Field Guide to Mediocre Men
A short story by Alex Miller
Greg played volleyball with the guys from work and tried not to look like an idiot. He often found himself trying not to look like an idiot and in some ways had elevated this to an art form. Jules from the features desk watched the game. The worst thing Greg could imagine would be to look like an idiot in front of Jules. Fortunately she paid no attention. She sat in the sand by the court and messed with her phone. Young people annoyed Greg—Millennials? Gen Z? How about Gen-get-over-yourself?—and never so much as when they mooned over their phones. But he didn’t mind Jules. Her beauty called to mind the statues of ancient Greece. He imagined himself an archeologist excavating her marble form, imagined her slumbering through long ages of history until he raised her, perfect and unspoiled, from the dirt.
When the ball bounced out of bounds in Jules’s direction, Greg invited her to join the game. She declined. Smiled. Returned to whatever occupied her on her phone. Greg kept at it. Pestered. Told her his team was losing. They needed another player. Someone athletic. Someone like Jules.
She sighed. Blew strands of blond hair away from her face. Joined the game. Everybody on the court cheered. Jules turned out to be a valuable acquisition. She pounded the ball like a pro and dominated the net. Unlike the other players—heavyset newspaper journalists flopping like giant seals around the court—Jules moved with grace and confidence. Sometimes Greg made a move toward the ball only to lose his nerve and let it fall impotently to the sand. Jules played at a higher intensity. She sacrificed her body, diving recklessly and never failing to make the save. Greg believed he and Jules made a great team. He would set the ball, and despite his clumsiness she’d hammer it over the net. At these moments, they exchanged a look. They were warriors. Conquerors. There on the sand, Greg experienced a revelation. He very much wanted to have sex with Jules.
Later they all hit the bar. Greg got a drink and scanned the room, noticing an empty seat beside Jules. She sat with Marcus and Dave. She spoke eagerly to Marcus, leaning over the table and making excessive eye contact. Greg wasn’t worried. He knew what kind of woman Marcus liked, and Jules wasn’t it. Marcus’s type was nineteen and black-out drunk. Greg took the seat beside Jules. She told Marcus a story about her cat, how it escaped one night, and Jules had gone out in the rain with a flashlight to find it. Marcus yawned.
Greg asked what she liked about cats.
“Cats are fierce,” she said. “Killers.”
Greg told her she should get a dog instead. They were friendly and made good pets.
“A dog will love you no matter what,” he said.
“You have opinions about pets.”
“I do,” he said, smiling goofily and gesticulating with his hands. “Pets are important.”
Jules asked if he’d ever had a cat. He had not. He was allergic.
“How terrible.”
“A horrible affliction,” he said, gesticulating again.
“You could never date a cat owner. You would die.”
“Oh, it could work,” he said. “I have a gas mask.”
Jules laughed and asked what he was drinking.
“All this bar serves are IPAs,” he said. “I asked the bartender what was on tap. He told me all about ten different IPAs.”
“Shame about the IPAs,” she said.
Greg said it was too hot for beer. It was no good drinking when it got so hot. Across the table, Marcus burped loudly. He turned up his bottle of Bud Light and chugged it in three mighty gulps. Slammed it on the table. Burped again.
“We love to see it,” Jules said in a tone Greg didn’t like.
Marcus stood up and headed for the bar. Jules followed. For Greg, watching her go was like the sun disappearing behind a mountain, ushering in a cold night of winter. He shook his head and wondered why girls chased after losers like Marcus. Women were the source of their own unhappiness.
Greg struck up a conversation with Dave. They talked about Marvel’s Black Panther. Dave said it was his favorite superhero movie, but Greg insisted it was overrated. Some other guys from the office joined them. They talked shop. Rumor had it that a vulture capital firm would make an offer on the Sun-Sentinel. Everybody agreed they were fucked. Peter the cops reporter asked Greg about his interview at The Denver Post. Greg grinned with his teeth. The Post made an offer, but he wouldn’t take it. The money was no good. Barely more than he made at the Sentinel.
