Angry Management Read Online Free PDF

to walk past her.
    How does a man do that to a child? What is therein being human that allows that? Can you imagine pressing a three-year-old girl against a hot wood stove? I get it that he was drunk, but he still had to do it. He picked her up and walked to that stove. I’ve consumed enough alcohol in a sitting to put me over the limit and under the table; hugged the commode like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. And I’ve been pissed. I’ve said things to people I would’ve taken back in a second, were I given the opportunity. I’ve punched guys for calling my parents names, and I’ve punched guys for calling me fat or embarrassing me in front of people. I suppose you could say that’s on the continuum to doing the kind of damage he did, but on a scale of one to ten, mine is a 0.0003 and his is a sixty. Plus, if I’d ever done anything close to that, I’d kill myself. How do you live with the shame of burning a little girl?
    And how in hell do you live with the shame of leaving that girl with the guy who burned her? How do you live with yourself after you tricked a terrified little kid into running to her room to get her stuff while you made a clean getaway? Offer her a glimpse of a chance to escape the desperation with you, only to leave her crying at the window. I fucking know her mother looked back up at that window. I know it. If I were Sarah, I wouldn’t know who to hate either. Man,I’ve eaten some shit in my life, but compared to what Sarah has tasted, my shit tasted like angel food cake.
     
    “How much for two rooms?”
    “Two-twenty a night,” the woman behind the front desk at Harrah’s says.
    “Do we get free movies and a private masseuse with that?” I ask her.
    “Are you being smart with me?”
    “Yes, ma’am, I am. Sorry. Do you mind if we huddle?”
    I’m eighteen and so is Sarah. Consenting adults.
    We sit on a couch amid the din of bells and buzzers announcing jackpots of unimagined size, people moving through the place in a herd, curses. “Look,” I tell her, “it’s been awhile since you were here. If she doesn’t work at the same place, we might have a tough time finding her. We need to conserve our funds. Why don’t we get a room with two beds?”
    She hesitates a second, says, “Okay.”
    That was easier than I thought. “We might have to tell them we’re married. I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
    “This is Reno, remember?” Sarah says. “What happens in Reno, stays in Reno? You could bring yourfavorite sheep in here and they wouldn’t stop you unless she shits on the floor.”
    “We decided we want one room,” I tell the nice woman behind the desk. “Two double beds.”
    “What happens in Reno, stays in Reno,” she says, looking from me to Sarah and back, thinking, I’m sure, what could possibly happen in Reno between a 270-pound man-child and a crispy child-woman.
    “All right then,” I say. “Process us in.” I peel off six twenties from my roll and hand them over, hoping there’ll be a day when I can do that without the pit of my stomach falling out.
     
    “She said two double beds.” I stare at the king-sized Sleep Number bed covering about three-quarters of the floor space. I know it’s a Sleep Number because there’s a sign on the bed that says so, encouraging us to order one off sleepnumber.com if we like it or, for just a little less, we could buy a condo. “I’ll call down and see if they can put us in a different room.”
    I pick up the phone as Sarah sits on the bed. She bounces it a couple of times while I wait. “Hang up,” she says.
    “They haven’t answered.”
    “Drop the phone.”
    I do.
    “I’ll bet they don’t have these beds in every room. Sit here and check this out.”
    I walk over and push on it with my hands.
    She says, “Sit.”
    I sit. Whoa! The Sleep Number bed has my number. I fall back and stretch my arms out, like Jesus on that last bad day, minus His discomfort. “Amazing.”
    “We