When the Wolf Comes Home

3

JESS LOOKS AT the soupy-gray vomit sprayed in a fine patina across the toilet and thinks, Could be worse.

One time, a guy had finger-written on the wall in feces: A WIZZERD SHIT HERRE. The misspellings were almost as upsetting as their medium of expression. Almost.

That wound up being a two-person cleanup job, which could only be done in sixty-second bursts because of the smell.

Another time, someone wrote a few inches over the toilet paper holder in what she'd prayed was red Sharpie: NO ONE WILL BE SPARED WHEN

The unfinished thought sent literal chills through her body. She thought about it for weeks after cleaning it up. When what? Why hadn't the tagger completed their sentence? Had they been sucked up by a UFO or something?

Considering how run-down Poppy's often feels, though, cleaning the bathroom usually just means brushing the inside of the bowl after all that fine coffee gives some trucker a touch of the ol' Jackson Pollock backdraft. Or wiping up piss from the seat, tank, and floor, since men apparently feel they have permission to set it on spray whenever they step into this room.

This sort of chunky, emetic display is a blessed rarity.

Blessed. Right. Like this job is a treat otherwise.

Breathing through her mouth so as to not smell the room and trigger a sympathetic response, she sets down her bucket and sponge and reaches for her phone to put on a podcast or some music while she cleans. Then she remembers her phone is still charging under the counter.

Curses.

She considers turning back and retrieving it, but the thought of going out, then coming back to face this reeking tableau afresh seems entirely too much. Plus, it's probably wise to spare her phone from the whole biohazard-y vibe in here. If she had it with her, she'd feel compelled to soak it in Lysol for hours afterward.

"Let's just do this fast," she says with a groan, then starts singing tunelessly: "Make our own kinda music ."

Continuing her song, she maneuvers her hands into thin yellow plastic gloves that go halfway up her forearm, then flushes down what the guy managed to get inside the bowl. (She closes the lid first-something she does for every flush since reading an online article about bacterial spray.)

While she waits for Poppy's languid water pressure to work its magic, she takes the bucket over to the sink and starts filling it.

Inner Jess pipes up.

I wonder if Tommy puked a lot before he died. Was he scared? Did he even know it was happening? Did he think about his daughter?

Little Jess stirs in her hiding spot.

Outer Jess hums louder.

Once the bucket is full, she turns back to the mess sprayed all over the toilet and gets to work.

* * *

Halfway through cleaning the bowl, Inner Jess says something that stops Outer Jess cold.

But why didn't he want me?

It hits her like a fist to the throat. A simple question. Almost rhetorical, really. Certainly not a new idea or concept to her. Yet, for a moment, she can't even breathe it's so overwhelming. Tears sting the backs of her eyes, and she has to mentally shove them back into her skull.

"Whoa," she says, voice choked with emotion. Legitimately surprised at the full-body response. "Okayyy. Let's . let's not go there right now."

But Inner Jess knows a victory when she gets one. She ushers in a parade of related questions, letting them loose like a bunch of children sneaking under a circus tent. Why didn't he want me? Why didn't he stick around? Why didn't he ever even call? Why was he so okay with cutting me out completely? What is it about me that not even my own father could love? It has to be my fault somehow, doesn't it?

"Welp," Jess replies with brittle cheer, "can't really ask him, so, better just drop it!"

The tears surge back, harder. A sorrow she's never tasted floods her mouth. She blots her eyes with the cleanest part of her forearms.

Why was it so easy to leave me?

"Because he fucking sucked," she insists through clenched teeth, "that's why. Why am I getting upset right now? Seriously!"

Anyone listening at the door might think she sounds nuts, snarling at herself in an otherwise silent room. She doesn't care. Not too deep down, she understands this one stupid question is the most insidious articulation of everything she's been wrestling with throughout this week of messy grieving.

But why didn't he want me?

She traces the thought back to where it sprang from, hoping to maybe retroactively yank it out by the roots.