“It would be a lateral move,” he said.
He explained that he loved Florida, so any paper hoping to peel him away would have to offer a pile of money. He talked some more about the job hunt. He repeated the term lateral move approximately five times.
Later he looked across the bar and noticed Jules was missing. He went to an archway leading to the beach, where he poured his beer into a plastic cup before walking onto the sand. He found Jules standing alone, staring out to sea. The wind whipped her hair and clothing, and she was framed by a bank of clouds roiling purple and black. He sidled up to her.
“I miss sunsets over the ocean,” she said. “You don’t get them on this side of Florida.”
He told her to wake up early and catch the sunrise. The sun rising over the Atlantic was beautiful. The most beautiful thing she would ever see.
“I’m no morning person,” she said.
He asked where she came from. She told him she grew up in California and missed it. It was true what everyone said, you could swim in the ocean and ski in the mountains on the same day. More than anything, she missed the mountains.
“Florida is flat,” she said. “Everywhere you look, there’s another retirement home, another stripmall with a Publix. All the same. Flat, flat, flat.”
Greg told her he was born and raised in Florida and loved it.
“Everybody says Florida is weird. Everybody says it’s a tourist hellhole. An old-people hellhole. A mega-church-retail hellhole. And they’re right. But we also have great beaches. Perfect weather. An honest-to-God ocean. Some people like the Gulf, where the water is warm and calm. But I like it here on the Atlantic side. The waves. You can surf out here.”
Jules apologized. Florida was a fine state. She just missed California.
Marcus and Dave walked by. Marcus smoked a joint. He threw back his head and exhaled a gigantic cloud of smoke. Behind him, Dave coughed. And coughed. Greg worried that Dave was choking to death. Marcus laughed and pounded his back.
“Who’s getting stonsied?” Marcus asked.
Jules asked Greg if he was coming. Greg declined—he didn’t do that stuff. Jules waved goodbye and ran after Marcus.
Greg drove home alone. He thought it was just as well that Jules had gone off without him. She was too young by a decade. He looked out the window at storm clouds blowing in from offshore. The waters of the ocean appeared inky black. He thought about the sunny day, a few years prior, when he had gone swimming and nearly drowned.
In the morning, Greg drank coffee and read a copy of My American Journey, by Colin Powell. Greg had picked it up at the library.
After breakfast he went to the beach. He stretched out on a towel as the midday sun warmed his back. He opened the book and was mesmerized by Colin Powell’s stirring account of the Gulf War. After Kuwait fell to Saddam Hussein, Colin Powell knew it was up to the United States to halt the Iraqi army’s advance by drawing a line in the sand and planting an American flag in the Saudi desert. Colin Powell was a one-man war-fighting machine. He tamped down on leaks to the press, devised a clever line graph to explain troop levels to the president, and advocated for a full-scale land, sea, and air campaign. When Dick Cheney lost his nerve, Colin Powell reassured him the United States possessed the mightiest military in all the world.
Greg remembered Colin Powell’s downfall. How Cheney and George W. Bush set him up, the bogus intel on weapons of mass destruction, that tragic day when Colin Powell screwed the pooch at the United Nations.
Greg closed the book. Colin Powell’s gentle warrior-prince eyes peered dolefully from the cover.
“Those bastards ate you alive,” Greg said.
Later he went for a swim. The water felt cold at first. He swam until he could no longer touch bottom. Greg was careful not to venture too far: the ocean could be dangerously unpredictable. He treaded water and admired the glassy hotels dominating the shoreline. Most people hated the hotels, but not Greg. He admired their clean lines and streamlined geometries, a vision of a prosperous and hygienic future. He floated on his back and looked at the sky. Cloudless, a pure field of blue. This was Greg’s favorite sky. Simple and uncomplicated. It calmed him to see it. Greg floated in the ocean and thought about Jules.
