joints. I had little choice but to go into work today. I wasn’t sure how the payment for Hermie would work and I needed to make rent, which was due next week. Once I was called into the studio for rehearsal, and signed my contract, I would speak to Ms. Daniels about payment. For now, however, I would have to take all the shifts I could at the Burger Palace just to avoid dipping into my savings. I put my tip money in a special car fund. I hated taking the bus, mostly because it was hardly ever one bus. The traffic is terrible in LA, but public transportation for auditions was worse. I had actually missed auditions due to late buses or had to turn them down when I realized I could never make it on time.

As I stepped up to the mirror to shave, my mind whirled, flitting back and forth from Jessica, to Monique to my career path. I felt that Jessica was my chance to grow as an individual. Many people would look at me and say I was a player, just in it for sex, but a part of me desperately wanted a relationship with a woman that lasted longer than two months. I didn’t know why exactly. I wasn’t bored of my lifestyle, but Monique’s words cut at the very foundation of who I was as a person. How could I hope to succeed in anything if I just kept running away?

That was the reason I called Jessica back and why I took the part of Mr. Grant. Jessica wasn’t exactly what I wanted and neither was the part on Hermie. I was sincerely intimidated by Jessica’s intelligence. It would have been far easier to date a girl more like Monique, but then you didn’t exactly date Monique- you went along for the ride. Most girls like Monique didn’t want anything more than a fling, and if I even suggested it, she would have likely slapped my ass and sent me on my way.

I lathered up, noticing that the razor travelled more smoothly across my face than usual. I leaned in close to the mirror to inspect my face, and oddly, I could see that any overnight beard growth was non-existent. Normally, I shaved every two or three days. By that time, I would have a very slight patchy beard, but this morning, I had the same stubble from a few days ago. Or maybe I shaved yesterday? It was clear that whatever had invaded my system was also muddying my head. The fever may have broken, but it still felt like tiny construction workers were using jackhammers in my skull. My bed was an uncomfortable mass of springs, lumpy mattress and crumbs. The crumbs caused itchiness as I tossed and turned over them, the springs jabbed into my back and the lumpy mattress meant that the couch had really only one sweet spot where I could actually get a decent night’s sleep. Despite all this, it might as well have been a four-poster king-sized bed with a collection of fanning harem girls.

I ignored the bed’s siren call and proceeded to get dressed for my shift. The 10 AM to 6 PM shift was usually a double but because I had some seniority, I could usually convince someone else to take it. With the rent coming due, however, I would take anything I could get. I arrived at work with ten minutes to spare, so I decided to pour myself a cup of coffee.

The Burger Palace had palatable coffee. It wasn’t on the same level as a place that employed baristas, but it wasn’t gas station coffee that would burn a hole in your esophagus either. Coffee was a staple of my diet, especially since I often worked long hours. It was free for employees, and I took advantage of this perk several times a day. I took a big swig and immediately spit it into the dishwashing sink. It tasted horrible. It was like I could taste every individual bean, and those ground beans had merged with hot water to create the bitterest drink of all time. Thinking that the mug was dirty, or had been washed improperly, I quickly poured another cup, but the second swig was even worse. My taste buds rejected the coffee the same way they would have if I had taken a lump of dirt and stuffed it in my mouth. It really tasted like I imagined mud would taste.

“Coffee bad?” The voice belonged to Samantha, a bubbly brunette with an impressive chest, but a little too much ass for my liking. She had a very pretty face, cherubic with a small nose, but her proportions were off entirely, with a heavy pear shape. Her legs were thick, but lacked the muscle tone to give an attractive shape to them. She was fun, but I never saw us together in the bedroom unless we could somehow remove her lower half from the equation.

I nodded, “Yeah, tastes like very bitter mud. Literally!”

Samantha shook her head, “Weird. I had a cup five minutes before you punched in. Tasted fine. And none of the customers have complained. I’ll brew another pot, maybe it was getting stale.”

I shrugged my shoulders and waited patiently. Eventually, the coffee maker dinged and the light turned green. I poured another cup, this time putting sugar and milk into my normally black coffee. I was still physically and mentally exhausted, so I desperately needed the caffeine to act as a jolt to my system. My shift hadn’t even started, and I felt like crawling onto the couch in the break room. The restaurant wasn’t busy, so Samantha also poured herself a cup.

Unfortunately, my third sip of coffee, and despite the addition of the milk and sugar, was no better than the previous two. I quickly spit the coffee into the sink again.

I stuck out my tongue, closed my eyes and wrinkled my nose. The taste lingered in my mouth and on my tongue. “That’s the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted. It really tastes like mud with sugar and milk. Really bitter mud.”

Samantha took an exploratory sip, but her reaction was muted compared to mine, “It’s not Starbucks, but it’s not bad. Are you sick or something? I know everything tastes weird when I’m sick.”

I shrugged, “I guess. I had a fever last night. Anyway, don’t tell Vince, I really need the money.”

Samantha replied with a smile, “Your secret is safe with me.”

