programming note: this is a series where I’ll be bouncing some original writing off you all to see if this is a short story or novel you’d be into, or whether it’s ass. Please comment with any thoughts!
DECEMBER 19, 1998
The door dinged open. Gerald was there early.
“Freezing in here, Owen,” Gerald said miserably, leaving his coat and gloves on. “Don’t Vick know he’s gonna freeze his pipes one day?”
“That’s what I was just saying. I can see my freaking breath. Surprised your glass hasn’t shattered yet,” I said. I wouldn’t normally remember a conversation with Gerald this well, but I’m remembering everything from around when Margaret came in.
“You ain’t even need a fridge,” Gerald said as he bellied up to the bar. I found his personalized beer mug; the fridge indeed felt the same temperature.
There was a jolt from the back of the building. Noise as air finally started filtering from the vents.
“Cheap fuck’ll pinch a penny ‘till its flat as my wife’s tits,” Gerald complained as I filled his mug with Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Gerald is a misogynist bastard, but I have to keep up appearances with the bar’s most loyal, and profitable, customer.
And Vick pinching pennies is the only reason I have a job at all, getting paid under the table. I’m not exactly legal to work. Yet.
I reached up to turn on the TV over the bar. The audio from ESPN came on before the video as the old set slowly started to warm.
“How dogshit we gonna be tomorrow against the Giants?” Gerald asked.
“This whole season was a wash,” I said. “We’ll see.”
“Grbac’s a bum,” Gerald muttered before taking another drink.
“Don’t dog the sexiest man alive,” I said, walking around the bar to the bigger TV behind the pool table.
“And Rich Gannon has absolutely no future in this league!” Gerald called out. I couldn’t help but grin.
“Eh, maybe something’ll shake loose in the draft,” I said. This TV too would take a long time to arouse from its slumber, I knew.
“Gotta trade up somehow,” Gerald said. “I’d like this Tim Couch fella in Chiefs red and gold.” I grinned again.
Margaret came in. She was tall, almost as tall as me. Same age as me. Well, you know. She was not supposed to come in until 2pm. But then I saw she was bawling her eyes out.
“Margaret, Jesus, what’s wrong?” I remember asking.
Ok, so here’s where things immediately get messed up. Now you’ll understand why I started this log of mine.
“Robbie,” she sobbed. “Last night. This morning. Stabbed. He’s dead.”
I went around the bar to grab her and hold her, but I was immediately more fucked up than she was, you know? Robbie Swanson. Dead. Impossible. I mean, literally impossible. He’s going to be at Ahmed’s wedding!
“What the hell?” was all I could say.
“I don’t know. I came by his house this morning and there were cops everywhere.” She was crying. “They talked to me, asked me if I knew anything. Nobody hates Robbie! Nobody!”
And, clearly, that’s not true, but I have no idea who could’ve possibly hated Robbie. And it’s true he actually lived in his own house off of managing the place next door. Writing this down, I know how nuts it looks. I mean, his dad co-signed of course, but he pays his mortgage himself.
Paid. God damn it.
So I asked her why she didn’t call, and she said that by the time the cops let her go I wasn’t answering my phone, so she headed straight to work to find me.
She doesn’t know that Robbie’s death almost certainly has to do with me.
Robbie was basically the leader of our group of friends. Like, he’d call everyone on our days off and next thing we knew, we were all at someone’s house playing cards or out at the Westport bars or over at one of those shitty old riverboat casinos. And he’s gone. It was impossible.
I need to back up and talk about meeting Robbie for the first time. Except, not even the first time. I can’t process it. I’ll save it for a later entry.
So I told her to go home and she was like, Vick would fire me, and it was true. I can call him a fucking bastard because the time someone’s reading this, I’ll hopefully be long gone. So someone can go tell Vick to get fucked.
So the day went by in this haze, for both of us. By 10pm we finally had a good sized crowd going and the tips were finally coming in. Gerald, he’s as much of a penny-pincher as Vick and I’ll leave it at that.
The cute girl who comes in Saturdays was there with her three friends. They always start here before hitting the cooler bars and clubs around Westport. She’s Black, stunning smile, awesome figure. Margaret usually teases me when she comes in, but not tonight. I had no idea how Margaret was still able to smile at the customers as she waited on them.
“Owen,” Kesha said as she came for another round. Yes, that’s actually her name. Oh yeah, she knew as well as everyone else I was crushing on her. Completely embarrassing. Not that I was even thinking about it at the time. Robbie was gone and I was stuck at work, unable to do anything, find out anything. I had called Mike at some point, but he didn’t know anything either.
“Amaretto sour?” I don’t know why I asked. It was all she drank.
“And two screwdrivers, and a Coors Light.” One of her friends only drinks beer. All of her friends were smoking at their table. She leveled that dazzling smile of hers, but she could tell I was distracted.
