“I’m taking some time to regroup,” Andy said. “I went through a pretty bad breakup.”
“Ah-HAH,” said Martin. “Now we are getting somewhere.” He leaned toward Andy like a TV reporter who specialized in getting his subjects to cry. “What happened with you and the missus?” he asked. “Was she cheating? Were you cheating? You guys have any kids?”
“Leave him alone,” Arturo said. Martin ignored him.
“Things had run their course,” said Andy—another answer he’d prepared during his days on the couch. He got to his feet, dropped his paper plate in the trash, and pulled out the apple he’d packed for dessert.
“Aw, no, man. No way. Give it up! If we’re going to spend forty hours a week together, I’m gonna need some actual information. Ran its course,” he repeated, giving the words a nasal white-guy-with-an-overbite rendering. “What does that mean? It means nothing. You feel me?” Feel sounded like fill.
Andy shrugged, hoping the subject would stay changed. No such luck. “Lemme see a picture,” Martin demanded.
“Don’t have one,” said Andy.
“Now I know that’s not true,” Martin said. “You look like you’re pining over her. Piiiiining,” he repeated. “Plus, you got your phone.”
Andy wondered what would happen if he did a Google search for images of Maisie. Maybe Martin would think he was kidding . . . and maybe that would be the end of it. Mentally crossing his fingers, he took his phone from his pocket, tapped her name into the search bar, then clicked on a picture of her in a bikini bottom, with her right arm crossed over her breasts and swimsuit top dangling coyly from her fingertips. “Here.”
Martin looked, then grinned, shaking his head. “Oh, sure, man,” he said. “Ha fuckin’ ha. Who’s she, the number-one girl in your spank bank?”
“We can all dream,” said Andy, and held his hand out for the phone. Instead of giving it back, though, Martin stared at the picture more closely. Then he looked up at Andy. Then down at the picture again.
“Hold up, hold up,” he said, lifting one hand into the air.
Andy’s stomach was churning. “Shouldn’t we get back to work?” he asked.
“Fifteen more minutes,” said Arturo. His face was expressionless, but Andy had the distinct impression that he was enjoying this.
“Aw, shit,” Martin said, and did a little leap of delight. “You’re that guy! You’re, you’re . . .” He snapped his fingers, then pointed at Andy. “The runner! Marathon man! With the drugs! And that’s your wife!”
“Girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.” Andy looked at the clock. His anonymity had lasted less than three hours. “And it wasn’t the marathon, it was—”
“You’re Andy Landis!” Martin said. “That’s your name! Holy shit! Is that why you’re here? Because Wallen hires ath-a-letes? Are you still a runner? You in training for something new?”
“Retired,” Andy said. He threw out his apple and looked at Arturo. “What’s next?”
“Ten minutes of break left,” said Arturo. No question at all, he was enjoying the show.
“I got more questions!” said Martin.
“No comment,” Andy said. He walked to the back of the store, hoping to find something to lift or stack or maybe even hit. Martin followed him, jabbering queries and opinions. “Damn, man. You gonna do drugs, why not do the ones that make you feel good? That crap you was on, you don’t even get high off it. Plus, it shrinks your nuts.” He gave his own crotch a check-in squeeze through jeans baggy enough to contain another person, then looked at Andy sideways. “Your nuts get shrunk?”
Andy gave a single headshake. Martin’s cackles rose to the ceiling and seemed to gather volume as they echoed through the empty store. “Yeah, you say. But if your nuts were shrunk, would you really tell anyone?” Andy bent his head and grabbed three bags of mulch, hoping that work would end the chatter. No such luck. Martin picked up two bags of his own, talking about Maisie, about running, about his own skill on the basketball court and how he, too, could have had a shot at the Olympics, could have been a contender.
Feeling desperate, Andy tried to change the subject. “Do you like working here?”
Martin made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “It ain’t bad. Kincaid a’ight. Long as the work gets done, we can use headsets, talk on the phone, whatever.” Martin plugged in his earbuds but didn’t start his music. “So she left you?”