I smiled and nodded, but unfortunately, the smile never left her face. I knew that Samantha was into me. Why else was she being so nice? If I was her, I would have convinced the sick person to go home, so I could have their tips. It might have been weaselly, but again, I needed the money. She stood there drinking coffee, just looking at me and smiling. I knew she would never make the move herself. She wasn’t that type of girl, but she didn’t even make an effort to have a conversation, so I broke the awkward moment.

“I guess my shift is starting? See you around?”

It was getting to a point where I would have to tell her I wasn’t interested, but honestly, I loved the fact she wanted me. It may sound terrible, but it fed my ego, knowing that I had no interest in her, and she clearly wanted me to unwrap her like some sort of erotic birthday present, revealing what were likely thick, cottage cheese thighs. Girls with that much heft to their legs, it was never just muscle. I knew that because she didn’t go to the gym.

I was glad that Greg wasn’t coming in until the late shift. Wednesdays were usually quieter, so the restaurant didn’t need as many line cooks. I was less angry with Greg, and in fact, I was more worried that I had seriously damaged our friendship with my violent outburst. The fact that he was only coming in later gave me time to figure out how I could apologize without completely surrendering. I wanted him to stop meddling in my life, but I still desperately wanted to be friends.

The lunch rush came and with it many large patio platters. Fifteen minutes into the rush, my fever returned with a vengeance. It felt like my entire body was on fire. Strangely, I could feel the heat through the pores of my skin, the bottom of my feet, and even my fingertips. Like a nasty flu, it felt like my eyeballs were boiling in my skull, but stranger still, my crotch couldn’t escape the bizarre heat. It was a similar sensation to standing too close to a cook fire, but it never subsided, and the more party platters I carried the worse it got.

There was a certain art to carrying the party platters, which usually had between 3-5 plates of steaming hot food and beverages. First, you had to ensure that the weight was distributed equally. I always put the drinks together to avoid any spillage onto the food, my right shoulder taking the brunt of the weight. Next, I walked steadily, making certain to place my palm in the centre of the tray to balance it. When turning, I always moved slowly, to ensure that no items shifted on the tray. Normally, I had little difficulty hefting trays, sometimes overloading them, intending to compete with the other male servers.

Today was no different with regard to competition, despite my seemingly weakened condition. Luis, one of the bus boys who also acted as a server during the lunch rush, said, “Six.” Luis had placed six piping hot food plates on his tray. The young man was taller than me, but he was skinnier, lacking the heavily defined muscles in my arms and chest.

I smirked, “Seven.” We had done this many times before. The line cook, Anna, merely shook her head at our boyish games, but said nothing. I piled on plates with nachos, sandwich wraps, fish and chips, and of course, the famous burgers with sweet potato sides. I lifted the platter carefully, bringing it onto my right shoulder, and I began the slow journey to the patio. I passed the threshold without issue, stepping onto the patio and navigating through the assembled tables and chairs. At the halfway point, I was forced to divert from my course. A young man with his eyes staring down at his cell, barrelled toward me. I quickly turned myself and side stepped him, managing to right myself. I watched as the plate of nachos slid gently to the side of the tray. The young man offered a faint apology, which was almost unintelligible due to the combination of street traffic, knives and forks scraping across plates, and the lively conversation.

My destination was at the far end of the patio. As I neared it, however, I started to feel a strange burning in my arm. It was similar to the sensation I got when lifting weights, but along with the burn was an unfamiliar weakness. The tray began to dip ever so slightly, forcing me to stop and steady it. Annoyingly, this happened every three feet or so, and each time, I was obligated to stop and steady the tray. With a massive sigh of relief, I set the tray down on the tray table and quickly dispensed the food to the waiting diners.

“I had the nachos.”

“I had the chicken burger and side salad.”

“Sorry, but I had the bacon burger with extra mushrooms.”

I very rarely made mistakes with regard to orders. I quickly corrected the orders, offering an apology while I quickly escaped back to the kitchen.

“Waiter! We’ve been waiting ten minutes. Are we going to get some damn service?”

I stopped abruptly, akin to a soldier mid-march receiving the halt command. I looked around for Samantha, but she was handling a drink order a few tables over. It was her side, but we were experiencing an unusually busy Wednesday lunch rush.

I said, “I won’t be your server, but I can take your order.”

I removed my notepad and pen from the apron I wore and prepared to take the order. There was a young couple at the table, and from the looks of them, they had serious money. The couple, likely in their early twenties, were apparently slumming it outside of Beverly Hills. The young woman wore a necklace that dangled with diamonds, and the young man had a gold watch that screamed excess. The face was surrounded by a circle of diamonds, which shimmered in the noon hour sun. The young man had learned that he could use the glittering object to temporarily blind patrons, and unfortunately hapless servers.

I squinted my eyes as the man obnoxiously targeted me with his watch. I was having difficulty following the young woman’s order, which was needlessly complicated.

“I’m on a low-fat, no-carb diet. Can you guarantee that the bacon burger has none of those things if you remove the bun, half of the patty, the caramelized onions and mushrooms and serve it on a two slices of lettuce? It can’t be iceberg lettuce though.” The more complex the order became the more it felt like my head was trying to slow-cook my brain. My eyes tumbled back, and I slowly shook my head.