On his way home he picked up a Chipotle burrito. He ate it on his couch while enjoying the view through the glass door to his balcony. Palm fronds swayed in an easy breeze. Greg enjoyed days like these. He would be a fool to leave Florida for some crummy job in Denver. He liked his life and considered himself a happy person. But still. A peculiar feeling often nagged him, as if he had suddenly remembered a stack of overdue library books.
Greg texted Jules. He told her he’d had fun playing volleyball and hoped Marcus hadn’t been too much of a creep. Jules responded with approximately a dozen laughing-face emojis. She said she could handle Marcus. Greg told her he would like to get to know her better. He apologized for the short notice and asked her out to dinner.
Greg arrived at the restaurant a quarter of an hour early and took a seat at the bar. He’d picked a casual place by the ocean. He’d considered trying to impress Jules with reservations somewhere fancy, but it was too soon. He didn’t want to make things weird. Better to take her somewhere easy, demonstrate he was a chill guy living a carefree life. He asked the bartender what was on tap. The bartender recommended several good IPAs.
Jules showed up and ordered a margarita. She said she was tired of drinking so much beer. She asked Greg if he liked her hair. She was experimenting with a new look—simple and straight and parted in the center. To Greg, she looked classic, like a movie star from the sixties. He told her it looked great. He would have said the same if her hair had been terrible, but he really did think it was great.
They got a table by a window and opened the menus. Greg already knew what to order— he’d read the menu online. He recommended the black bean tacos. He explained he wasn’t a vegan, he just wanted to cut back on meat. He said he had tons of respect for vegans, and he knew how unhealthy meat was, how damaging to the planet. But he wasn’t ready to change his life. Maybe someday, but not yet.
“That’s really nice,” Jules said.
When the waiter arrived, she ordered a giant pulled pork sandwich.
Greg glanced out the window. The ocean looked beautiful in the evening. Jules looked beautiful too. He told her about the Colin Powell book. He said it was very informative. As leader of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Powell acquired a keen understanding of military power and the forces that shape our world.
“You’re such a news-nerd,” Jules said, smiling warmly. “Only you would read a book about Colin Powell. That’s the most news-nerd thing I’ve ever heard.”
“He was influential.”
Jules laughed. Greg, not knowing what to do, laughed along with her. When their food arrived they ordered more drinks. Jules asked what he wanted to do with his life. He told her he wanted to work at a bigtime newspaper—The Wall Street Journal or The Washington Post. But the odds were against it. He wasn’t some hotshot with an Ivy League diploma. Maybe the Tampa Bay Times.
Jules said she wanted out of newspapers. The industry was dying.
“Nothing noble about being the last rat on a sinking ship,” she said.
She could see herself at Mother Jones or Jacobin. She wanted to make a difference. Her dream job was to write speeches for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Greg had a lot of opinions about Ocasio-Cortez but wisely kept them to himself. He declared that he would never work in politics. Afterward, who would trust his objectivity?
“You say the cutest news-nerd things,” Jules said.
They ordered more drinks and gossiped about coworkers. Eric the news editor had slept with an intern. Now she was gone from the paper, and Eric had been promoted. No one had heard from the intern. She probably was out of journalism for good.
“Maybe she’s writing speeches for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez,” Greg said.
After dinner they walked on the beach. Greg summoned the courage to hold her hand and was pleasantly surprised when she didn’t let go. They sat in the sand and watched waves roll in. She told him she was beginning to understand why he loved Florida.
“I bet you’ve dated a lot of assholes,” he said.
“So many.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said, leaning into her. “I’m a nice guy.”
“Since when?”
“I mean it,” he said. “I’m solid, you know? Just a nice guy.”
“All the assholes say that.”
“Look, the world is full of bad guys. Players. Narcissists. Most of them are sociopaths, when you get right down to it,” he said. “But I’m the real deal.”
He kissed her. They made out to a soundtrack of crashing waves. Jules pulled away first. She told Greg she liked him but didn’t want to date anybody from work.
“I can’t be the office slut.”
