Outside In

by Doug Cooper

I love sundresses. If I were a woman, I would wear nothing else—no underwear and no bra—just the sundress, a piece of free-flowing cotton between the rest of the world and me.

The responsibilities of my former life trigger my answer. “Cocaine? Count me out.” Things are moving too fast. Drinking, the pot, and now this? I have to slow down.

Cinch follows, inhaling powerfully. Ssshhhump. “Cocaine and alcohol are like hamburgers and French fries,” he says. “Pancakes and syrup, turkey and dressing.”

My discontent has accumulated over the past months, searching for a leak in the dam I’ve constructed to separate my true feelings from the situation closing in around me. I just want it all to fucking stop. I’m tired of blaming society, my job, and my family for making me into the person I’ve become.

The steps from the elevator platform dump me back into the rotunda. In between me and the outside world stands nine-and-a-half feet of rock. I know this feeling. This is my life.

He shakes the jar. “Sixty-four dollars and thirteen cents. Pretty good for this early in the season.” A man like Caldwell can live for a while on sixty-two dollars.

From the tattoos and piercings so conspicuously advertised to their adolescent philosophy of I make noise, therefore I am, these kids are familiar to me. It was only a short while ago that I was being hassled five days a week by ones just like them, and not all that long ago, I was one of them. The only difference is that somewhere along the way I bought into the bullshit being fed to me. I got the grades, went to college, and got the job, while they’re still fighting it. Just one big lost generation. Too smart to learn anything and too naive to do anything—wandering without going, wondering without knowing.

“Don’t worry. She’s out cold. You could have sex with her and she’d never know.” He divides the pile into two thick lines. “You know, she and I didn’t talk for an entire winter once because I got sick of her nagging me all the time. It was like we were a couple, and then I realized that was what she wanted. At least now I got you to take her off my back.” I hand him a rolled-up bill. “No way I’m going there.” Ssshhhump. Ssshhhump.

Cinch collects our things and disappears down the path. The moonlight follows every curve of Astrid’s lean body. “Second time in a week you’ve stripped in front of me,” I say.

“Buckle up your chin straps, kids.” Cinch passes the plate to Astrid. “Cocaine, alcohol, and new friends amount to more than a few hours, because everyone will have fresh lies to tell.” The first hour of the session consists of Cinch performing his best bits from Jimmy Stewart to George Bush. Whenever he runs out of material, either Astrid or I willingly takes over. No one moves except to reach to the right and pass to the left.

It’s a rare serious moment for us. Not that our relationship is complete frivolity, but most things are understood. You don’t have to spend years together to have a bond like Cinch and I do. You earn brotherhood—the purest friendship, trust, love, whatever you want to call it—moment by moment through how you treat others. Whether people admit it or not, they’re always keeping score. Little by little, you either build a friendship, destroy one, or maybe just hang out never really knowing if you can trust the other person or not. It’s probably this uncertainty that causes most people to talk seriously. They require continual affirmation of feelings and thoughts because the spoken word is all they have to share. Most are afraid to give up anything more.

I use the opportunity to ask another question that has been bugging me about why coke is measured in both grams and ounces. Cinch says, “Not sure. It’s a weird US/metric hybrid system for coke. A kilo is equivalent to about thirty-six ounces, and things go down from there. A half of a kilo is eighteen ounces, and a quarter kilo or ‘quarter bird’ equals nine ounces. I usually stay within the one- to two-ounce range, or twenty-eight to fifty-six grams. Consumer levels begin after you get below the half-ounce mark: a quarter ounce is seven grams; an eighth or ‘eight ball’ is three and a half grams; a sixteenth or ‘teeter’ is anywhere between one and a half and one and three-quarters. From there it’s all metric: a gram, a half-gram, even a quarter-gram.”

After all the superficial party chatter I’ve heard the past few days, Haley’s sincerity dissolves my disdain. But watching her slam shot after shot behind the bar during her shift transforms the warmth to acrimony. Who is she to judge me? I’m not the one who needed help getting home the other night. Fuck her. I can do what I want.

wait on the back steps. Sounds from the people at the pool echo in the empty night. Looking at the condos reminds me of Meadow. I’ll probably never see her again. She’s a cool girl, but then again so is Dawn. So is Astrid, for that matter. What the hell am I looking for?

Randy pours more vodka in my cup. “One thing for sure, there ain’t a woman around that can suck a dick like a man. It’s all suction and tongue.” His proximate stance rifles a shiver of discomfort through me—not because I want to leave, but because I’m aroused.

After work I try to hook up with Birch or Haley, someone outside the crew, but either my buzz or my preoccupation with making another sale always lures me away. I can no longer deny it: we’re drug dealers.

Birch wants a bread bowl of bisque at the Boardwalk to help soak up the alcohol. The short trip in his van is like a ride in an elevator with a transvestite. My words are blatant attempts to conceal the true question hanging in the air.

The key for our team is the presentation. One of our bartenders is a true professional. He’s tended for fifteen years in a variety of locations around the country and even in the Caribbean for three winters. He can do all the tricks—flip bottles in the air, catch them behind his back, whatever.

Only water in front of me and stars above me, but at least I’m alive. Maybe I had to become who I’m not to understand who I truly am. I’ve been searching so desperately to find my identity, trying to fabricate the person I wanted to be. All I had to do was let go.

I say, “I thought a lot about it last night—and this business isn’t for me. I’m not a bartender or a bouncer. I’m a teacher. It doesn’t mean I have to do it forever, but teaching is what I need to be doing right now. That’s where it began, and that’s where it continues.” Haley says, “Unbelievable. How selfish can you be? Of course you need those kids after the summer you’ve had. But do they really need you? Is a drug-addicted, alcoholic teacher really the best thing for them?”

DOUG COOPER has traveled to over twenty countries on five continents, exploring the contradictions between what we believe and how we act in the pursuit of truth, beauty, and love. He now lives in Las Vegas.

Why did you choose Put-In-Bay, Ohio for the novel’s setting? The beauty, history, and island characteristics provide an idyllic atmosphere for a novel. In addition, setting the novel in the Midwest in the middle of Lake Erie fit well with the theme that dreams don’t lie on the horizon; they lie within. It also contrasts the classic theme of Manifest Destiny by starting the journey of the lead character in St. Louis, the “Gateway to the West,” but rather than continuing west, Brad turns deeper into the heart of America.

I envisioned Outside In to be a cross between Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Catcher in the Rye, so I would have to recognize the influence of Hunter Thompson and J. D. Salinger.

In a way, this story ends on a cliffhanger: Brad largely returns to his “normal life” at the conclusion, with the lessons he’s learned from the island. Have you ever considered continuing Brad’s story in a future novel? One of the early titles of the novel was Conversations with Myself. At the time, I thought about following up with Conversations with My Wife and Conversations with My Kids to continue Brad’s development toward becoming a husband and eventually a father. For now, I am happy to leave Brad where he is and move on to my next project, The Investment Club, a novel about five broken people who meet at a blackjack table in Vegas and who discover that the greatest return is what you get from contributing to one another. But if Brad resonates with people and they want to see more of him, I would consider continuing his journey.