“Uh. I’m sorry. I can’t guarantee that. The nutritional information is listed on the menu though.” I was gradually losing my patience with these nascent children masquerading as young adults.

She replied, “I didn’t read it.”

I turned to the young man, feeling my nostrils flare as I did, “Hey, would you mind keeping your shitty watch out of my eyes? I’m trying to do my job here.”

I was more direct with him than usual. Normally, I could just put on a pleasant face and absorb the abuse. Vince would have agreed with the request I made, but not the way I delivered it.

The young man said, “I was just checking the time, man. See it’s 12:15 PM.”

He flashed the object in my eyes again, and as he did, I wanted to take the watch and force it down his throat. My revenge would not be so simple however. I would force it down the hole I had made in his throat with the fork I planned to stab him with. I imagined that the fork wouldn’t be a very clean cut either.

I sighed, returning to the young woman, while trying my best to maintain my server smile and remove the violent imagery from mind. “Sorry, could you repeat what you were saying about the burger?” I had forgotten everything she told me.

In response, the young woman haughtily flipped her hair and said, “You- you’re awful. I’m not repeating that. Just get me what I asked for before I call for the manager.”

The young man, who had tired of the watch game and was likely legitimately hungry, said, “She basically wants the bacon burger without the bacon. And instead of the bun, serve it on lettuce. Got it? I-want-the-jalapeno-Monterey-Jack smoked-bacon-burger. Fries for me and side salad for her. That slow enough for you?”

I smiled, the expression plastered on my face like a mannequin in a department store, “Good choice. It won’t be long.”

When I returned to the kitchen, Luis was waiting for me. He said, “Seven,” and then exited toward the patio. I was about to remind him I had already done seven, but it didn’t matter. I’d pass him with eight and make his feat moot. I piled eight plates on a single tray and slowly lifted it onto my shoulder. As soon as I did, I felt the return of the burning sensation in my muscles. Still, I soldiered on, reaching the threshold and stepping out onto the patio. Unfortunately, the wind had picked up since my last order, and while this normally wouldn’t have been a problem, I had overloaded my tray to the point where a seemingly harmless gust of air could cause disaster.

Due to the wind, I was forced to stop repeatedly and steady the tray. Internally, it felt like my body was on fire, my bones and muscles mere ingredients within a torrid soup. My machismo, however, did not allow for caution. I had gone to the gym feeling fluish before, but I could certainly carry a few trays and take some orders.

As I reached the halfway point, I noticed a familiar shimmering object and a second later, I was blinded. The golden watch, probably worth a few month’s rent, was the culprit, but I managed to wade my way through the obstacles. Unfortunately, as I was paying far more attention to my path, I failed to notice that the tray, with its contents, was gradually tipping downward, likely helped by the now much stronger winds. I had seen it happen before, but I had never fallen victim to the dreaded tray drop. My arm, now actually pained by the mass of food, silverware and plates, slowly lowered, and I was helpless to stop the descent. Suddenly, I felt the tray steady. A plate of nachos, now halfway over the edge of the tray, was quickly righted. I turned around to see my saviour, and there was Greg, a beaming satisfied smile lining his face.

“Still playing that stupid game with Luis, hmm?”

I smirked and said nothing, quickly reaching the table and proceeded to deposit the food, where again, I got the orders wrong.

After rectifying the orders, I walked back to the kitchen, where Greg was waiting. “You look like shit, man. Go home already.”

Luis said, “Yours didn’t count. You got help. Oh and by the way. Nine.” I raised a brow at the young Latino as he carefully lifted the tray onto his shoulder. I heard the plates clanging together and then stop. There wasn’t room for even one more plate. Had he been working out? No one, not even me, had ever done nine plates before. With the strong gusts affecting the ability to steady the tray, I figured it was a suicide mission.

Greg, who sported a less than attractive purplish bruise underneath his chin, said, “I know what you are thinking. Just go home, Ryan. You can’t win this one. If either of you drop a tray, you are going to put us twenty minutes behind. People are going to be pissed, and so is Vince.”

I was pleased that Greg didn’t seem upset about the previous night. I just figured he knew me by now, and he had pushed me too far when he threatened to tell Jessica about Monique. We didn’t need to have a hug-it-out session for me to know we were OK friendship wise. He had crossed the line, and he knew it. My less than friendly jab to his chin told him his behaviour was inappropriate.

I shook my head, “No, I got this, man. Don’t worry about it. Just do your shit.”

I was competitive, but usually I would never attempt nine plates on a moderately windy day. Still, the weakness I had revealed, plus a renewed sense of bravado, it pushed me to pile nine plates, and then one more. I managed to organize them better than Luis, and the side salad bowl still counted, as per the rules. Despite the brashness I displayed, I still felt like I was battling a terrible flu. Every muscle ached and burned as I lifted the tray onto my shoulder.

I heard footsteps behind me, and I turned slowly to see that Greg was following me. “Back off, man. I got this.” Greg shook his head and returned to the grill with Anna.

