todd of tacoma

Genie inherited a stack of photographs from her grandma. They were in rough shape. They had not been in direct sunlight, but they’d been near it. By an attic vent, in a clear plastic container with no seal, loose.

The weather had rocked the container. Crossbreezes. Mist from rain. Hot air, cold air, dry air, humidity.

Rain from leaks.

Seasons.

Every autumn, the low sun.

Repeat.

The photographs were given to her secondhand by her mom, in reality, not bequeathed to her from her grandma. Genie had inherited nothing from Grandma.

Not that she expected to. Grandma loved Genie, but grandkids don’t inherit.

They gotta wait till the next gen drops.

Mom gave Genie the photos not because she herself was dropping or that she thought Genie might cherish them (they’re more perishable than cherishable, she said), but because they were neat.

Maybe you can make something out of these, she said. You’re artsy.

Wait, are you dying?

Har har.

All this stuff. Shouldn’t you just have a garage sale? Genie said.

We don’t have anything valuable.

The photos would have already perished if they had not been taken from the attic and moved to a storage facility in 2011. The year Grandma moved out of her century-old house and into a home. A home she’d been desperate to move into since Grandpa died. A home whose brochures showed a strong community, its website, too.

At six a.m. on her 62nd birthday, Grandma had a whole coffee setup on her porch for the movers. Industrial size urn, creamer packets, sugar packets. Like a hotel. Or a good AA meeting. Except that there were good doughnuts, too. It was the first day Suncrest or Sun-something-or-other would allow her to move in.

And the summer Foster the People released Pumped Up Kicks.

Like everyone on Earth, Genie heard the song on repeat. Grandma played the song on repeat. She told Genie she wished there were still radio stations so that she could call in and request it on repeat.

There’s still radio stations, Grandma.

It’s not the same. I have it downloaded into a couple CDs already.

Today, a thousand years older and three weeks sober, Genie knows what she meant.

***

There was a mover at the house on Grandma’s 62nd birthday who looked about as sixty-two as she did. She insisted the guy was with the company, but the old man didn’t interact with the other movers at all and he came late each day in a separate pickup truck and didn’t dress like any of his cohorts, except his jumpsuit was in a maroon similar to the other movers’ polos.

The boss seemed to dismiss that this guy was part of the team. But the boss was kind of aloof and didn’t know his whole team, so that didn’t solve anything.

I think he’s a friend of Grandma’s, Genie said. But what kind?

Grandma doesn’t have friends, Mom said.

An ex-lover?

Your mind went there immediately, of course.

Maybe spurned?

He doesn’t look spurned.

What do you know about spurned?

What do you know about lovers?

I think brother.

Long lost brother?

Longer than lost, actively hidden.

They kept him in the basement or the attic and Grandma brought him food.

Be specific. Basement or attic?

Basement.

I think he was kidnapped.

Easier to keep a person in the attic, actually, if he doesn’t move around too much.

I’ll go with kidnapped.

Yes, he was somebody else’s kid.

Until he wasn’t.

And they kept him in the attic!

Until they didn’t.

Do you want me to find out? the boss said.

We’ll find out! Mom said and Genie said.

The guy was carrying everything out of the attic and other little important things from other rooms. Had nothing to do with the furniture or the appliances.

And after the move, no one saw him again.

***

About a month after Grandma died, Genie was getting drunk at this Irish pub she always got drunk at after work. This day after work in particular Genie started with a Manhattan because it was Friday. As soon as she finished her Manhattan, Gary, her bartender and spurned ex-lover, brought her another one.

I didn’t order that, she said.

It’s from that guy over there.

Gary pointed. The guy wasn’t looking.

In the maroon?

Says he knows you.

I don’t know him.

He met you once before?

I don’t think he did.

You’re memorable.

Meh.

He thinks he did and that’s all that matters.

Gary slid the drink under her nose.

Drink it. I’m on my game today.

She drank the Manhattan all the way to the bottom without so much as acknowledging the existence of the room she was in. The way she always drank her second drink.

Gary was right about his game.

A good Manhattan has to have an intense tongue feel. If it’s smooth or syrupy, it’s wrong. Gary gets this. His Manhattans put you in a headlock and stuff a bitter plum in your mouth and smack you open palm until your gums bleed. Then they take you to the ground and put a foot on your neck and make you lick the pavement and put a gun to your head and say who sent you! or give us a name, Genie! They’re a whole experience and when you’re done with one you’re thrilled to be alive.

Genie hoped the thrill of two would jog her memory, if there was a memory to be jogged. Something about the man was familiar. But was it simply the something that’s familiar about anyone when you think about them long enough?

Desperate trick of a desperate mind?

Then a song came on and kicked her once more in the head.

Pumped Up Kicks.

She stood and turned around in one motion.

The maroon mover!

But she couldn’t locate the guy.

Hey! she said.

There was a coaster on top of his unfinished pint of beer. But no guy.

Gary passed behind her.

Who are you talking to? he said.

Jesus! she said.

He already paid.

But he didn’t finish his beer.

Always does that. Covers his shit and pays and runs. Must have something to do with the time.

He helped my Grandma move, but he wasn’t one of the movers.

Like as a hobby or a friend? Gary said.

What’s the company, the big one, with the maroon shirts?

Dentley’s? Dano’s?

She sat back down.

But he wasn’t a mover. I have a stack of photos. From a container that that man moved.

But not as a mover.

I think there’s a boy in some of the photos who’s not family.

The boy looks like him? Not moving?

He’s wearing maroon. Dano’s maroon, or Dentley’s.

That’s how he looks like him? The color of his shirt?

Or some color that fades maroon. What colors fade maroon?

Blue. Green. Purple.

Did you catch his eyes?

No, but you can. He comes here every day.

***

So, this guy was an alcoholic? Dick C said after Genie shared this in the October birthday meeting.

Were you listening, Dick? someone else said. He left an unfinished beer.

She had to have known him.

Have you talked to him?

I can’t go back to the pub. If I drink I die.

Was your grandma an alcoholic?

Wouldn’t touch the stuff.

That doesn’t mean anything, Dick C said.

After the meeting, Ayana S offered to be Genie’s sponsor. When Genie said she’s not looking for a sponsor, Ayana offered to go with her to Walmart to scan and digitize the photographs.

Genie wasn’t looking to do that, either.

Quick note for Dick C: crosstalk violates all manner of boundaries and there’s no place for it in AA. Thank you.