Greg told her it wouldn’t be like that. People from the office dated all the time. Jules said she didn’t want to make things complicated.
“What’s complicated?” Greg asked.
“I fucked Marcus last night.”
Greg abruptly sat down. Closed his eyes. Rubbed his temples. Groaned. Kept rubbing his temples. Jules asked if he was OK. He said he was fine. Groaned again. Jules told him he was being weird. He said he was fine.
“Once I nearly drowned in the ocean,” he said. “Few years ago. Nearly drowned.”
“You’re being weird again.”
“I learned an important lesson,” he said, rubbing away at his temples. “Don’t ever drown in the ocean.”
Greg sat on the beach for a long time. Eventually Jules walked him to a nearby bar. She did her best to change the subject. They talked about movies. Greg told her to watch Apocalypse Now and Taxi Driver. They were classics. The problem with people her age was they hadn’t seen the classics. Greg said it was fine that she’d slept with Marcus. He didn’t understand, but it was fine.
“Of course it’s fine,” she said. “It’s none of your business.”
Jules sipped a rum and Coke. Greg drank his fifth IPA of the evening. He felt a fart coming. At some difficult-to-pinpoint moment in his thirties, his farts had turned weird. When he farted, his anus made a noise like a duck quacking. Greg girded himself to suppress the fart. He told Jules to invest in cryptocurrency. The market was taking off.
“Bitcoin is the Ford Motors of crypto,” he said.
Jules interrupted to announce she was ready to call it a night. This surprised Greg, because he was enjoying their conversation about cryptocurrency. He considered walking her to her car. It would be chivalrous, and—who knows?—maybe they would make out again. Maybe she would sleep over at his place. Women her age were unpredictable.
They used the restrooms on their way out. As soon as the door swung closed behind him, Greg released his pent-up fart. If his anus had quacked like a duck before, now it yawped like the entire flock. After he finished in the restroom, he waited for Jules in a narrow hallway at the back of the bar. She took forever. He checked his watch. Ten minutes passed. A woman with purple hair exited the restroom. Greg asked if she’d seen anyone else, a blonde?
“Nobody in there but me.” She eyed Greg suspiciously. “What are you, some kind of stalker?”
Greg didn’t answer. He tried to make a quick exit from the bar, but the room was crowded, and everybody stood in his way. The woman laughed. She shouted to the bartender. Joey, we got a stalker here. She laughed and laughed. Greg burned in her laughter.
It didn’t take long for Greg to settle into his new life in Denver. He rented a place in the West Highlands. The front windows provided a view of the glimmering skyline downtown, and from the rear he could see the mountains. His new job at The Denver Post was much like his old one. On Sunday he came in early for a breaking news shift to follow up on Saturday night’s shootings and write a story about the weather. The weather piece was reliably the top story on the website. The rest of the week, he worked a city government beat. He yawned his way through council meetings and roamed the lonely passageways of city hall, his footsteps tapping hollowly against the floor. Occasionally his wanderings landed him an impromptu interview with a council member or the mayor. He asked how they would vote on the tax hike for schools or the zoning ordinance for another luxury apartment building. They would answer at length.
A few times a week, he picked up dinner from Taco Jalisco on his way home from work. He ate his enchiladas with a glass of Diet Coke in his kitchen. He’d gaze out the window at the mountains, and the mountains reminded him of Jules.
He’d lived in Denver for three months before texting her. One night he stayed up late on Porn Hub, watching videos from the Big Tits and Babysitter categories before moving on to Double Penetration. He watched two enormous men fuck a small woman in her vagina and anus. He watched approximately half of the video before ejaculating. He thought about the woman. He wondered if all that anal sex turned her farts weird.
Greg lay in bed but couldn’t sleep. A post-masturbatory anxiety descended. He felt overwhelmed by the world. Every year it became more complicated, people became more complicated. He couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t understand. He thought back to that day when he’d nearly drowned in the ocean. The shocking power of the waves. His own helplessness. How when he tried to breathe he only sucked in more water. The struggle and panic.