I didn’t, in fact, have it, but something spurred me forward. I hadn’t felt this way since taking my mom’s car when I was fifteen. The sense of empowerment, the thrill of the chase, and the girl-next-door, Hannah, sitting next to me- it was all an incredible rush. I lost my virginity that night, but I had also lost my mother that night too. She never looked at me the same again, her fawning over her little boy ended, and with it an attempt at discipline lacking for the previous fifteen years. I rolled over her repeatedly, actually enjoying seeing her break down, completely unable to control me. I despised her because she only reminded me how much I missed my dad when he went on his tours of duty. During elementary school and junior high, we moved as a family, but as war broke out in Afghanistan and Iraq, my dad was called away more often. My mother tried to push back against my teenage rebellion with rules and punishments, I shoved back, usually in the form of skipping curfew, school or getting drunk or high. Or Hannah.

I stepped onto the patio. My gait was awkward, as I was forced to trudge toward my destination. Every few steps, I would have to halt my progress and right the tray. The wind had picked up, now causing diners to chase after napkins. I knew that my actions were foolish, but I continued with the contest because I desperately needed to put Luis in his place. It reminded me of when my friends from high school would play truth or dare. However, dare was the only choice when playing with teenage boys. We really didn’t want to know anything about each other, except for the guys who had sex. They were like gurus sitting on a mountain in Nepal- they held the answer to the world’s most important secret- how do you get a girl to sleep with you?

I reached the table with the obnoxious power couple, preparing to lower the tray holding their food, but as I did, my right arm simply gave out. Previously, this had only happened to me in the gym, where the same macho head games happened, but with pounds replacing the number of plates. I had been brought into a pissing contest with another gym member, who likely had twenty to thirty pounds on me- all of it muscle. He was a bodybuilding type, and I had foolishly tried to dead lift what he had, thinking that he had been taking it easy (the man had barely broken a sweat). Luckily for me, an attendant spotted what I was doing and ran over to spot me, quickly removing weight from the barbell as the object slowly crushed my chest.

My right arm buckled under the weight of the tray the same way it had under the barbell. It happened far more quickly than I expected with the plates sliding down and then tumbling from the lip of the tray. Fries, nachos, the young woman’s non-bacon bacon burger and the tableware all crashed to the patio stones at my feet. There was no five second rule in the restaurant business- it would all have to be recooked, and we would fall behind on the lunch rush. Luis, who had just finished serving his nine plates, walked by me with a satisfied smirk. It wasn’t that we hated each other. I felt that our competition was mostly healthy, except for the fact that my shoe looked like it was ready for a bun, slathered by ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise from the fallen food.

I felt my cheeks redden, something that was almost alien to me considering I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so humiliated. The young man who had previously tormented me with his watch blinding game shouted, “What the fuck, dude? Did you seriously just drop all that shit? Was that our food?”

I nodded sadly. I felt like every eye on the patio was on me, boring in me, feeding my growing sense of embarrassment, each eye like a log on a soon to be roaring fire. I did not move my head, but as my eyes scanned the diners, I could see some were recording or taking pictures. No doubt a video titled “Waiter FAIL” would soon be posted on YouTube.

The young woman was unfortunately caught in the crossfire as I had dumped an entire plate of nachos on her lap. She stood up and shrieked at me, nachos sliding off her lap in gooey, cheesy clumps, but both her and her boyfriend stopped suddenly. Their expressions, previously enraged, changed to mocking grins. It was at this point, I could feel my bottom lip begin to quiver.

The young woman pointed her finger at me, another mocking gesture, and said, “A-Are you about to cry?”

I felt a wetness in my tear ducts, and I quickly closed my eyes, hoping to squelch the liquid that threatened to tumble from my eyes. The burning in my brain intensified as the stress of the situation worsened. The ache and the sensation of tearing in my muscles had waned, but it still felt like someone had poured five-alarm hot sauce in my brain fluid.

“Oh shit, I think he is! Get your phone, Lily!”

I shut my eyes tightly, but I couldn’t stop one stray and treasonous tear from escaping. When I opened my eyes, I could see that my breakdown was still the star attraction. Lily, the young woman, had positioned her phone to record my emotional outburst, but as I saw their mocking faces, I was seized by rage. I snatched the woman’s phone and threw it as hard as I could into the street. I pictured the device, which was heavy and backed with aluminum, being run over by multiple cars, making any salvage impossible as even the SIM card would undoubtedly be crushed by early afternoon traffic.

What was supposed to be a fastball ended up being an off-target change up, as the phone struck one of the patio umbrellas and skittered to the ground well short of my target. Unfortunately, the metal case surrounding the phone protected it from the impact of the fall. Despite my failure to destroy the phone, Lily’s boyfriend was none too pleased. He firmly gripped the collar of my shirt and pulled me toward him. I didn’t need to duck the punch that came because Greg and Vince pulled us apart.

Still, the laughter and stares pierced at my core, threatening to severely damage my male ego, especially since there was now video evidence that I had cried. Now the video would read “Waiter FAIL- MUST SEE- this dude actually cries!” Before further humiliation could occur, I sprinted toward the threshold and re-entered the restaurant. I stood in the kitchen, in front of a shocked Samantha, until Vince motioned me to enter his office.