She'd been cleaning the toilet, thinking about Arnie, the improv boy. How he might laugh at seeing her this way. How, if she had her phone with her, she could send him a selfie saying, "Thinking of You," while hugging the be-Maynarded bowl. Which made her think about Maynards. How her dad had no doubt been a Maynard, too. Which made her wonder if maybe she'd gotten this job because, subconsciously, she'd craved being around people like him. Serving people like him. Cleaning up after people like him. Which made her wonder-

"But this is how I know this is bullshit," she says. "I know why I got this job."

Once upon a time-namely, half a year ago-Jess used to work at much higher-end restaurants, until a certain general manager of a certain $$$$-restaurant in Venice cupped her tit one night after closing. She'd been in a particularly rotten mood when it happened, so she'd rejected his advances, rather bluntly, and quit. Next thing she knew, though, she was blackballed across every $$$$-, $$$-, and even $$-restaurant she applied to, and cursing herself for reacting with such uncharacteristic fury.

She has no office or retail skills whatsoever, so she wound up applying to Poppy's out of a mix of desperation and irony, thinking it'd be kinda funny to work at a place she'd never patronize, and as so often happens in one's late twenties and early thirties, the irony quickly calcified into habit. Importantly, though, no one she knows would ever patronize this place, so she never has to worry about anyone seeing her here. Plus, the graveyard-shift hours allow her to still take auditions, rare though they are nowadays. All perfectly legitimate reasons for her to be working at this shitty diner, none of which had anything to do with her stupid, absent dad.

"See?" she snaps at the voices in her head. "Case closed. Just stop." She gets back to the bowl, singing that damned "Make Your Own Kind of Music" song again at a low, determined volume. The angriest anyone has sounded, channeling Mama Cass.

But her heart is pounding. Little Jess is wide awake, too. Awake and aching.

Why didn't my dad love me? What is it about me? Why couldn't I make him care?

A question she could ask regarding her acting career, too.

For a while, it'd seemed like it was about to take off. A couple years ago, she'd filmed a principal supporting role in a comedy pilot for a major streamer that was perfect for her and earned all those deliciously jealous coos from her peers. But the pilot never got picked up, and the auditions just . slowed to a halt. Pandemics and strikes didn't help either. Her Big Break remained stubbornly in one piece.

Except other people seem to be getting work again. Why wasn't she? Had she done something wrong? Why had it all just suddenly stopped? She'd begged her agent for more insight, and all he had to offer was, These things happen, Jess. We just gotta keep at it. Then he added, I hate to say it, but . it doesn't help that you're not a Jennifer Lawrence, and you're not a Melissa McCarthy. Maybe try losing twenty or gaining fifty, you know?

She'd swallowed that with a smile. Understood. Totally. Always eager to please, eager to avoid conflict. Eager to be seen as game-especially by a man in power (incident with Handsy von Manager being the exception that proved the rule). Because, otherwise, why would they want her? Why would anyone?

"Shut up!" She sits back on her haunches. Smacks her head with the insides of her forearms. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" If the bullshit self-analysis doesn't stop, she's going to drown herself in the toilet just for a little peace and quiet. Fucking grief. Fucking stupid, unpredictable, illogical, unhelpful grief.

"I'm never doing anything without a podcast to listen to, ever again, that's for goddamn sure."

Inner Jess changes tactics.

I think we all know the reason why no one wants you.

"Wonderful." If she could, if her hands weren't clad in puke-drenched gloves, she'd rub her temples in frustration.

It's because you're just like him.

"Okay. Sure."

He was a coward. He was afraid of everything.

"And that's me, too, right? That's where we're going with this?"

He had his booze and his isolation. You have your jokes and all your excuses. What a cliché. Put on your Daddy Shoes and dance the night away.

And isn't that true? Isn't she an absolute coward? Isn't that why she's really in this bathroom? Hadn't Jess intended to take action against that handsy restaurant manager? Find some other women he groped and demand accountability? Become a crusader? Demand justice? And for all her jokes about VD, isn't she also desperate for some romantic companionship, too?

Inner Jess...