Finding Eli Read online

  Finding Eli

  BY JAKE IRONS

  Finding Eli

  Copyright 2017 © Jake Irons

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Tara

  I bat my lashes, lean onto the glass counter, and squeeze my arms so they push my boobs together. Behind the counter, in a white Belly’s shirt, is the object of my Super Cleavage Attack—a tall college student whose nametag reads “Mark.” He’s cute, if gangly, with a patchy brown beard that I have to guess he’s spent months growing. His eyes keep drifting to my boobs, which are spilling out of my low-cut blue tank, then leaping back to my face before drifting down again.

  The circle of lust.

  There are hundreds of donuts beneath the long, thick sheet of glass on which my elbows rest, in dozens of flavors: glazed, chocolate, jelly-filled, mango, Blueberry Tulip Delight! Belly’s isn’t big, but it’s not small enough to be cozy. The décor seems self-serious for a place that sells donuts—“artful” pictures of donuts in black frames on white walls; black tables; Belly’s written in a flowing, cursive font that seems better suited for a French bistro; even the name Bluberry Tulip Delight! feels a bit much for a donut.

  Not a place I’d normally come to get my snack on. Not a place I’ve come for a snack right now.

  “Come on Mark,” I coo. Was that a coo? I think it was. “I really need your help.”

  I’m wearing skin-tight black leggings, too. I try to swing my hips so Marky-Mark can see what else my mama gave me. He smiles, but it’s wary, not appreciative. “I can’t give out customer information, ma’am.”

  “Tara,” I correct. I can’t be more than five years older than this kid. “Call me Tara.”

  “Okay, Tara—”

  “Only my friends call me Tara.” I smile. “Since we’re friends, why not help me out?”

  Squeeze the boobs. Really push them together…there. His cheeks are burning, his eyes lingering. “Ma’am—”

  “Mark, all I want—no, all I need is some kind of list of your regular customers and their addresses.” I say it like it’s the simplest, most common thing in the world to ask for. Come on, Mark!

  Mark glances around the donut shop for help. There is another employee in the store this morning—a pretty girl with dark hair in braids. But she went to the kitchen before I reached the front of the line. Mark is alone with me and The Girls.

  The Girls?

  I’ve never named them. My ex called them Good Booby and Better Booby. One of the reasons he’s my ex.

  “Uh…” I can practically see steam billowing out from beneath Mark’s apron. “I just—I can’t just—”

  “Did I mention my life literally depends on it?” I bat my lashes.

  Mark nods, and gathers himself. “You did, but we don’t have that information, you know, on a list or anything.”

  “Can you check and—”

  “And I just can’t give out that information anyway.” Mark nods. “If you aren’t going to order something—”

  “Give me a chocolate donut.”

  I glance behind me, at the small line that’s forming: a gaggle of college kids, an elderly couple, a dad and his daughter. Normally I’m an order fast kind of girl, but I’m in full reporter mode now. While Mark leans over to collect my pastry, I pull out two 8.5x11 photos from a folder in my blue L.L. Bean backpack.

  The first shows a strikingly handsome guy in his late ’20s. Twenty-eight, to be exact. His strong jaw is covered in stubble, his full lips are stretched into a grin. He has short brown hair and eyes so blue it’s like they were painted.

  The second shows the same guy, a year older, with longer, wavy hair and a short but thick beard. He is not smiling.

  Mark sticks my donut in a white paper bag, folds the top down, places it onto the counter, and says, “That comes to $2.18.”

  Two dollars and eighteen cents for a frickin’ donut? I dig through my backpack’s top pocket and pull out…three crumpled Washingtons. I hold them out for Mark, but before he can grab them, I close my fist around them.

  “Before we finalize this transaction, at least tell me if you’ve ever seen this guy in the store.” I hand him the two pictures.

  “This is two pictures,” he says.

  It takes all my willpower not to sigh. “Of the same guy.”

  Mark glances at them then looks back up.

  “No, really look.”

