Random (Going the Distance) by Lark O'Neal

kitchen. It’s not quite ready for that hoarders show—you can still walk around, mostly, and he keeps certain islands of sanity. He keeps the kitchen sort of clean, if by clean you mean you can actually see the sink. His couch is cleared, and you can still close the bathroom door.
    But there’s stuff everywhere. Clothes in baskets and books in teetering stacks and just…stuff. Stuff and stuff and stuff. He doesn’t seem to notice.
    The computer is in a corner of the living room, close enough to the couch that it’s spared too much junk. I move a jacket, two books and some papers out of the way and sit down. At least here I have plenty of time—no librarian looking over my shoulder—so I check Craigslist for jobs. Gay bartender, roller skating server, no and no. A couple of actual possibilities, a diner on the west side, which will be an expensive drive, and a fast food cook at McDonalds. I can work McD’s—it’s still only minimum wage, but I’ll work two jobs if I have to. I apply there, too.
    Henry is lost in his workshop, and I apply for every job that I might be even slightly qualified to do, and then there’s still time, so I find a Coke in the fridge and sit back down to do the fun stuff.
    I check email, and there are several acknowledgements that I applied for various positions and three notes from high school friends. Nothing much, so I head to Facebook and catch up with everybody. Of course Virginia hasn’t posted, but I’m surprised to see that no one has posted to her wall, either. I take a second to put the news up there.
Virginia was involved in the car/building accident at Billy’s June 21. She’s in the hospital with multiple injuries. I’m sure she’d like cards and letters c/o Penrose Hospital.
    I post it and sit there sipping Coke, wondering how her boys are doing, who’s taking care of them. I don’t even know how to find out.
    Then, as embarrassing as it is to admit, I look up Tyler Smith. Such an ordinary and yet not-ordinary name. His page comes up, showing a photo of him laughing into the camera on a snowy mountain. The banner shows a creek I recognize as the one that flows through Manitou.
    Even in the photo, his eyes are an incredible color, blazing out of the screen to snare me, and I’m suddenly thinking about the way we kissed yesterday, kissing and kissing and kissing. I can feel the ghostly imprint of his body over mine, the heat coming off us in an orange wave. My whole body tingles with the memory.
    Will he call me again, after last night?
    Will I call him?
    I’m absolutely not going to friend him on Facebook. He can find me if he wants.
    Thinking about that, I post my own status update.
Now that Billy’s is closed, I am in dire need of employment. Any leads? CALL me, please.
    I also go to the relationship status and change “In a relationship” to “single.” As I’m saving it, the computer dings and there’s Lucy, the lead singer’s girlfriend, online and messaging me.
Why did you break up with Rick? It wasn’t his fault what happened.
    I type:
  It’s not that. It was the last straw, that’s all.  
He’s wrecked, like can’t-eat, can’t-sleep. Missing you bad.
    My chest aches.
  :( :( :(  
    Lucy says,
  You have been 2gether almost 2 years! You can work it out, right?  
    I stare at that sentence for about a minute. Can we? I type:
  No. Sorry.  
I’m worried about him!
He’ll be fine. Twenty girls want him every show.
Yeah, well, they aren’t booked anywhere. The fight got out and now nobody will hire them.
    What I want to say is, Not my problem. What I do write is:
  Things will work out. They go through this now and then.  
    She starts typing, but I am not into this. I type,
  At Henry’s gotta go  
, and sign out of Facebook super fast so she can’t see me anymore.
    That’s when I think about my other dad, in New Zealand. I look over my shoulder, but Henry’s still outside banging and clanging. I go to Google and type