Holding His Forever

“What!” Tracy half-screams, her face scrunching up. I steal the moment to slip past them both as fast as I can and out the side door of the diner, into the chilled night. The street is empty now that it’s almost midnight on a Tuesday.

I slip my coat on and make the half-mile walk to my apartment, which sits over an old laundromat. Locking the door behind me, I waste no time pulling my uniform from my body and tossing my tips from tonight on the table before jumping into the shower. I have to get the smell of grease off my hair and body. I let the warm water run over me, relaxing my muscles as I wash away the day’s work.

When I’m done I grab a shirt and a pair of panties and pull them on. I sit at the small fold-out table in my half kitchen, if you can call it that. It doesn’t even have a full refrigerator, just one of those tiny ones you find in a hotel, which is probably where it came from. There’s a small sink and microwave, and that’s about it. My exhaustion outweighs my hunger as I count my tips. A hundred dollars on a double shift for a Tuesday isn’t too bad. Every dollar counts at this point. I’m so close to being able to pay for my last semester of college. Twelve more credits and I’m done, I remind myself. I can do this.

I grab the money and place it carefully, along with yesterday’s money, between the pages of a book I keep on the table. I still need to go to the bank and deposit it. After that, I walk the few feet to my bed in the corner of the room and fall face first into the cushioned surface.

“I miss you, Mom,” I whisper into the pillow before sleep takes me.

2

Phoenix

I sit on the edge of the cot and plant my feet on the floor. I’m sleeping in the firehouse tonight, even though it’s not my turn. The department shrink would have something to say about this, but it’s the only way I can move on. To move forward. To work until I’m exhausted enough that my dreams don’t turn into nightmares and I wake up screaming.

The gold plate above my head reads, Phoenix 1st LT, Engine 20; Ladder 70 FDNY, and I reach up, tapping it for good luck. Most firefighters are superstitious, and even if I don’t believe all the things that go along with it, I respect the hell out of tradition.

I stand up and walk past the rows of cots towards the chow room. Our firehouse is big, and I’m the first lieutenant here. I supervise the daily operations, training, and lead the emergency response of our engine company. Graham, our second LT, does swing shifts with me so that we’re not both constantly on call. But I’ve been here for the past four months, regardless of whether it’s been my turn on or not.

There are ten guys sleeping in the house tonight, all trying to catch some shut-eye while Brick snores the roof off the place. Most of us have gotten used to him though. After almost ten years working here, there’s not much I can’t sleep through. Except the dreams.

“You’re up late, Phoenix,” Graham says, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.

My last name is Phoenix, and everyone calls me that. My first name is Derek, but I don’t think anyone’s called me by that name since my mom died from ovarian cancer almost five years ago. My dad, who is staying busy since she passed, usually calls me “my boy” or “sunshine.” He loves to tell everyone I had bleached blond hair as a kid and smiled all the time.

“I like to think of it as up early,” I say, reaching for a coffee mug. “You know me, glass-is-half-full kind of guy.”

He lets out a huff at my lame joke, knowing it’s the furthest thing from the truth. I pour myself some sludge from the machine. It’s probably been there for days, but I pretend it looks good.

“You know,” Graham says, but I interrupt him.

“Yes. I know I don’t have to be here. I know that I should get some sleep. I know that I should probably go back home and take some time off. And I know that I should probably be telling all of this to our shrink.” I tick off on my fingers all the things Graham is going to tell me. “Did I miss anything?”

He finally looks up at me and rolls his eyes. “You know, you can always make more coffee,” he says exasperatedly, but clearly I hit the target.

“And I could make more coffee.” I lift my mug up in cheers, and he leans back in his chair, eyeing me.