Greg imagined the ghosts of his ancestors in the room, surrounding him in a circle. What must they think of him? Alone and friendless in a strange city. A wet spot staining his boxers. Greg had never felt so empty. A hopeless dweeb. He’d failed his family and all of Western civilization.
Greg picked up his phone. He sent a message to Jules, asked how she’d been. She responded with a string of apparently random emojis. She said the paper had gone to shit since he left. Morale was low. His leaving had sparked a great migration. Everybody was looking for new jobs. And then there was Marcus. He was a problem. He texted her constantly, unwilling to accept that their night together had been a one-time thing. He messaged her all day at work—a big distraction. Anyway the editors were terrible. All they gave her anymore were shit assignments. Every week they sent her to a gas station for the same story about prices at the pump. How could she change the world, writing about pump prices? She had pitched a story about a woman her age diagnosed with a rare and terminal cancer. The editors rejected it. Eric was the worst, dismissing the story as the disease of the week.
“Eric knows I won’t fuck him so he’s acting like a bitch,” she texted.
Greg told her to get out of Florida. She needed a change of scenery, some time to decompress. Time to figure out what she wanted from life and how to get it. He invited her to visit him in Colorado. She could crash at his place for free. Jules responded with a string of happy-face emojis.
“Sounds wonderful,” she texted. “I love the mountains.”
In the weeks before her arrival, Greg compiled a list of possible activities. They could visit the Denver Art Museum. A concert at Red Rocks. He’d always wanted to eat at Old Major but had been embarrassed to go alone. He found a cute coffee shop and visited to be sure what to order and where to sit. Greg wanted everything to be perfect.
He noticed the shabbiness of his apartment. The price had been right, but it was shabby. He wanted Jules to fall in love with it. He made up his mind to paint the bedroom. He pored through decorating magazines for a color scheme and settled on light gray with a purple accent wall. He called his landlord to ask permission. Phil sounded surprised to hear from him. He had trouble understanding what Greg wanted. Eventually he told Greg he could do whatever, but he acted grumpy about it. After ending the call, Greg muttered jerk.
He spent an entire Saturday painting. He began by watching YouTube videos to grasp the basics, then got to work. He was surprised to find he enjoyed it. There was something calming about moving the roller up and down the walls, obliterating the smudged and stained surface with a fresh coat. He felt a sense of superiority. Here he was, working with his hands, a real man, while so many wimpy boys were doomscrolling Twitter and playing video games. After he finished, he was struck by how completely he’d transformed the space. He snapped a photo and sent it to Jules.
“Can’t wait!” She followed the message with a string of cherry emojis, followed by peach emojis. She told him the newspaper got worse everyday. A sale to the hedge fund appeared imminent. “Final days of the Roman Empire. Everything is on fire. Nobody works anymore. We spend all day on JournalismJobs.com.”
Greg mentioned that the Post was about to hire a breaking news reporter. He could put in a word with the editor, if she wanted. It was an entry-level job, but still, it was something.
“Maybe??” she texted.
In those days, Greg often found himself smiling spontaneously. He had been lonely in Denver, but now anticipation cheered him. When he imagined Jules, it was as a warm sun rising after a long night of darkness.
On the day before her arrival, he stood in the bedroom doorway admiring his handiwork. He approached the purple wall, touched its glossy surface. He frowned. He’d missed a few spots. They filled him with anxiety, the way he’d felt as a child on mornings when he’d been late for the school bus. But he reassured himself that these small mistakes would not matter. Jules would hardly notice.
Greg picked up Jules at the airport and took her to lunch at ViewHouse. They ate on the rooftop, from which they could see the city and the mountains to the west. Jules pored over the menu, while Greg ordered quickly because he had already read it online. Jules gazed at the mountains and told him they were gorgeous.
“I can’t wait to get up there,” she said. “Get some elevation. See some pine trees. It’s been forever since I smelled a pine tree. God, you have no idea how tired I am of Florida. The bleakness. Tired of hiking in the fucking swamp.”
