shimmering hot sidewalks of Chicago. It was the fifth of September, but the temperature felt like July. I pictured myself in swimming shorts, playing Frisbee on a sunny ocean beach with a cool breeze blowing. If I had gone to school in Florida, that’s probably what I would have been doing, right? No Elvis. No hair-dye disasters. No weird Post-it notes. Just sun and sand. And a cooler full of sodas and chips.
Note to self: Stop it. This isn’t helping.
If I made it to the Murphy’s Shoes block of State Street, I decided I would stop at Harpy’s Video and pick up a can of soda from the machine inside the front door—unless I died of heatstroke before I got there, in which case the whole story of how a peace symbol killed me would probably make the national news.
I was so focused on wrapping my fingers around an ice-cold drink I almost missed the sign taped on the door of Harpy’s. As I pushed open the door, I happened to glance down and that’s when I saw it. In neatly printed block letters, the sign said: WANTED—DEPENDABLE NIGHT MANAGER. WEEKENDS AND WEEKDAYS. HOURS: 4 P.M. TO MIDNIGHT. GOOD PAY AND BENEFITS. APPLICATIONS INSIDE.
Maybe my decision to walk home had been fate after all.
13. I Forgot to Remember
When I got back to my dad’s house after my marathon hike from Charles Lister, he’d already left. Not to go in search of me (although that would have been thoughtful)—he’d left for an Elvis show instead. A note was sitting on the kitchen table underneath a jar of spaghetti sauce and a box of pasta. It said he was performing at a wedding and he’d be back late. Make spaghetti for dinner.
As I dumped my backpack on the kitchen table, I had to admit I was a little disappointed my dad wasn’t around because I’d been kinda pumped about showing him the Harpy’s application and solving all of his job problems in one easy swipe. The hippie-looking guy who’d been working at the counter of Harpy’s Video told me they were desperate to hire somebody.
“Can’t take kids, though, because of the hours,” he had said as I pulled one of the applications from the pile by the cash register. When I told him it wasn’t for me, it was for my dad who had worked at Murphy’s before they closed, the guy shook his head. “Murphy’s…yeah, that was a bummer. Seems like everything’s going down the tubes these days. It’s the economy,” he said, rolling a quarter back and forth across the counter. “Tell your dad to come in and talk to us. I’m sure Harpy would hire him in a heartbeat. He could probably start this weekend if he wanted.” But Harpy would have to wait, I guess.
The phone rang while I was in the middle of cooking my spaghetti that night. Standing at the stove, I was feeling like one of those TV chefs:
Cooking with Josh Greenwood.
Good evening, fans! Tonight I’m going to show you my secret recipe for making really great spaghetti if your dad is away being Elvis. First, fill a saucepan with water. While you’re waiting for the water to boil, pour a large jar of extra-chunky spaghetti sauce carefully into another pan—
The phone interrupted my show. I picked it up.
“Josh,” a voice said loudly. “This is your dad. I’m in the middle of the dang hotel lobby and my cell battery is shot so I had to use one of the lobby phones. Can you hear me or not?” My dad seemed to be shouting over some mumbling background noise I couldn’t identify.
“Yeah, it’s okay, go ahead.”
His voice kept shouting. “Well, I was in this big rush to get here and had all this crap to remember—the speakers, the mike, the music—and then I got to the hotel and realized what I had completely forgotten.”
“What?”
“My daggone costume,” he hollered. “They didn’t want people to see me before the wedding because I’m supposed to be a surprise, so I didn’t come in costume like I usually do,” he continued babbling. “I had the costume hanging right beside the front door so I
Note to self: Stop it. This isn’t helping.
If I made it to the Murphy’s Shoes block of State Street, I decided I would stop at Harpy’s Video and pick up a can of soda from the machine inside the front door—unless I died of heatstroke before I got there, in which case the whole story of how a peace symbol killed me would probably make the national news.
I was so focused on wrapping my fingers around an ice-cold drink I almost missed the sign taped on the door of Harpy’s. As I pushed open the door, I happened to glance down and that’s when I saw it. In neatly printed block letters, the sign said: WANTED—DEPENDABLE NIGHT MANAGER. WEEKENDS AND WEEKDAYS. HOURS: 4 P.M. TO MIDNIGHT. GOOD PAY AND BENEFITS. APPLICATIONS INSIDE.
Maybe my decision to walk home had been fate after all.
13. I Forgot to Remember
When I got back to my dad’s house after my marathon hike from Charles Lister, he’d already left. Not to go in search of me (although that would have been thoughtful)—he’d left for an Elvis show instead. A note was sitting on the kitchen table underneath a jar of spaghetti sauce and a box of pasta. It said he was performing at a wedding and he’d be back late. Make spaghetti for dinner.
As I dumped my backpack on the kitchen table, I had to admit I was a little disappointed my dad wasn’t around because I’d been kinda pumped about showing him the Harpy’s application and solving all of his job problems in one easy swipe. The hippie-looking guy who’d been working at the counter of Harpy’s Video told me they were desperate to hire somebody.
“Can’t take kids, though, because of the hours,” he had said as I pulled one of the applications from the pile by the cash register. When I told him it wasn’t for me, it was for my dad who had worked at Murphy’s before they closed, the guy shook his head. “Murphy’s…yeah, that was a bummer. Seems like everything’s going down the tubes these days. It’s the economy,” he said, rolling a quarter back and forth across the counter. “Tell your dad to come in and talk to us. I’m sure Harpy would hire him in a heartbeat. He could probably start this weekend if he wanted.” But Harpy would have to wait, I guess.
The phone rang while I was in the middle of cooking my spaghetti that night. Standing at the stove, I was feeling like one of those TV chefs:
Cooking with Josh Greenwood.
Good evening, fans! Tonight I’m going to show you my secret recipe for making really great spaghetti if your dad is away being Elvis. First, fill a saucepan with water. While you’re waiting for the water to boil, pour a large jar of extra-chunky spaghetti sauce carefully into another pan—
The phone interrupted my show. I picked it up.
“Josh,” a voice said loudly. “This is your dad. I’m in the middle of the dang hotel lobby and my cell battery is shot so I had to use one of the lobby phones. Can you hear me or not?” My dad seemed to be shouting over some mumbling background noise I couldn’t identify.
“Yeah, it’s okay, go ahead.”
His voice kept shouting. “Well, I was in this big rush to get here and had all this crap to remember—the speakers, the mike, the music—and then I got to the hotel and realized what I had completely forgotten.”
“What?”
“My daggone costume,” he hollered. “They didn’t want people to see me before the wedding because I’m supposed to be a surprise, so I didn’t come in costume like I usually do,” he continued babbling. “I had the costume hanging right beside the front door so I
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