  Mark looks at the pictures. He glances at me, and I nod back to the pictures, and he looks longer. “I don’t think so,” he says uncertainly.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I can’t be sure I’ve never seen him in my life, but I don’t recognize him.”

  “His name is Eli.”

  Mark shrugs and hands me the pictures.

  “He’s not a regular?”

  “No.”

  Well shit. “Thanks Mark. Here’s your money.”

  I hand him the three dollars, and he hands me the donut and eighty-two cents.

  I take a big bite as I walk out the door and…hmmm, maybe I should have asked for a sample first. No way Eli would come to this place. The donuts might as well be from the grocery store.

  I know this, because I’ve already sampled donuts from two different grocery store bakeries, and this junk tastes store-bought to me.

  I’m trying not to let my disappointment get the better of me. It’s a beautiful day outside Belly’s. The sun is shining, the sky is big and blue with barely a cloud. To my left, the Flatirons jut into the expansive blue to a height of I’ll be honest I don’t know. I do know they’re beautiful—thick, impenetrable-looking slabs of rock, dotted with pine trees all the way to their pointy tops.

  They aren’t big mountains, but they’re as striking as any I’ve seen. I took the bus from Denver to Boulder Tuesday morning. We came in on 36, I think, and there was a moment when we drove over a hill, and there they were, the Flatirons, with a verdant-looking valley beneath them and big white peaks behind them. I couldn’t breathe for like three seconds.

  A slight breeze plays in my shoulder-length brown hair. A mountain breeze, I assume. Not only is the day beautiful, but the weather is fantastic. It’s the middle of May, and seventy-four degrees. I’m in Boulder, Colorado, a perfect-seeming college town: lots of trees, a pretty campus, delicious smelling restaurants…

  I scan the parking lot. Belly’s is in a shopping center with Englewood’s Natural Groceries, two bike shops, an Indian restaurant where that amazing smell must be coming from, a wine store and—and—and my stomach is roaring. I really want some mango curry. But I’m broke as broke, so I shove the rest of this so-so donut into my mouth.

  Beep. Beep.

  I spin and spy the car I’m looking for: a green Subaru driven by Chris, a 30-something Lyft driver who either likes me or is bored. He was my first driver this morning, and when I told him I’m searching for a man and my search is taking me to every place that sells donuts in town, he decided he was going to be my personal chauffeur.

  Chris pulls up to the walk and lowers his window. “Any luck?”

  I shake my head. “The donuts aren’t any good, either.”

  I pull the door handle, but it’s locked. “You have to request a ride,” Chris reminds me.

  “Oh, right.” I pull up the app, request a ride, and it’s searching, searching, searching…I hear Chris’s phone beep an alert. He accepts my ride, and oh look, he’s already arrived. “Hop in.”

  He smiles as he unlocks the door. He has a nice smile. But all he’s getting from me is a sigh. “This s
ucks.”

  “How many places do you have left?”

  “Not many.” I pull my list out of my pocket. When I arrived in town two days ago, I made a list of every donut shop, bakery, and grocery store I could find online. The list came to nineteen places. I got through eleven yesterday. I’ve already been to six this morning. Which means there’s only two left.

  “Just two left.”

  Chris nods. “Which one are we going to first?”

  “Let’s see… Dozer’s Donuts.”

  “I know where Dozer’s is. Good donuts.” Chris pulls out of the parking lot, and I gaze out the window, at another town too expensive for me. I swallow the loudest, longest sigh.

  It’s depressing to be too poor. I was too poor in my hometown of John’s Mill, Virginia, a small Southern town probably exactly like you imagine it: Antebellum homes, debutante balls, the one-hundred year-old country club…

  The thing people don’t understand about small towns like John’s Mill, unless they grew up there, is that not everyone has a Sweet 16 at Perkins Mansion. Not everyone can afford to eat out in one of the two nice restaurants in town. Not everyone can drive to D.C. for a show.