“It’s snowing in the mountains,” Greg said. “We’ll have to check the weather. It’s dangerous up there when it snows.”
“But I need the mountains,” she said. “I need to see an alpine lake and a big moose.”
“Sure,” he said. “I mean if the weather improves. We’ll keep an eye on it. Today I want to show you the city.”
Greg took Jules to the art museum, where they stood in the ticket line for a half-hour. Greg asked if she liked art museums, and she said they were OK. She hoped to see a Picasso or Pollock. Greg explained that the museum didn’t have a great collection of modern art. But there was an exhibition of cowboy paintings.
“Oh,” Jules said. “Cool.”
Greg noticed how she said it in a flat tone conveying no enthusiasm.
As soon as they got inside, he took her to his favorite piece. A huge landscape painting by Thomas Hill titled Yosemite.
“Look at all the detail,” he said. “It’s practically a photograph. Think about how much talent you’d need to paint something like this. Think about all the time and effort.”
“Awesome,” Jules said in the same flat tone.
They walked around the museum for a long time. Jules stood in front of a sculpture by Antony Gormley titled Quantum Cloud XXXIII. The sculpture was composed of a swarm of steel rods converging roughly in the form of a man. The man was either being created by the rods, or they erupted out of him, or both.
“Check it out,” Jules said.
“Modern art,” Greg said. “I don’t know what anybody sees in that crap.”
After leaving the museum, Greg drove deeper into downtown. He paid to park in a garage, and they walked up the 16th Street Mall. He pointed out all the important skyscrapers. Republic Plaza. Wells Fargo Center. The Hyatt Regency.
“Pretty nice city you’ve got here,” Jules said.
They wandered into a clothing boutique. The owner sat behind a cash register. She was chatty—chattier than Greg liked. She told them the store had been at the same location for thirty years, but she was afraid she would have to close because customers just didn’t come in anymore. Greg noticed Jules eyeing a pink scarf, so he bought it for her. She wore it as they walked up the mall toward Confluence Park.
“You can wear that scarf in the mountains,” Greg said.
“It’s too nice for the mountains,” she said. “But I love it.”
They got dinner at The Wayback in the Highlands. Greg ordered quickly again because he’d read the menu online. Jules told him she loved Denver.
“You don’t realize how monotonous Florida is until you leave. It sneaks up on you. The weather is the same every day. Nice, but always the same. And … just … I mean the scene down there. All anybody does is go to the beach and nightclubs. And the guys at the clubs are the worst. They bang you. They ghost you. Rinse and repeat,” she said. “Fuckbois of Florida.”
Jules apologized for sleeping with Marcus. She said she knew it was a dumb thing to apologize for, but she really did feel bad. She was sorry it had made things weird for Greg. Made things awkward at work. Greg told her not to worry.
“The longer I live in Colorado, the less I care about anything that happened in Florida.”
After dinner, Greg took her to his apartment. They drank a bottle of wine in the kitchen while looking at the mountains. He kissed her. They put down their glasses and made out. They picked up their glasses and finished the bottle, then made out again. She led him to the bedroom. He took off his shirt. He asked if she was sure she wanted to have sex. She laughed. She said he was cute for asking. They had sex in his bed. It had been a long time since he’d had sex, so it meant a lot to him. During the act he closed his eyes. He felt a spiritual link forming, an immutable bond. He imagined her face. Her lips. Her tits. Suddenly his eyes popped open and beheld the purple accent wall. He came deeply, gasping and shuddering.
In the morning, Greg woke in a glorious mood. He watched Jules sleep peacefully beside him. She looked beautiful, even if her hair was a wreck and her makeup had worn off. Generally he hated how women looked in the morning, like they’d crawled out of the jungle. But when it came to Jules, he didn’t care. He felt a warmth in his chest and recognized it as love. He shook her gently. She moaned and rubbed her head, mumbled something about a hangover. Greg said they should get breakfast. The prospect of breakfast cheered Jules immensely.