***

“I should fire your ass right now, Ryan! What the hell were you thinking playing that ridiculous game with Luis? Luis is just a kid, barely 18. You should know better! That was almost 200$ worth of food you dropped there! And what was with you and Greg last night?”

Vince stared at me with an expression mixed with extreme disappointment and fury. The man, in his late thirties, was balding, but at least he had the sense not to shave his head. He would have looked like an egg, his pale dome shining as a testament to fans of Humpty Dumpty. He was overweight, a combination of his divorce, eating a lot of food from the Burger Palace, and acting as both manager and owner of the restaurant.

I sat across from him in the same rickety chair I sat in when he hired me. It made me think of the principal’s office from one of my elementary schools, especially the way Vince’s nostrils flared as he spoke and how he gripped his desk like he wanted to tear it apart in a ‘hulkish’ rage. His office was tiny. Lining the wall were Vince’s diplomas, the most impressive being the MA in Business Administration. Next to the diploma was a picture that showed Vince playing with his daughter. It was from a few years ago in a happier time.

I said nothing, knowing that Vince needed to vent. “Sometimes I think that you could take on the assistant manager or even manager position. You’ve got great business sense, you are fantastic with the customers (usually), and people generally like you. They wouldn’t mind taking orders from you. And then you pull this bullshit, and I’m left thinking, what the hell is wrong with you?

“You need to grow up, Ryan. I know you think that this part you’ve got is going to pan out and you can drop this place like a bad habit, but let me explain something to you. It’s not that easy. It’s never that easy. You think you’ve made it, and you shoot one episode, it airs and you are cancelled. I’ve been living here long enough to know that you can’t rely on Hollywood. Get that out of your head. So if this was some kind of attempt at a quit video or-”

“It’s not. You’re right, it was just the game Luis and me play. We took it too far today, that’s all.”

I was tired of being lectured. I honestly wanted to crawl into bed and stay there for 48 hours. Despite the fact that I was no longer trying to carry overloaded trays, I could not shake the fact that I was legitimately sick. I could barely remember any orders, and I moved along at a snail’s pace even when carrying normal trays. Not only that, and while a part of me wanted to see if Lily’s boyfriend had a glass jaw, I was terrified to go back to the patio. This mindset frightened me because it was the final curtain call for an actor. It was the equivalent of paralyzing stage fright.

I had to be willing to make a fool of myself and to accept that not everyone would enjoy my performances. I should have been able to shake off the dropped tray and the botched throw the same way I would a flubbed line or relentless hecklers. Either way, I was playing to a crowd, and I was petrified to go back out there.

Vince sighed. He looked older than his years, his face collapsing with the weight, his cheeks forming sudden jowls as he expelled an exasperated breath. “Look, I can’t keep this schedule up anymore. I need to rely on you and Greg a lot more now that Anna is only part-time and isn’t acting as assistant manager, I need one of you to step up.”

I shook my head, “Look Vince, I really appreciate you considering me for this, but you know I’m fine just doing the server thing. I don’t really want the extra stuff that would go with it. It would make it harder to go to auditions. I’d be-”

It was Vince’s turn to interrupt, “You’d be entering into something stable and something with a future. When are you going to stop running from responsibility, Ryan? Are you trying to sabotage your chance for the assistant manager position by acting like a brainless teenager? Before hiring you, I called your previous managers, and they said the same thing. You could be so much more if you’d just ground yourself. Do you know what percentage of people actually make a living as an actor? Do you?”

Now, I was getting angry. “Fuck you, Vince. You’re just pissed that I don’t want your shitty assistant manager job. That I actually want to be something- that you know I’ve still got a dream of being something more. You’ve just settled for what’s easy.” The angrier I became, the more intense the burning in my head and body. My eyes slipped back into my head momentarily as I fought with the terrible flu symptoms.

Vince shook his head, his eyes blazing with fury. I could push his buttons, and he knew it. It took a few moments but he gradually calmed down enough to speak, “You think giving up my dream was what I wanted to do? I’ve just seen the reality of it. I don’t know if Greg told you, but I was in a band before this. Back when I was your age. My girlfriend, who later became my wife, supported me fully until we had our daughter, then the shit money I was making wasn’t enough. And the tours I’d play where I was away for months at a time. We were barely scraping by.”

He continued, “This town will ruin you, Ryan. I’m telling you, you’ve got skills. I was the mouthpiece for the band, I was good with the money. I turned those into part-time schooling and then eventually a loan to buy this place. It’s just not worth it, I mean- do you really want this?”

I retorted angrily, “I sure as hell don’t want what you have, that’s for sure. A divorce, stuck with a kid, running a shitty restaurant.”

Again, my body and mind were on fire. I felt my shoulders slump despite my rage-filled response. Normally, the anger would have filled my body with adrenaline, but it was surprisingly absent. I just wanted to feel my head hit the pillows and sleep off whatever I had.

