The Chill Line

One day in July, my car – an old, beaten-up tan sedan that was covered in a crapload of band stickers – needed an oil change…and a lot of other stuff. So I couldn’t drive to work that day, and Tegan had the day off so she couldn’t drive me even if she had a car. My dad had to drop me off at noon, when my shift started, but since it ended at eight at night, I told him I’d call another one of my friends to pick me up.

Remember when I said earlier that I helped out a local band at a few of their live shows? Well, okay, I wasn’t kidding. It was for a band called Put’emup, Put’emup, and me and Tegan got involved with them about halfway through 2011 when some other stuff was going on in all of our lives. A year later, we were still just as much a part of each others’ lives, and we still had all of them on speed dial.

They lived deep in Chicago and they weren’t touring that day, so I just texted Andy (their songwriter and lead singer) to see if he could give me a ride home. He said he could, using proper grammar and capitalization in his text message as usual, and then as the end of my shift rolled in at eight PM, he showed up fifteen minutes beforehand.

He was standing at the spot where somebody would usually start their order, a friendly/smug smile on his square jaw.

“Well? You gonna take my order?” he joked, his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

I laughed a little bit, but even after knowing him all that time, I still hadn’t gotten over the fact that he was practically a celebrity and still wanted to be friends with me. “Are you for real?”

My coworker, a quiet girl who was younger than me, was washing dishes in the back. Andy was all mine if he wanted a sub.

“Hell yeah, I’m for real. I’m starving,” he laughed, rubbing his slight beer belly.

He ended up ordering a footlong club with American cheese (toasted) and another footlong chicken teriyaki with provolone (also toasted). When I asked if he was gonna eat both sandwiches, he cocked his head at me like I told him he had wings.

“No way, Osh. That second sub is for you, dude.”

He told me he’d pay for my meal, and then I told him that I got a free footlong if I worked eight hours. (Which was true, by the way.) Then he pursed his lips with a smile and pretended to walk out the door for a few seconds, afterwards smirking again as he pulled out his wallet to pay for his sub. “I was trying to be a good friend and then this happens,” he hooted.

“Thanks anyway. I appreciate the thought, Andy,” I spoke genuinely. I mean, okay, it was corny of him to do that in all honesty, but it was just a nice gesture.

We ate our food in the lobby as my coworker restocked vegetables and mopped floors. When we were done, Andy sat back and stretched as he yawned, making a guttural noise that echoed throughout the entire restaurant.

Then he leaned forward and jabbed his thumb behind him. “Whaddaya say we hit up the movie theatre across the street tonight? Wanna see that superhero movie?”

Was he really asking me to see a movie with him while I was still in my work uniform? I was totally up for it, but I wasn’t up to advertise my workplace to fellow moviegoers.

“Uh,” I stammered, “I mean, I’m still in my uniform, but I’m cool with that.”

“Alright, good. Let’s go.” He clapped his giant hands together and pushed against the table as our chairs scraped. “You didn’t honestly think I’d just drive you home without hanging out with you, did you, Oshie?”

“I mean, um, I would understand if you didn’t want to,” I sort of mumbled. “I know you’ve got stuff going on of your own.”

“Bah! Petty. You’re my friend. You deserve a night without Subhero for once,” he winked, pushing the door open to let us out of the place that was paying me minimum wage to make food for picky people.

I couldn’t argue with him; I couldn’t argue in general, and arguing with Andy was like trying to punch silly putty. I just smiled at him, texted my dad to let him know I’d be home a little late, and we had a great night.