He took her to a Dunkin’ Donuts in a stripmall by a highway. They sat outside at a metal table painted bright orange. The table afforded a generous view of the highway.
“I come here all the time,” Greg said, smiling at Jules. He spoke loudly to be heard over traffic. A homeless man trudged along the sidewalk. He wore two backpacks stuffed almost to bursting. Greg scowled at the man to let him know he wasn’t welcome. Greg was having a wonderful morning—he didn’t want some weirdo screwing it up.
“So where are we hiking today?” asked Jules. “Please say Rocky Mountain National Park. Please, please, please!”
Greg sighed. He had bad news. It was still snowing in the mountains. High winds, too. Hiking would simply be too dangerous. But he had a great idea. They could go to Boulder. He’d read all about it and been wanting to visit. Boulder had a great little street closed to traffic and lined with coffee shops and restaurants. She would love it.
“But the mountains,” she said.
“Maybe the weather will improve tomorrow. You don’t want to get up there and freeze to death, do you? Maybe tomorrow.”
“I just want to go for a hike,” she said.
“I’m sure you’ll love Boulder.”
The drive to Boulder took forty-five minutes. Greg and Jules listened to the radio, which he tuned to a classic rock station playing U2 and INXS. Greg explained that pop music peaked in the 90s and had been going downhill ever since.
“I don’t understand how people your age can listen to music anymore,” he said. “Beyoncé? Taylor Swift? You call that music?”
Greg smirked at Jules. He hoped she would take the bait, but she didn’t respond. She was engrossed in her phone. Greg grunted. He turned up the volume. He listened to “Tearin’ Up My Heart” by NSYNC and sang along. As they drew closer to Boulder, the mountains dominated the horizon. Jules put away her phone.
“We could keep driving till we’re up there,” she said.
Greg smirked again.
He navigated into the city and looked for parking. He circled the same block three times before pulling into a space. He complained that the car beside him had parked over the line.
“Just pathetic,” he said. “What kind of moron parks like that?”
They walked to Pearl Street. He told Jules for maybe the hundredth time that she would love it. The outdoor mall was packed with tourists. Greg and Jules passed an Italian restaurant, and the aromas emanating from it made him hungry for lunch. They wandered into an art gallery and looked at paintings of mountains and bears. They browsed a gift shop full of T-shirts and refrigerator magnets. Greg bought Jules a handmade candle that smelled of lavender. They passed a man playing romantic songs on a violin. Greg put his arm over Jules’s shoulders. They hadn’t discussed it, but he was beginning to think of her as his girlfriend. They entered a Fjallraven store and looked at expensive windbreakers and hiking pants.
“This would be great gear, if we ever go to the mountains,” Jules said.
Greg laughed nervously.
They returned to the street. A panhandler approached and asked for a dollar. Greg told him to buzz off. He wrapped his arm around Jules’s waist to steer her away. Greg muttered scumbag under his breath. They passed a large gray ProMaster van. Its back door was covered with stickers marking all the places it had visited—Lake Tahoe, Vail, Big Sur.
“I want one of those,” Jules said. “Really trick it out with a bed and a toaster oven and a sink. I’d love to take a summer and just travel the country in a van.”
“Jesus,” Greg said. “Sounds like a nightmare.”
Jules pouted playfully.
“I guess you’re not all that adventurous.”
“I’m plenty adventurous. I just don’t want to spend a month in a goddamn van.”
Greg announced he was ready for lunch. He considered asking Jules where she wanted to eat but then thought better of it. She would pick something weird like Indian or Korean. He took her to a brewpub. He asked the hostess for a seat on the patio. She left to check if anything was available. Greg and Jules waited. He remarked that the hostess was taking for-fucking-ever. She returned and led them to a table on the patio with a nice view of the mountains.