  I was one of the ones who couldn’t. I grew up in Walmart jeans and tops from Goody’s. My first date was to a family cookout—where someone got stabbed.

  I worked my ass off to get a scholarship to college and I never looked back. Never went back, except for Christmases, and that was mostly because I couldn’t stay in the dorm over the break.

  I worked my ass off in college and got a job in my dream city, New York. Yes, the rent is outrageous, but for the first time in my life I didn’t feel poor. I wasn’t the girl who had to ride the school bus at 18. I was fresh out of college and living in the city that never sleeps.

  New York was—no, is an amazing experience. So many people doing so many things, and it’s amazing to be there, with all that energy. I was content there. I loved my friends, my job, my favorite restaurants, the subway, catching an occasional off-Broadway show.

  But it all got fucked up a month ago, when my editor, Sean, told me that The Watcher, the newszine that covers politics and society in New York City and has employed me for almost three years, is restructuring, and my job is one of the first on the cutting block.

  It wasn’t my performance, he assured me. I would receive a glowing reference. The cuts were based on seniority. The newest ten percent of staff was getting the boot—and even after two years and nine months, that included me.

  So why am I in Colorado, searching for a man named Eli, and not busting my ass to find a job in NYC?

  To make a long story short, Frankie, a graphic artist who has worked at The Watcher for only a few months longer than I have (and who is my best work friend), came up with an idea to save my job: find Eli Murphy.

  Eli is the co-founder of The Watcher and its former editor. He also wrote a big-deal novel; Mikey’s Boys rocketed up The Times’ bestseller list, but after it was nominated for a National Book Award, Eli sold The Watcher and disappeared. That was just over three years ago. He told everyone he was moving to the country to raise goats or something. No one’s heard from him since.

  Eli is something of an obsession for Frankie. She started just a week before he left, but a week was long enough to make an impression. Over the last three years she’s created a long list of facts and rumors about Eli, and somehow she concluded that Eli is in Colorado, in or near Boulder. She convinced me to use my last weeks of employment to track Eli down. Sean was skeptical I could pull it off, but assured me that if I did, I’d have such a scoop they’d have to keep me on.

  That’s why I’m in Boulder, armed with nine pages of “E-Facts”—every bit of information Frankie has collected that she considers confirmed or “as good as.” The list is exhaustive. It names Eli’s relatives, all the way to fourth cousins; it lists his favorite foods, his favorite movies, favorite books; it covers everywhere he’s ever travelled, stats from his high school pitching career, even creepy things like the name of the girl who took his V-card.

  Coming here was a desperate move, but I’m desperate. I can’t leave NYC. I can’t go back to John’s Mill. I can’t be that person again, in that house, with those people. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I’m going to die.

  I’ve already contacted everyone I know in NYC and asked for work. It was humbling, and fruitless. The only option I have is a temp agency, and really, with my stupid reporting degree the only thing I’m qualified to do it secretarial work. I’ve tried a hundred times to picture myself in a secretary uniform, which I always imagine as involving a pencil skirt, and I’m not a skirt girl, I’m a—

  “Hellllooooo, Tara.” I flinch as Chris waves his hand in front of my face. “We’re here.”

  I blink. We’re near downtown Boulder, outside what at first looks like someone’s home. I notice “Dozer’s Donuts” printed in white over a blue awning above the door. I sigh. “Wish me luck.”

  Chris crosses his fingers. “I’ve got my fingers crossed.”

  “Thanks,” I say as I let myself out. “Are you…?”

  He nods. “I’ll be here when you get out.”

  I smile as I close the door, take a deep breath, and breeze into Dozer’s.

  There’s a lot of space, but it still feels homey—I guess because it used to be a home. The floors are wood, the walls are cream, and there are about a dozen round, painted wood tables split between rooms to the right or left of what was once an entry hall. There’s a counter directly in front of me, and a white-haired lady behind it. I wait behind two sorority sisters and try to figure out how to play this.

