Level Zero Dan McDowell (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📖

Todd pulled out his putter and focused on the pin, positioning his feet in alignment with the hole. “Oh, Dave, it’s just a phase.” He putted the ball as it dropped straight into the hole. “We all have our difficulties. I’m waiting for that next manic burst of energy. Usually kicks in around this time of year.”

“What are you talking about, Adams?”

“I’ve said enough. I’ll get things in order, Dave. That’s fifty-four strokes on the front nine. Fifty-five, and I would have said I’m gonna call it a day. Not a pretty first half for either of us. Let’s say we mulligan the tenth with a hole in one and hit the clubhouse for some cold ones. My treat.”

Todd flashed a grin at Dave as they boarded the golf cart. He drove a few seconds and then clammed up.

“Dave, I need you to take over. I’m not feeling great today.”

Dave took control of the wheel as requested.

Todd’s mind drifted elsewhere.

The hotel appeared in vivid detail. Tapestries and whirlpools, men in bath caps, and beautiful women in bathing suits that looked like outdated pajamas. He stood behind the lobby welcome counter as he popped open the hotel’s cash register.

.     .     .     .     .

“What’s going on, Todd? Where’s your head at?” Dave asked.

“Forget it. I need to unwind at the bar for a bit… take my mind off things.”

“You know we’ve got EAPs for this kind of thing. Company rules… I’ll always be your boss, first. Your friend, second.”

Todd picked up the bottle of Flitz, guzzling it a little too casually.

“You do know we’re on work hours, Adams. Drinking on the job? You sure you’re alright?”

“Dave, I’m fine. Thanks. You just had to bring up Creensteen, didn’t you? I’ve been perfectly okay with him being gone. Just the kind of loser this area’s better without.”

“Todd, that’s not fair. Dale’s missing. You can’t make light of these things. That could be you one day.”

.     .     .     .     .

TODD slammed his fists on the steering wheel as he studied the gridlocked commute home.

Why do I even live here? This place is a wasteland. Nothing good ever comes out of this city, except smog and unemployed hippies. I’m sick of it! What a wilderness.

He inched down Riverton’s crowded interstate with his radio tuned into WGBO 530 AM.

A voice boomed through the car speakers, “The thing I love about this strange city, Wayne, is its desperation to become larger when they never planned it to be. Council thinks if they just lure in a few corporations, throw up some high rises, and bring in a fancy port-a-john, Riverton becomes the hippest place in the Lone Star State overnight.”

“No, Ron. We’re not traveling that road again. I’m of the thought we’d be in better shape… if this entire town ceased to exist, just the way God made it, and before all of us… weirdos invaded.”

I have to agree with you there.

“Weirdos? Wayne, I… am no weirdo. You are, though. I saw you go into one of those fancy port-a-john’s the other day, and ladies and germs. It looked like he… liked it. You know what I mean…? Just picture it, a street-level port-a-john, fully equipped with the vented windows at the top… all that cheap, frosted plexiglass where you can make out that someone’s in there, doing whatever it is they’re doing… right in the middle of Eighth Street. Isn’t it lovely?”

“Ramblin’ Ron, folks… Ramblin’ Ron. He’s a deplorable guy, just like the rest of us.”

“And what are you, Wayne?”

“More deplorable than you, Ron. More deplorable than you. And as for the port-a-john… of course it was me. Where else was I going to go? Under the bridge like everyone else around here?”

WAH… WAH… WAH… A horn audio cue played in the background.

“Haha. You are such a character. Hey… Let me tell you about my friends over at Blue Mountain Vision Center. They have changed my life…”

Enough. I hate commercials.

Todd shut the radio off. The WGBO Dynamic Duds radio program entertained him daily on his afternoon commutes. The thing that kept Todd interested was their notable clash with the rest of Riverton — a quirky pair always quick to disrupt the airwaves miles and miles in every direction. He glanced over at his Dud-Head baseball cap laying in the floorboard of the passenger seat.

Backstage passes to see minor celebrities are… never overrated. Yes, Lorrie… I’m still trying to justify the $50 subscription fee, but a shot to meet Ramblin’ Ron or Wayne Wallace at the Wilker Park Chili Cook Off later this year just might be worth it. I love those guys.

After moving a mere thirty feet heading northbound, he noted an offensive billboard advertisement to his left. He looked below as his eyes met the flickering red letters at Honest Steve’s Pawn and Loan — one of his frequent after-work hangouts. Despite not being his exit to go home, he put his turn signal on, progressing toward the exit ramp. One sarcastic thought after another raced through his mind about his disdain for the troubled city and its traffic. He came off the interstate, turning into the pawn shop parking lot. While pulling in, a homeless man stood near the entrance in a blue hoodie. He held a torn paper sack over a beer can and a cardboard sign covered with permanent marker.

Need booze. Please help. I lost my job.

“Yeah. You lost your job because of booze, is what your sign should say,” Todd said under his breath as he straightened a shoddy parking job.

The parking lot lines beneath the vehicle faded away, once yellow, perhaps even white. The spot might have even once been for the disabled, but those indicators were long gone, too. He flung the truck door open and climbed out. Before he could take a complete breath, the unwelcome stench of body odor mixed with alcohol seeping from the homeless man’s pores hit him. In either a moment of compassion or total hysteria because of the chokeworthy scent,