“Tell me that isn’t Sam Statler.” It’s a man’s voice, coming from behind him. Not now. He turns around.
Crush Andersen. Class of 1993. All-star linebacker, known for taking Joey Amblin’s dare and downing six liters of Orange Crush at a field party after they lost the state finals. “How you doing, man?” Crush says, slapping Sam’s hand and pulling him in for an awkward hug.
“I’m good, Crush, I’m good.” Except for a serious concern that he’s about to vomit.
“Yeah, man?” Crush says. “What’s happening?”
“Oh, you know,” he says. “Same old same old.” Sam doesn’t know why he says this, other than it’s what he expects a guy like Crush is used to hearing when he asks this question, and then Crush is telling him how the other day Jesse Alter came in, and what is this, some sort of class reunion at NorthStar Community Bank? Sam tries his best to feign attention—three years as assistant branch manager, six as a volunteer EMT for the fire department—but he needs to focus on keeping his lunch down. “What about you?” Crush lowers his voice and curls his lip. “Your dad still with the Sports Illustrated model?”
“It was Talbots,” Sam says. “And no, that didn’t last. Listen, Crush.” Sam takes Crush by the elbow. “Any chance you can check and see if there’s an account here under his name? Ted Statler.”
“Sorry, buddy, not authorized to share that information,” Crush says, then leans in close and winks. “But why don’t we go discuss it in my corner suite?” He leads Sam to a small glass cubicle and sits down behind the desk, gesturing for him to take a seat on a hard plastic chair. Crush pecks at the keyboard as Sam tells himself it’s going to be okay. His mother made a mistake. The account is not in her name, it’s in his father’s. It’s— “Nope,” Crush says. “No account for any Statler except your mom.”
“All right then.” Sam smacks his thighs. “Thanks for the help.”
“Nice to see you, man. And listen, dude. A bunch of us might go watch the game this weekend. You should come. You’re not too good for us, are you, Stats?”
His legs feel weak as he stands. “No, Crush. No way, man. Of course I’m not.”
Chapter 10
I’m in the bath, a chorus of bubbles popping at my neck, a chill in my bones. Everything is cold. The air, the water, Sam.
Three days now he’s been in a state. Grouchy, short, showing exactly zero interest in my （fake） volunteer position. I thought he’d be at least a little curious to hear about the interesting pieces of trivia I picked up as the town’s newly anointed resident expert, but I got barely a half-hearted grunt the other morning when I asked him if he knew that in 1797, Chestnut Hill came within one vote of being named the state capital. And then the incident with the Post-it note. It was stuck to the front door, neon-green paper and fat Sharpie letters so I’d be sure to see it on my way out. Can you move your car up. Patients need room.
That’s it. Not even the common decency of proper punctuation. It wouldn’t have been that big a deal if that note hadn’t basically been our only communication all day, as apparently he also wasn’t in the mood for happy hour. （A headache, he claimed. I recommended two glasses of water and a good night’s sleep, choosing to stay silent on the fact that his headache probably had something to do with the two cans of beer I heard him open downstairs, where he stayed for an hour after the Somber Superintendent of Schools left, forlorn as usual, at five thirty.） It pains me to say it, but it’s a side of him I haven’t seen before, and which I don’t particularly like: trudging around, all Eeyore-eyed.
But too bad. I’ve decided I’m not going to allow Sam’s crankiness to get me down.
Reasons to Remain Happy Despite Sam’s Mood: A List in Descending Order
It’s true what they say: hard work pays off, because as of yesterday morning, I am the fifteenth-ranked reviewer on Amazon （suck it, Lola from Pensacola!）。
It’s been raining all morning, and surely no fake tour takers are going to show up at my fake job, allowing me a well-earned afternoon of self-care, leading me to the top item on my list, the best reason of all to stay on the bright side:
President Josiah Edward Bartlet, the essence of humility.
The West Wing, my god. It’s Sam’s all-time favorite show, and now I can see why. I have never seen it, and I decided to turn it on this morning after he went to work, take a look at the pilot. Three hours later I couldn’t be any more invested in the conflict between Jed Bartlet the president and Jed Bartlet the man. I’m going to cheer Sam up with the news at happy hour tonight. I did it, I watched season 1. You’re right, it’s genius.