  I decide on a direct-seeming route. “Hi, ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you,” I say earnestly when it’s my turn at the counter. “I won’t take up much of your time but I am trying very hard to find someone. My life kind of depends on it. Does this guy ever come into your store?”

  I hand her my two glossy photos, and she peers down at them. “That looks like Richard,” she says after a moment.

  “Richard?”

  “Yes… I think so. His beard is much longer now.”

  “But you recognize him?”

  She nods, and Oh my God oh my God oh my God! “Does he come here often?”

  She gives me a searching look. I try to smile prettily. Maybe she’ll think I’m an ex-girlfriend or something. “Why are you looking for him, did you say?”

  I didn’t. “I’m his cousin. Maggie Mitchell.” That sounds like a real name, right? “It’s been a year since I talked to him. He had—a problem with the family. A sort of falling out. But now Grandmama is sick, and I came out here to tell him.”

  The lady, who is not wearing a nametag, says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I droop my shoulders and nod. “I knew I would find him at a donut shop. He’s always been crazy for donuts.”

  My new BFF smiles. “He buys a dozen every Sunday without fail.”

  My disappointment is real. “Sunday?” It’s Thursday. “I don’t know if I can wait that long. Grandmama has taken a real turn. Gee. I—well, do you know how to reach him?”

  “Reach him?”

  I nod desperately. “Like, is he in your system? Could you have a phone number or address on file?”

  The lady’s pleasant demeanor darkens. “We don’t keep that information.”

  I know I’m pushing my luck, but I can’t wait till Sunday. I don’t have the money. “Please, anything you can tell me would be so helpful. I don’t know if Grandmama will make it through the weekend.”

  I find myself once again under the careful consideration of the white-haired lady behind the donut counter.

  “Please ma’am. I really need to find him.”

  “I think he mentioned that he lives up Flagstaff Road,” the lady eventually says. “But I don’t know the address.”

  “That’s okay! Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!” I practically jump for joy. “I’m sure I can find him—I’m his
cousin, after all. Thank you so much!”

  I dance my way toward Chris’s car.

  “You look happy,” he says.

  I lean into the open window. “I found him!”

  “All right!” He cheers. My hand moves to open his door, and he wags a finger at me. “Tara, Tara, Tara!”

  “I forgot!” Ugh, this is stupid. I open the Lyft app, and half a minute later I’m in Chris’s car.

  “This is gonna be my last ride, you know,” I say as I click my seatbelt in place.

  “But what if he tells you to get lost?”

  “Then I’m hoofing it. I can’t afford even one more ride.”

  “Well, it was fun, and I’m glad you found him. Got an address?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “The lady in there said he lives ‘up Flagstaff road.’”

  Chris pulls out of the parking lot. “Then up Flagstaff Road we go.”

  Chapter 2

  Up Flagstaff Road really means up Flagstaff Road.

  Like, up on the top of a mountain. Flagstaff Mountain—go figure.

  Ugh, I don’t know what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t to be up a frickin’ mountain.

  Just to be clear, I’m calling it a mountain, even though Chris said it was a foothill. Which he said is still a mountain. Even thought he called it a hill.

  It’s not the mountain I’m objecting to, BTW. The drive up was beautiful and breathtaking. Literally breathtaking, as the winding road has dozens of sharp turns that reveal stunning views and terrifying drops.

  Things kind of flattened out on the top—and again, I’m sure my mountain jargon is lacking, because we didn’t really get to the top of anything, we just kind of stopped driving up. There were homes, and trees, and rolling fields, and cows, and big rocks, and even sharper hills, all bathed in sunlight.

  Eventually, the road tilted downward, and we passed more houses, parks, ranches, and a reservoir. After more twists and turns and ups and downs, the road just kind of ended.

  Chris dropped me off at the intersection of two dirt roads. There was a cluster of mailboxes, and I planned to check out all the homes down both roads before hiking my way back over the “mountain,” toward Boulder. I’m in pretty good shape, and felt confident that I could hoof it. Chris left me his number anyway and said he’d drive to pick me up for free if I needed him.