Vince remained surprisingly calm, “Greg told me that you were thinking of quitting acting last week. He thinks you’d be a great interim assistant manager, and then manager. Have they even told you how much you are going to be making? Is this kids show public broadcasting? You know I heard they don’t make as much because it is public money that supports the show. You know the assistant manager job pays an actual salary, right? It’s not hourly.”

He added, “And you aren’t really following through with what you want. When I interviewed you, you said that you wanted to be in crime movies or TV. I said I had no problem with the auditions, but be realistic. Financially, you are making a living as a server, acting is a part-time thing. It’s a hobby until it can support you. That’s what my wife told me about music, and she was right.”

The burning in my mind intensified, but the bravado from before returned, as a sense of near invulnerability descended on me, “Your ex-wife is a controlling bitch, Vince. I’d never let a woman or anyone tell me that what I do is a hobby. So all the buses I take, the time I put into the auditions, the classes I took, and the roles I take that I don’t really want, those mean nothing? That’s not a goddamn hobby, man. This is my life, and this is what I want to do.” I realized that it was, and the pressure coming from Vince and previously Greg pushed me to recommit to acting. Still, Vince was right, I had wanted to quit last week. I probably would have if the Hermie role hadn’t come up.

Before Vince had a chance to reply, I said firmly, “I quit.” He shook his head sadly but said nothing. He allowed me to leave without saying another word.

***

The consequences of my impulsive behaviour did not dawn on me until I arrived home in the early evening. I had rent due, and I no longer had a full-time job. I knew nothing about the Hermie the Hippo show beyond the educational theory the casting agent discussed, and the fact that I was playing the role of Mr. Grant. I hadn’t seen a contract, and I had no indication of how much I was going to be paid. What if Vince was correct about the public funding? I definitely suffered from cases of foot in mouth disease, especially when considering my somewhat awkward conversation with Jessica, but what I had done was plain stupid, and yet all I wanted to do was crawl onto the couch and sleep. My mind and body were drained to a point where I did not crawl into bed, I fell.

I awoke hours later with the room drenched in darkness. I reached over to check my phone and saw that it was actually 3 AM. I felt surprisingly rested, still not 100% but not at death’s door as I had been. It made sense that my body would rebel when pushed, and the rest had clearly improved my condition. I wanted something to keep my mind from wandering back to the very pressing issue of the rent, so I picked up the Xbox 360 controller and loaded up Halo. A minute later, I was playing a team death match session.

I was an expert player, usually choosing to play a sniper. I picked my spots, but I wasn’t a camper, unless someone pissed me off. I had chosen a server with a high number of equally ranked players, so the game was intense. It was exactly what I needed to forget my current problems. In the morning, I would call Ms. Daniels and get all the details I needed to understand just what I would be paid for my work on the Hermie the Hippo show, but for now, I would rack up headshots with my scope.

Three minutes into the session, I noticed that something was wrong. I couldn’t, for the life of me, line up even one kill with the scope. By this point in a match, I usually had the most kills, but I hadn’t managed a single one! I would locate the perfect spot, usually a perch in a tower or a cliff, line up the shot, but as they entered range, I couldn’t get my thumbs to cooperate on the analog joystick. My shots were wildly off target each time. I recalibrated the controller, even considering turning on auto aim assist, even thought that was a bannable offence on the server I was playing.

NoobKillaz567 squawked in my headset, “What the fuck, man? We are getting murdered. You are sucking tonight. You drunk? Or high? You usually play better high!”

I said, “I’m fighting a flu or something. And you aren’t doing much better!”

SnipezYA_1234 said, “Get high, man. We need you.”

NoobKillaz567 said, “I’ve got some sweet milkweed at my place. It’s street, but it’s legit. Amazing shit.”

I located my cache underneath the bed and pulled out the joint I had rolled a few days ago. I lit it up, took a deep toke, but immediately started coughing. I took another and again, I had a coughing fit. I couldn’t seem to figure out how to take in the normally deep tokes, so I was forced to take tiny puffs like a first-timer.

Normally, the hallucinogenic effects helped my play because the targets in my scope would slow down, allowing me to pick them off more easily. As I smoked more and more, I began to feel anxious and almost paranoid, similar to the feeling I had when everyone was staring at me on the patio. Eventually, I stopped because I started feeling sick to my stomach. I quit the game soon after, ending without a single kill. However, even after the game ended, I still felt nauseous and very strange. The relaxed feeling I normally had was non-existent, especially with the way my hands were dancing before my eyes. This did not help my nausea, and seconds later, I was sprinting to the washroom, my hands cradling the bowl as I expelled my dinner. Maybe smoking with the flu was a really poor idea? Apparently.

I crawled back into bed and closed my eyes with a sigh. I realized that I was supposed to be meeting Jessica for dinner tonight, and I was barely mobile. I figured the best thing to do was to sleep, hoping that I would be in better shape in the morning.

