My porch has folding chairs. People sit in them. There’s a plastic table—guests put drinks on it. Lights hang from the ceiling—an Amazon purchase. The smell of burning ash and car exhaust complements the static from my Jenson radio. I’m a fan of college football. The Hawkeyes are playing the Huskies tonight. The radio signal goes in and out. I hear the announcer’s voice getting louder—touchdown. The opponents score. Beer calms the nerves—mine’s empty.
The fridge is full: yesterday’s takeout and four tall boys. The sink is spotless. I have a fireplace in the living room—it’s fake. The TV screws into the wall—plaster. The porch is fine—came with the apartment. My phone buzzes on the table outside. It’s Ray.
“Buddy, how’s it going?” Silence. “Are you watching the football game?”
He’s back.
“Sorry. I’m on the computer—thing had trouble connecting to my Android.”
“No problem. Did you see that touchdown?”
“I did. The other games are close. I can watch them instead.”
“What games are on?”
Ray is locked in. “Go…go…don’t die on me. What’s the flag for, dude—get to your TV and turn on the Trojans-Bruins game.”
“I’ve already used my free month. I’ll save the fifteen bucks. Is it on the radio?”
He laughs. “Live a little. Drop the fifteen. Two minutes left, down ten.” The call cuts out.
He lives close by. Cell signal is spotty. His job keeps sending new equipment—monitors, a laptop, a phone. I think he’s a day trader. I invite Ray and his friends over on Saturdays to watch football. I keep the radio on every day.
Car horns drone. Traffic stays bumper-to-bumper, a sliver of room between cars. People get angry, waiting for wheels to turn. My neighbor grills burgers and hotdogs every Friday. The sizzle of meat is mesmerizing. They keep to themselves—I see them on Fridays.
The microwave dings—leftover pizza. Pepperoni scent fills the kitchen. I sit on a folding chair, wash each bite down with Budweiser. The announcer reads the station ID—the signal’s choppy. Tap water wipes grease from my plate. Text from Ray: “Come over.” I reply: “Sure.”
Trees bristle—a breeze threads the wind chime, high-pitched notes, a different sound every time. I head out the door.
I walk up to Ray’s house—he must hear me. The lock turns—click. The entertainment room glows, streaming four games; speakers blare. A desk sits in the corner. Three widescreen monitors wrap the table—pie charts, bar graphs, a YouTube feed. A half-empty Red Bull wobbles on the surface. A metal-and-lemon tang rises off the can. Frito-Lay wrappers litter the desk. The couch is off-center, close to the monitors. A Goodwill blanket hangs off the armrest—work is exhausting. A door bangs open—Ray’s footsteps grow louder.
“Hello! Who’s winning?”
Four games stream. “I think the Pirates hit a home run.”
“Ah, damn. I picked the Brewers.”
Ray gambles on games—fantasy football is more my speed.
“How’s business?”
“Really good. I’m listening to this podcast that helps me invest.” He slams back the Red Bull, sets it down. “The hosts are the real deal; both dropped out of college to help people make money.”
I follow him to his office.
Ray unlocks the door and scurries to the desk—taps at the keyboard. The room is small: curtains cover the window, a mini-fridge packs energy drinks, a silver tray holds Pokémon cards. Multi-colored lights zigzag the ceiling—Ray squints at the screen.
He’s chatting in a Discord server. “See all the people? Five bucks a month gets you into the Round Table.”
I listen to The Americana. Their server has a paywall. Netflix is pricey enough.
“So the users in here are day traders?”
He laughs. “Crypto’s a scam. Someone pushed a ‘workshop’ on TikTok yesterday. I’m pivoting to Pokémon.”
“Selling cards is a good move. I hear they’re popular.” Got2CatchU tells the group to sell their limited-edition Charizard. I lift Ray’s from the tray—twelve hundred on eBay.
“Someone will bite,” he mutters. “Round Table is in on it too.”
I step out for water, pass a small orchid on the bookshelf—fake but convincing.
Back at the office—the door’s locked. “Hey, man, water for you.” No answer. For a moment I picture him slumped over the keyboard, glowing charts flickering across his face.
“I need to rest. Can I come over later?”
“Of course. See you in a few.”
I reach my apartment, grab a Budweiser, water the orchid, and settle on the porch. Traffic thins. A breeze nudges the wind chime—it sings.
The lights sway overhead. A fresh buzz—Ray. He’s clutching a tattered blanket, eyes bloodshot, face pale.
“Can I crash here—out on your porch?”
I unfold another chair. “I don’t mind. Want water? I’m grabbing a glass.”
“Sure. I’m thirsty.”
Ray turns the radio up—nothing but static. I return with water—the wind rises. The wind chime vibrates. He’s asleep, arm tucked under his head, face toward the traffic.
I walk inside—click.