The music was on Beastie Boys. Once it got late, we have run of the radio, which was great because Vick always wanted it on 101 The Fox during the day.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
All I could do was shake my head and say, “Bit of trouble with a friend,” as I poured her drinks. I was way too distracted for my usual flirting. I don’t think she’s into white guys, but she’s always super nice popping her balloon, which I appreciate. And she tips well.
Margaret dropped me off after we closed. We hugged, not saying anything. I think she had an unrequited thing for Robbie, even though Robbie was already going out with Amy. Who is supposed to be his wife eventually. Or was. Whole damn thing is still confusing, sorry. We promised to meet and try and figure out what happened with him tomorrow.
I pushed my way into the studio apartment. The alarm clock by my bed read 3:13. Today had been unusually good for tips, especially without Vick around to skim. I thought I’d probably make rent. Maybe. I was way too tired for math.
I threw myself on my bed, too tired to change either. I closed my eyes. Paused.
Decided I needed a hit.
Stretched my arm, flicked on the lamp.
I reached under my bed. Pulled out the lockbox. After my usual pointless, conspiratorial glancing around my empty apartment, I punched in the code to the cheap plastic excuse of a safe. The one I’m going to put these pages into.
The lid sprung open. I pulled it out, marveling over my treasure again like Gollum and the Precious.
It was at 37% charge. I fumbled for the charging cord, plugged it into the outlet behind my bed. Turned towards the phone, which sprang to life.
I scrolled to Apple Music. My collection of bought MP3s is tiny, from before the flight last year on Spirit Airlines, and enough said about their wifi. And I can’t exactly log onto Spotify. The songs are all engraved into my skull at this point, these postcards from my lost home. Bad Bunny, there you are.
I brought up my pictures. Ahmed and I on the office building’s rooftop, holding beers after work. Me and my ex Stephanie at the Thai place near her apartment, the pic I refuse to delete because my fit was tight. My most recent pic is me holding up a Kansas City Star from November 17, 1998.
At some point, the airpods will die. At some point, my iPhone will eventually die, and I’ll be unable to recharge it. Who knows how long – my old iPhone 6s lasted, almost prophetically, six years before it quit. Would the 14 last as long?
Hell, will anyone even read this? My hand is cramping. Whoever you are reading this, understand that I couldn’t entrust this to the technology of 1998. I don’t even know how to work it.
I don’t know how long my phone will last. But I figure as long as I ration it out, I can easily make the phone last at least until the day I get born.
DECEMBER 20, 1998
So first thing I did was buy a newspaper from the QuikTrip to find news about Robbie.
Let me back up and get this out of the way. I had no idea at first Robbie was actually my boss Robbie Swanson. Only 21 in 1998, living in KC for some reason, and was a manager at that Mexican restaurant next door. Just from his sheer force of personality alone. And founding an agency representing influencers, and one that was successful, could only come from someone who could fill a room with his charm like Robbie.
What are the odds I worked next door to him? I mean, I didn’t know Robbie back home as well as Ahmed since I’d only worked at the agency a couple weeks before all this. Ahmed had vouched for me and got be an in. He could only gush about what a great boss Robbie was, how he and Amy had Ahmed and Dan over for dinner after news of their engagement broke. And his Instagram account was genius. I mean, I guess it had to be, but still.
Except now there won’t be an Instagram account and there won’t be an agency. Which means, who knows if Ahmed even comes to New York, or if he does, if we even meet. I don’t know how timelines work!
Anyway, once I put two and two together, I figured that Robbie had to be the reason why I landed in KC of all places. He was the only connection. I lived in New York my whole life. Or will. Ok, I’ll stop confusing myself with tenses, I promise.
It was on page 3 of the Kansas City Star metro section. I’m pasting it below.
“An area man was found stabbed to death yesterday in his Kansas City home near 86th Street and Wornall, according to police.
“Robbie Swanson, 21, was pronounced dead at the scene by paramedics. No arrests have been made. The body had been discovered by the victim’s father.
“‘The victim was believed to have been stabbed in the early morning hours yesterday by one or more unknown assailants,’ said KCPD spokeswoman Sgt. Allie McDaniel at the scene.
The KCPD have made no mention of witnesses or suspects as of press time.
“The deceased’s friend was interviewed at the scene after the body had been discovered, police said. She is not listed as a suspect at this time.
“‘Robbie was my world,’ the victim’s father, Larry Swanson, 53, said at the scene. He declined any additional comment at this time.”
So anyway, nobody knows shit, as you can see.
I don’t know much else about Robbie from when I knew him in New York, only the younger version of himself that was my friend.
I don’t know if he was targeted by whoever, or whatever, sent me back here to begin with. I don’t know if my presence here is what changed things to somehow put him in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know if it all was some weird coincidence. I just know I’m part of the reason Robbie’s dead.
And I know I am going to try and find out who killed him, and why.
forbiddencomma 
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