***

I woke to the obnoxious, shrill dinging of my apartment buzzer. I was pleased that I felt marginally better, even though my throat was now killing me. I would suck on some cough drops and hopefully it would improve. The aching had also left my muscles, and the burning in my body and brain less intense. It felt like a moderate fever at best. To me, there was no reason to cancel on Jessica. I figured that I wouldn’t be making out with her, as I expected her to be very different from girls like Monique who I banged the first time out.

I threw on a pair of jeans and a discarded t-shirt and went toward the door. Looking through the peep hole, I could see a very concerned looking Eve, flanked by an equally concerned Greg. I sighed, figuring that Greg was here to talk me into coming back to the Burger Palace.

I said through the door, “Go away, guys. You…aren’t going to convince me to come back.”

My voice cracked noticeably midway through my words, although squeaked would be more accurate. My throat wasn’t actually sore, as I originally thought, it just felt extremely, constricted. Every word I spoke felt like I was trying to push the air needed to form the words through a Cheerio. I put my hand over it, trying to feel if my glands were swollen and noticed my Adam’s apple had receded slightly. What the hell kind of flu was this?

Eve’s voice penetrated the door, “We are worried about you, you ass. Greg said you looked like crap at work yesterday. And I know you won’t go to the doctor without some prodding.”

Eve’s sweet voice was accented, but the allure was lessened by the gruff manner in which she spoke. I expected that she was a no nonsense intake nurse. The way she put emphasis on the word ‘prodding’ made me nervous.

Greg said, “Just let us in so Eve can take a look at you, man.”

Despite my nervousness, I was not frightened of doctors or nurses, I just rarely went. I didn’t have health insurance, and honestly, I didn’t understand the whole Medi-care or Obama Care thing. A bunch of stuff came in the mail from California, but I never bothered reading it. All I knew was that if I was going to choose between eating or having a place to live, I could live with a cold or flu. Still, as I put my fingers over my Adam’s apple, or what might have passed for one in a prepubescent boy, my initial concern at being poked and prodded by Eve eroded my nervousness like a massive mudslide washing away an entire village in seconds.

I unlocked the door and let them in. Despite my condition, my eyes still lingered on Eve. I couldn’t help it. Even if she was Greg’s girlfriend, she was still a very pretty girl. I felt that her face was her worst characteristic, with a wide nose and eyes that were too close together, and was the reason I had left her to Greg when I first saw her in a club a year ago. Also, she seemed completely unwilling to get rid of the extra ten pounds that kept her from being a perfect 10, at least with regard to her body. No matter what she wore, and she opted for tight t-shirts and blouses, she always had a little muffin top peeking out. Still, for Greg, the light caramel skin, long, intricately braided raven locks and tight, pert ass, was more than enough. I was unable to look past the initial flaws I saw in her.

Eve had me sit down on the edge of my bed as she examined me. She felt my forehead first, took my temperature and then felt along the glands underneath my jaw. Her brow raised as she touched my throat.

“Ryan, you’ve got a low-grade fever. But, um, I’m not sure how to say it, exactly. You don’t have an Adam’s apple or it’s really hard to find. And you should really look at yourself in the mirror. I’m not sure if you have.”

I shrugged my shoulders, walked into the bathroom and closed the door. My eyes widened as I viewed my face. I didn’t even have an outline of stubble. The hair follicles that used to grow a bushy beard after a week had simply disappeared, leaving smooth impossibly soft skin. I lifted my t-shirt, which was unusually baggy. I thought at first it was a different one entirely, but it was actually a workout shirt, one that formerly showed off my sculpted pecs and where my arms threatened to burst the elastic confines of the sleeves. I chose it because it was probably a size too small, but it revealed my impressive physique. I had planned to wear it on my date with Jessica underneath a suit jacket. The place she picked was fancy.

At this point, however, I was certain I would not be seeing Jessica. Reflected in the mirror was the body of a young man who would have difficulty passing as a sophomore. My pecs had been reduced to two solid yet almost concave lumps. Below, I was so skinny that my ribs featured prominently. I was still muscled, but I looked like the high school wrestling champion for the feather weight division. I lifted my arm, amazed at the diminished muscle mass. Where my biceps could previously have been described as small hills jutting from the surface of my arm, they were now as flat as plains.

“Hey, Ryan, are you OK in there?” It was Greg.

I viewed my hairless armpit, and I knew that something terrible was happening to me. It must have been the vaccine. My hands fumbled for my phone and Dr. Travers’ card, which I pulled quickly from my wallet.

I replied, my voice cracking again, “Uh. Yeah. I’m just- I’m calling the doctor.” I could hear Eve and Greg talking, but with the door closed, I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

The phone rang three times and with each ring, I grew more and more scared of my predicament. Was I going to die? My mind flew straight to my mother, and then to Hannah, but stayed firmly on the former. On the forms I filled out for the Hermie show, I left living family blank. In my mind, my relationship with my mother was so fractured that she might as well have been dead. Would I ever see her again?

I sighed as the phone rang a fifth time. Finally, on the sixth ring, I heard a voice.

It was the same almost inhuman voice I heard in the clinic room number three. “Mr. Sullivan. Hello.”

