When I was 21, I picked up a job that didn’t require much more than the common sense to pick up the phone when it was ringing, and on the weekends, how to give a buzz cut. It was a shitty paying job in an even shittier office. My first day was also the first day of every other young girl in my department.
I didn’t plan to take the job when it was originally offered to me, for the simple fact I knew I could find better, but I did just get fired and I did have to give my landlord something. Anything.
So, there I was on my first day, five minutes late, just to properly set the precedent.
My department was small. Four cubicles lined up outside a small office, with a small window that overlooked a small warehouse. I only knew my office manager apart from the technicians buzzing in and out of the office because he was at my interview.
Before I left my interview that day, clearly hesitant on the offer, he shook my hand 3-seconds too long, and pointed out his cell phone number on his business card, and with a bright, perfect smile, insisted, “call me anytime.”
I climbed back into my Jeep and stared at the glossy business card in my hand.
Wait.
Is this guy’s name really Red Cloud?
He was the father of three daughters. Two of them were under five, but one of them was my age. He had his wife’s name in huge swirling letters blasted on his forearm. Her name was Katherine, but his tattoo spelled “Kayherine”.
He also had the Greek symbols from his Sac State fraternity branded on his bicep.
Fucking branded.
He used to complain all the time that Kayherine didn’t know where the spice cabinet in their home was. He would make jokes that the food she made him tasted just like the cardboard box it came in. I’d humor him every time anyway, “Let’s go get something to eat then!” I’d jingle his truck keys in front of him, and we’d slap each other’s hands over the radio dials on the way out of the parking lot.
The first time I ever spoke to his wife, I thought I was answering the phone to a technician. I let out a flirty sigh into the phone, “Chief Red Cloud’s office?”
“Who’s this?” She snapped.
Three years later after their divorce was finalized, I had my second phone conversation with Kate. Except this time, I knew exactly who would be on the phone when I answered. I had just spent two weeks dodging her calls and texts, and all of her finsta friend requests.
“Stay away from my kids you nasty whore.” She yelled into my voicemailbox one Sunday morning. She’d shown up drunk to his house, demanding money and eventually leaving with his cell phone.
“Sorry,” he explained from his work phone almost immediately after. “She poured orange juice on me and was pacing the driveway with a knife. Letting her have my phone was the quickest way to get her to leave.”
The following few weeks were scattered with phone calls from various local phone numbers, and Facebook requests from randoms with 0 mutual friends.
One night, he and I were at his cousin’s house for a barbecue when a private call came to my phone. I quickly swiped right to answer and then held my phone up to his ear.
“Hello?” he blindly called out to his ex-wife.
She screamed.
Wild Little Hare 