Greg got excited when he saw that the pub served Odell beer. He had learned a lot about beer in Colorado and wanted to share his knowledge with Jules. He told her that Odell made great IPAs. The pub served a session IPA, but Greg explained that session was brewer code for low alcohol. What was the point of paying for an IPA if it didn’t have a decent ABV? He explained that ABV stood for alcohol by volume. He recommended she try Odell’s lager—a safe choice for people who didn’t drink a lot of beer. It was their most regular beer.
Jules sighed.
“We get Odell in Florida.”
A group of women in sunglasses and hiking gear sat down at the next table. They talked loudly about their day in the mountains, how beautiful it had been. One of them showed off the pinkness of her shoulder and said she hoped she wouldn't burn.
Jules looked at the women, then looked at Greg. She raised an accusatory eyebrow.
Greg laughed nervously. “The weather in the mountains is crazy.” He covered his mouth and laughed some more. “Unpredictable.”
When a waiter arrived, Jules ordered a double IPA. She pulled out her phone and ignored Greg. Occasionally she looked at the mountains.
The waiter returned with drinks and took their food orders. After he left, a panhandler approached. He stood on the far side of a metal barrier, only about a foot from the table. He asked Greg for money. He said he was hungry, hadn’t eaten all day. He would take anything. Greg bristled. He opened his mouth to tell the man to get lost, but before he could form the words, Jules handed the man a five-dollar bill. He held the bill to his heart. He thanked her and said she was beautiful. Jules looked at Greg and flashed him a big, fake smile.
Greg frowned. He told her she shouldn’t give away money. He started to explain that most panhandlers were not actually homeless, they were drug addicts or too lazy to work. Jules cut him off.
“We have panhandlers in Florida.”
Greg took a mighty gulp of beer. He said there were too many panhandlers these days. A symptom of the times. Nobody wanted to work. Everybody expected a handout. Young people weren’t buying houses because they lacked the patience to save, preferring to squander money on Starbucks and fancy brunches.
Jules picked up her phone again and swiped her fingers over the surface. She locked eyes with Greg.
“I have a serious question for you.”
“Ask me anything.” He laughed nervously. “I’m an open book.”
“Who did you vote for in the last presidential election?”
Greg reached for his beer. Cleared his throat.
“I mean it’s obvious.” He gulped beer. “I voted for Trump.” He paused. Laughed nervously again. Took another gulp. “I mean, he wasn’t my first choice. But when he won the primary, I mean, there was no one else, right? Not Hillary. She’s awful. Just awful.” He scratched his neck and coughed. “I mean with Benghazi. And those emails. She’s the worst. Anyway it’s silly how everybody gets so worked up about Trump. I mean, give him a chance, right? Doesn’t everybody deserve a chance?”
Jules continued messing with her phone.
“Greg, how many sexual partners have you had?”
“What kind of a question is that?” His nervous laughter reached a high pitch.
Jules kept tapping on her phone.
“Two,” Greg said. “Of course it depends how you define sex. But I suppose the number is two. And that other woman, she’s out of the picture. Don’t worry about her. All I care about is you.”
Jules did not respond. She swiped furiously at her screen.
Greg asked what she was doing. Frowned. Leaned over her shoulder. He demanded to know why the hell she had ordered a Lyft.
“I am going to the mountains.”
Greg’s eyes fell to his beer. He rocked it back and forth, swirling the liquid. His mind carried him back to a day in Florida a few years earlier, the day he almost drowned. The sun baked the sand so hot it burned his feet, but the ocean was cold. He swam out, goosebumps sprouting on his skin. He never saw the wave that hit him. Knocked the wind out of him. Pulled him under. Greg panicked, thrashed his arms. The wave overpowered him, spun him, flipped him over and over like a toy. He struggled for the surface but didn’t know anymore which way was up. When he opened his mouth to cry out, the ocean rushed into his lungs.
Alex Miller is the author of the novel White People on Vacation (Malarkey Books, 2022) and the story collection How to Write an Emotionally Resonant Werewolf Novel (Unsolicited Press, 2019). His stories have appeared in Flyway, Bullshit Lit, and MoonPark Review. He lives in Denver.