Free Eileen by Ottessa Moshfegh

served.
    I drove around for a while that evening, passed by Randy’s place again, clucked my tongue at the disappointing dark of his windows. Then I headed up 1-H to a lookout over the ocean where young lovers went to park. I pulled on my newfound knit hat as I drove. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. One needed a car to go there and neck, so there was no risk of running into Randy on his motorcycle with some girl, I supposed. Still, as I rolled up the steep, snow-filled drive, I tried to see through the fogged-up backseat window of every car to make sure he wasn’t in any of them. I’d been up there many times before, just snooping. That night I parked and stared out at the black night over the ocean. I rolled up the windows for a few minutes and enjoyed myself, thinking of Randy. At my age, I’d still never been on a proper date. Later, once I’d left X-ville and had some romantic experiences behind me, I’d sit in parked cars with men—“the view is beautiful from up here,” they liked to say—and I’d know the sweet thrill of opening my eyes in a moment of ecstasy to see the moon blazing and the stars like Christmas lights strung across the sky as if just for my owndelight. I’d know, too, the delicious shame of being caught by highway patrol in a breathless moment of passion and love, dear God. But that night I just sat with myself and looked up and wondered where my life would lead if I chose not to drive off the cliff in front of me. Inevitably it led back down to Randy’s place—still dark, maddening—and home again. Did I cry and pout with self-pity? I didn’t. I was used to my loneliness by then. One day I’d run off, I knew. Until then, I would pine.
    At home I gulped water from the tap and swallowed a handful of laxatives which I kept below the kitchen sink. Then I sat down and drank a beer. My father raised his hand, saluting me gravely, mocking my mood.
    â€œCops brought whiskey,” he said, pointing to a bottle of Glenfiddich with a bow tied around its neck. It sat by the door to the cellar stairs. “How was the movie?”
    He seemed calm, in a better mood. Gone was the cutting fury of earlier. He seemed to want to talk.
    â€œIt was dumb,” I answered honestly. “Should I open it?” I went and picked up the whiskey.
    â€œBy any means necessary,” my father said. I didn’t always hate him. Like all villains, he had his good side, too. Most days he didn’t mind that the house was a mess. He hated the neighbors, as I did, and he would rather have been shot in the head than admit defeat. He made me laugh now and then, like when he’d attempt to read the papers, bristling with contempt at any headline he managed to decipher, one eye shut tight, finger shaking at the words, drunk as he was. He still ranted about the Reds. He loved Goldwater and despised the Kennedys, thoughhe made me swear I’d keep that a secret. He was a hard-liner about certain duties. He had a stern attachment to things like paying the bills on time, for example. He’d sober up once a month for that task and I’d sit next to him, opening the envelopes, licking the stamps, making out the checks for him to sign. “That’s terrible, Eileen,” he’d say. “Start again. No bank would accept a check written like that, like a little girl made it out.” Even on his dry days he could barely hold a pen.
    That night I poured us each a few fingers of whiskey and pulled my chair up next to his, stuck my frozen hands toward the burning oven.
    â€œDoris Day’s a fat hack,” I said.
    â€œWaste of time going to the movies if you ask me,” he mumbled. “Anything good on the tube?”
    â€œSome nice static, if you’re in the mood,” I said. The television had been broken a long time.
    â€œOught to have someone come take a look at it. Bulb’s broken. Must be the