I smiled in relief and said quickly, “Doctor, you’ve got to help me. I think the vaccine is doing something to me. I-I’m freaking out here. It’s like my muscles are practically gone. I’m losing all the hair on my body. Am I dying??! Fuck, man- tell me!”

There was a pause on the other end, a cleared throat and then the robotic drone, “Mr. Sullivan, first of all, take deep breaths. I can assure you that you are not dying. You are unfortunately suffering a very rare reaction to the SARS vaccine you received a few days ago. Remove all fear from your mind and know that the side effects can be reversed.”

Tears threatened to erupt, not simply leak from my eyes. “Oh really? Thank god! I really thought I was dying or I had some-”

The doctor interrupted me, “A wasting disease. Unfortunately, the vaccine diminishes muscle mass in some. Only one out of a million are affected.”

I laughed bitterly, “Maybe I should go out and buy a goddamn lottery ticket. Uh, so everything can be reversed, my muscles? I’m going to grow the hair back on my arms and chest?”

He replied, “You will. You will need to have another shot, but it will counteract the effects of the vaccine you received. For your own safety, I will send an ambulance. I’m sure you were also lethargic, aching and suffering from a high fever. I’m concerned you might faint on the bus if those symptoms return.”

I said, “I…can’t afford an ambulance. Will my voice go back to normal too?” Squeak. Squeak.

Dr. Travers replied, “Absolutely. Your vocal chords are simply constricted because a muscle attached to your larynx has shrunk. And I will pay for the ambulance, Mr. Sullivan. It is the least I can do after how much you have suffered. I can also help you if you require a medical leave of absence.”

I said, “Uh thanks. I’m sorry, for you know, calling you a robot and everything.

The doctor replied with the same complete lack of emotion, “Not to worry, Mr. Sullivan. Apology accepted. You were not the first, and you will not be the last. I will see you soon.”

I hung up the phone, redressed and left the bathroom. Greg and Eve looked at me worriedly. I explained to them what Doctor Travers told me, but there was only some relief on Greg’s face and general suspicion planted on Eve’s. By this point, I had calmed down significantly, assured by the fact that what had happened to me was reversible.

Eve said, “If this doctor knew that there was a chance of extreme side effects why didn't he monitor everyone who got it? If you’d gotten to the hospital sooner, then maybe you wouldn’t have seen so many symptoms surface?”

I shrugged my now slimmer shoulders, “Well the chances were really low. And everyone gets the shot who has to work with kids in California. I’m sure that you’ve given it before.”

Eve nodded, “I have. But I’ve never seen those symptoms before. I didn’t even know it was possible. It’s such a standard vaccine. The hospital I work at gives thousands of them every year.”

I narrowed my eyes, “Why are you so concerned anyway? I thought you didn’t even like me.” Greg gave me the no-no gesture, but I ignored him.

Eve replied evenly, “I like you when you aren’t being a sexist asshole, and when you aren’t trying to date one of my friends. But really, I’ve got a responsibility. Greg said you were sick, I know you won’t go to the doctor.”

Greg added, “Also because we are your friends.” Eve snorted through her less than perfect nose.

Greg continued, “We’ll go with you in the ambulance to the clinic.”

I shook my head, “Uh, no it’s OK. Really I don’t need you guys to come with me. How’s Vince? Is he heartbroken?”

Greg said, “Yeah, he’s crying his eyes out like you were his first crush. Why’d you quit anyway?”

I replied brusquely, “It’s none of your damn business.”

Eve said sternly, “Look, he doesn’t want our help. We’ll walk Mr. Big Tough Man to the ambulance, but we won’t go with him.”

Greg said, “We’ll meet you at the hospital. Which one are they taking you to?”

I shook my head, “Seriously, guys- I don’t need a babysitter at the hospital. They’ll probably take me right away knowing what’s happened. Dr. Travers is going to meet me there. I don’t know which hospital. I’ll text you later to let you know how I’m doing.”

Eve glanced out the window, “Ambulance is here. Wow, that was fast. Were they waiting around the corner or something?”

I gathered up everything I would need for a potentially extended stay at the hospital, extra clothes, DVDs, phone charger, and most importantly, my dad’s overseas service badge. I would need all the luck it would bring more than ever.

Eve started moving toward the door, but Greg lingered. I could see he was holding something in his hands. He looked like he could have auditioned for the part of Vince, especially the way he looked at me with such serious eyes. “If you do decide to come back.” He tossed me the key to the restaurant, which I had left on Vince’s desk yesterday.

I reached out to snatch the key from the air, but as I tried to close my hands around it, it flew past, landed on the parquet flooring and skittered underneath the couch.

Greg said, “Get better, man.”

After a quick goodbye, I stepped into the back of the ambulance where the paramedics insisted that I lie down on the stretcher bed.

One of them said, “I’m not sure if Dr. Travers told you or not, but he said you might have trouble breathing. It’s really important we make sure there’s a constant flow of oxygen to your brain.” A burly young man lowered an oxygen mask over my face, but as I breathed in I felt sleepy.

I tried to raise my head, but the other paramedic gently pushed it down, “Shh. Shh. Nighty night, Mr. Sullivan.”