Townies

Townie (noun): an individual who has grown up and spent most of their life on Cape Cod.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Kenny yelled, blaring on the horn of his beat-up station wagon as a white, pristine, clean BMW X5 pulled out in front of him, cutting him off at the airport rotary. Kenny flipped the driver the bird before proceeding to ride his ass.

"Stop it!" I slapped Kenny on the shoulder.

The white BMW stopped in the middle of the exit, slamming on the brakes. We nearly hit it.

"Fuck, see what you did!" I rolled my eyes.

A man in a fresh, navy suit stepped out of the car, and I proceeded to hide my face in my hoodie.

"Come on, man! What's your problem?" The guy yelled, arms to the sky and disapproving.

"You're my fucking problem, scumbag. Watch where you're going." Kenny retorted, rage in his eyes, screaming out the open window.

"Don't talk to me that way," the man stepped toward the passenger side of the car, my side.

"You didn't have the right of way!" I argued through my half-open window.

"That doesn't give you the right to act like morons," replied the guy in the suit.

"Don't fucking talk to her," Kenny started to get out of the car. "Don't you dare fucking talk to her," he made his way over to the man in the suit and got up in his business. Kenny stood nearly a foot taller, and his face was red with vessels of anger popping out of his forehead.

"Woah, man. Calm down. I have my kid in the car." The man in the suit began to back down, walking back toward his vehicle.

"Yeah, well you should have thought of that before you decided to cut me off, asshole." Kenny spit on the ground. "Do you wanna go? What are you gonna do little guy? Let's fucking go, right now." Kenny got right back up in the man's face, following him back toward the BMW.

The man reached for his driver's side door, jumbling his fingers on the handle, before finding his way back into the luxury vehicle.

"That's what I fucking thought, pussy." Kenny spat on the ground one more time before making his way back to our car.

"Come on, dude," I started. "Why do you have to do that? Yeah, that guy's a jerk who doesn’t follow the rules of the road, but we didn't nearly need an assault charge from it."

"I'm so tired of people like him, Rain. They think they can do whatever the hell they want and no one will tell them otherwise. They need to learn that that's not the way of the world. There are consequences to your actions, no matter how much money you got." Kenny gripped the steering wheel tight as we continued on our drive home in silence.

As we made our way down the backroads of Mashpee, my phone started buzzing, breaking up the immutable quiet that plagued the cabin of the car. It was Rachel, my bestie and work wife.

“Hey, Rach,” I answered. “You trying to hit Grumpy’s later?”

I was met by screaming sobs.

"What?"

Rachel’s words were incoherent.

"Hold on, hold on, slow down?"

Rachel’s breath was shaky as she tried to explain.

"What do you mean he's dead, Rachel?"

He was dead.

"Fuck, I'll be right over."

Rachel coughed hard on the other end of the line.

"I know, babe. I'm sorry."

Rachel gagged through the speaker. I was sick to my stomach too.

"I love you. Give me ten minutes. I’ll be right over."

I hung up the phone.

“What happened?” Kenny looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Drive to Rachel’s apartment,” was all I could say.

They found Terrance McKenna's body outside of Bebee Woods. He didn't come in for his shift the night before, which wasn’t that out of character for him. I didn't think anything of it. None of us did. We all thought he was probably hungover or something. We assumed he'd be back the next day begging to keep his job. It had happened twice before. Fuck. This was bad.

*******

I went to high school with Terry, but I don't think he even knew my name at the time seeing as he was two years older than me. We didn't necessarily run in the same circles. He was an all-star on our losing football team and a lady's man through and through. Even the teachers wanted to pinch his cheeks (not the face ones, if you catch my drift). From the little I knew about him, it seemed to me he was a jackass.

Falmouth High School wasn't great, but when you put people in a building built by a guy who designs prisons, what can you expect? The school system always preached positivity but they could honestly care less. Didn't help that my bullies were North Falmouth kids, while I was not. They got away with whatever they wanted, and of course, they did, there are certain privileges in place when mommy and daddy own the school board. Whatever, that's old news. I had enough friends, and I got by just fine.

I was happy to graduate when I did cause I almost didn't. Nearly failed out my senior year. Oopsies. I was one of those kids whose teachers were always saying stupid shit like: "You would do so well if you just tried!" Shove it. If I wanted to try, I would. Mind your business.

My favorite teacher growing up was a heroin addict. He taught 11th-grade English. Mr. Spenser. Super smart dude. He was a lawyer's son. He also had a 4.2 GPA from Harvard, perfect SAT scores, star athlete, you name it. Those labels didn't protect him from trying dope. A lot of people do it around here and your background won't save you. Only you can do that.

But yeah, he was pretty chill. He was fresh out of college so he was relatively close in age to us and he talked to us like we were human beings instead of babies. I remember reading The Iliad and actually being interested in class discussions because he related the content of the story to the present day and talked about big ideas instead of stupid bullshit like "What happened on page 17 paragraph 2 of Lord of the Flies?"

