Excerpt

    I knew Ben was going to give me that stupid smile. I would knock his door down, furious and disgusted, and he would grin like his mystifying, infuriating behavior was the funniest thing since Monty Python. Then, we would either fight or watch YouTube videos. 

    Currently, I am paying half the rent on an apartment I essentially have entirely to myself. My roommate and best friend has left his bedroom a maximum of five times in the past two weeks, and I have yet to see him actually put together consecutive steps upright. Ben can get away with this, as his idea of a career differs drastically from my own. Ben is not just unemployed; he refuses to do any job. My lifelong friend graduated top of our class in high school and then went to college where he sprinted his way to a finance degree. Being in similar fields, I can confidently say that Ben is an inch away from certifiable finance genius. People who agree with my assessment include every single employer in the industry, but Ben flat out refuses to do anything with his boon. 

    What Ben does choose to do is objectively stupid and annoying. Exhibit A is the sound of a cell phone being thrown at a wall from his bedroom. Now, I have a rule with my roommate which has just been triggered. Unlike most, Ben is guaranteed to be bed-ridden for at least four weeks out of the year due to laziness. However, I always intervene when something is thrown because Ben is somewhat addicted to using destruction to solve problems, and I have several paid bills that reflect that fact. 

   

    I entered Ben’s bedroom and nearly died on the spot from either the smell or the sight; pick your poison. His room was a disgusting warzone of junk food, loose papers, and dirty clothes. It was as if a Thanksgiving feast had crossed with a ‘50s newsroom and then had been left to rot and coalesce together for thirty years. I should have intervened a lot sooner.

    

    “Oh, what’s up bro?” Ben greeted me casually.

    

    “Holy shit, dude. What the hell are you doing? You can’t live like this.”

    

    Ben looked at his surroundings as if seeing the mess for the first time. “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry John. I guess I’ve become a bit of a hoarder.”

    

    “Hoarders hoard actual things. Not exclusively disgusting trash.”

    

    Ben nodded. “Fair point. I’ll clean up.”

    

    “Ok whatever, that’s actually not even why I came in here,” I wanted to move past the blight of Ben’s room physically, but I would settle for changing the subject. “Did you throw your phone at the wall again?” 

    

    I followed Ben’s gaze to his iPhone lying upside down across the room. I could imagine the black mark it would have left somewhere on the wall above it. Ben explained, “It’s just that it could buzz any second with a text. It was making me nervous.”

    

    “I’m calling your mom. You need to be sent back to her.”

    

    “Excuse me?”

    

    “Yes,” I continued, “I should have done it after you slept through a fire alarm.”

    

    “I had ascertained the location of the fire,” Ben retorted.

    

    “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

    

    He was annoyed now. “Fine. You win. Agree to disagree,” he uttered the last phrase with the seriousness of a flat earth theory. “Joke’s on you though, idiot. I had just found a new way to make some money.”

    

    I stared at Ben. “How is the joke on me? That is great news! What is it?”

    

    Ben jumped out of bed. “Gambling!”

    

    “Oh, no.”

    

    Ben grinned. “Yeah, I just bet on red for most games and then for most of the teams with animals.”

    

    I nodded. “That doesn’t feel super sustainable. Also, you could probably actually research your bets if you’re going to do them.”

    

    “Eh, yeah I guess,” Ben grimaced.

    

    I knew I had entered this verifiable hellhole with the sole intention to help this sarcastic smart-ass, but I wanted to punch Ben. In my defense, his sarcasm and smart-assery were in rare form. 

    

    “Can we at least talk about the elephant in the room?”

    

    “I don’t see one,” Ben checked every corner. His face was designed to be punched.

    

    “Ok, why the hell have you not left this disgusting dungeon in weeks? I mean, could you imagine if a girl could see you now? Like Annie?” Ben stared daggers at me. “Oh, look at me! It’s almost like I’m some sort of,” I paused for sarcastic effect, “detective?”