I remember the first day of class he got caught throwing up in the bushes outside. He was sick as a dog; probably nervous as hell. Halfway through the year, he kept nodding off during Socratic seminars. We were all like "Bro, what's wrong?" And he was all like, "I have a disease, but I can't talk about it." Yadda, yadda, yadda.

We found out what disease he had that summer when he was arrested for possession two days after school ended. They printed that shit in the God damn Enterprise. He was barred from teaching ever again, which is a shame because he really was a phenomenal instructor. Better than anyone else in that school at least. It is what it is, I guess. Last I heard he was clean. I hope he's doing well in life. He deserves to be happy.

Anyway, I came to find out Terry was a pretty decent guy when I started working for The Dancing Oyster at 19. Terry worked food prep back in the kitchens and he was dating a stunning wash ashore waitress named Rachel.

He'd always say "Good morning" with a smile when I walked through the back door to start my lunch shifts. He'd also give anyone a handful of fries in a to-go container before their breaks if they asked. Sometimes we'd go out for a smoke at the same time, and he'd tell me random stories about his life. Like the time his dog got loose on Maravista. He ended up losing his loose-fitting shorts and tripped over his own feet trying to grab the leash. Don't worry, his regal blue-nosed pitbull, King Louis Versace III, remained unharmed.

Shit. I wondered how his dog was doing.

After hostessing for a few months, I was asked to move up to waitressing. I guess it helped that I already had the menu down pat. We needed more heads to handle the summer influx, and I knew how much money was to be made in bougie, overpriced seafood, so I obliged.

I can't lie, the customers could be wicked entitled, and my stupid general manager was one of those "customers are always right" kind of pricks. He tended to talk to me like I was a dog, and if I wanted to keep my job, I just got to sit there and take it. While the job itself can suck sometimes, the pay really is pretty good. At least people around here know how to tip twenty percent.

It was always a nightmare when we got tables from out-of-towners, especially the Europeans. They definitely know that we get paid $2.65 an hour, but I don't think they care, so they feign ignorance.

"We don't have to tip in my home country!" Shove it up your ass, Wilhelm.

Rachel ended up being my trainer when I first learned how to serve tables, and we've been joined at the hip ever since. I got to know Terry on a more personal level after that point. We started going to the same parties, and with a fake ID in tow, I began tagging along to the bars with him and Rachel.

He was the type of person to cry during sad movies and laugh so hard he'd pee his pants. He was also a mama's boy.

Oh, Cindy. I'm so sorry.

Falmouth is a place that makes or breaks people. There's something in the water, and it's probably a mix of radioactive decay on Otis Airforce Base, pesticides, and decades of flushed medications.

Over my lifetime, I've watched the landscape change for the worse. Cute, Cape cottages are being torn down and gaudy McMansions, lived in for only three months out of the year, are taking their places. Kids my age basically can't afford to live here anymore. The smart ones move away. People like me, we hustle and bustle just to throw our money into a bottomless pit of rent, living in overpriced townhomes with multiple friends.

We can't even enjoy the amenities anymore either. I remember Mom used to take my siblings and me to Old Silver Beach at least once a week when we were kids during summer vacation. Now? Good luck even getting in the parking lot. Residential sticker or not, the sand is packed like an overstuffed sardine can.

I probably should move away, but I can't. This is my home. My family came here as poor immigrants, and a few decades down the line, we're now thriving poor Americans. Working class grit brought us here and it's gonna keep us here, so help me God.

I wish I could snap my fingers and fix things. I wouldn't know how to fix things even if I had the power to do so.

At 22, I had way too many dead friends on Facebook. The opioid epidemic hit hard, and it was basically a crime not to keep Narcan in your purse. That's why I had a hard time believing Terry passed away from an accidental overdose.

Terry had been three years clean anyway. No one he hung out with was actively using. Rachel would have known, and Rachel would have told me. If he was using, we would have gotten him help.

Rachel doesn't believe the police either, for good reason. We're just townie trash to them. If some rich summer kid's remains were found, I can a hundred percent guarantee there would be an open investigation with federal marshalls involved.

But no, it was Terry. Lovable, silly, charming old Terry. Rachel's Terry. Terry, my good friend. We wouldn't let them get away with this injustice. Not again. Not this time. This time, it was personal.

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Thank you so much to Suze Kay, Jazzy Golçalves, Naomi Gold, Catherine Dorian, and Alexander McEvoy for their invaluable feedback. Your willingness to handle critique and not take it easy on me allowed me to make this chapter so much better. If you haven't already, you can read the original draft here.

That said, there is still plenty of time before the contest closes, so if anyone has any more critique for me, I'll absolutely take it.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed the upgrade.