    

    That was a carefully selected insult. Ben had been considered such a valuable commodity to the financial sector because he was superb at putting together portfolios of stocks. However, after college he quit to become a private detective. It was a ridiculous venture that had yielded absolutely nothing in four years, and Ben refused to accept his failure. He always indicated that he expected his life to become a facsimile of a network television crime procedural, starring himself as the handsome genius. As of today, he had solved less crimes than Detective Pikachu.

    

    “Annie has nothing to do with this!”

    

    Of course. Ben glossed right over my insulting the core of his professional existence and gone straight to her, a figure I now regretted using as a quick barb. Ben and Annie’s romance was an eight-year story that required a five-thousand-page manuscript for Ben to adequately summarize to every other drunk stranger at the bar. My synopsis is generally just: friend zone. 

    

    Ben continued, “I don’t talk very much to Annie. You know I don’t talk to her, or about her. There was never anything romantic there, anyways. Screw you.” He was rambling now. A composed Ben was far funnier and way more cutting.

    

    I put my palms up in surrender. “Ok, just tidy up in here, please. Abby is out with friends tonight, so let’s try and work out a plan.” Ben was scowling. I added, “Look, I really want to be there for you. I want to help you be a functioning member of society.”

    

    I collapsed in the common room and cursed myself. I had let the ghost of Annie into our apartment. Then, I cursed Ben five times. I had absolutely no idea how to help him. 

    

    There was a knock at the door, and I went to get it. I had not had a meaningful conversation with Annie in eight years. I was about to.

    

    “What the hell are you doing here?”

    

    Annie was aghast. “Excuse me?”

    

    I felt bad, “So sorry. Good to see you, Annie. How’ve you been? I just meant why are you y’know, here.” To say it was surprising to see Annie’s blonde hair and freckled face was an understatement. I felt as if her presence had to be the result of an Amazon delivery, listening in on my saying her name.

    

    “Look, I know Ben and I have a history,” Annie replied, “but I need to speak to him.”

    

    I shook my head. “Absolutely not. Look, he is extremely weird right now, and if you could not be here so that he doesn’t see you, that would be best for everyone.”

    

    For the first time, I noticed Annie was blinking back tears. “Please,” she said, “I have a case.”

    

    “You are not sleeping over. No fricking way.”

    

    Annie was confused. “No, a case. Like, I need him to find a missing person.”

    

    “I’m sorry, you need what now?” it was my turn to be taken aback, as I was utterly flabbergasted by her response. I had never once imagined in my wildest dream that a genuine person would actually hire Ben to detect anything. 

    

    “John, who’s that?” Ben. Shit.

    

    I winced. “It’s a client from high school. You remember Annie? You guys probably kept in touch a little.” 

    

    Ben’s reaction was predictably curious, as his face remained impassive, but his entire body practically vibrated in one massive flinch upon seeing Annie step out behind me.

    

    “Hi, Ben,” Annie said in a charged voice, “I need your help.”

    

    Ben pointed to the common room at an open armchair. “Clients sit there,” he directed.

    

    “No, they don’t,” I felt like an audience member, “Not once have you ever had a client.”

    

    “John!” Ben was deadly serious for the first time all day. He took a seat across from Annie and studied her. I could tell how much he was struggling to keep his emotion in check. “How can I be of service to you?” he asked.

    

    I had not moved from the ajar door, as I worked through what I should do next. On the one hand, Annie’s involvement in Ben’s life always led to disaster. I recalled several tours de force of self-destruction in reaction to Instagram posts on new boyfriends. Ben and Annie were an endless story of failure for my friend; the girl was trouble. Then again, if she was here in a professional setting, that could be ok. As long as the exchange was kept entirely free of any possible association with a personal or, good lord, a romantic matter, there was no danger.

    

    Annie answered, “I need you to help me find my fiancée.”

    

    I decided my next move would be to get myself a beer.