Episode 7

HUGH WILSON:

A short story about Hugh Wilson, the world is his and we’re just living in it.

Let me set the scene.

I was forty-five minutes late to work, which normally would’ve bothered me but I've recently reached the age where pretending not to care about work somehow became one of my personality traits. You’re probably thinking this is another story about a guy burnt out from work who is slowly giving up. That’s only partially correct. I don’t care because I work for my dad and this business will be mine in a few years. 

So what if I show up late? The Wilson Contracting Company will be mine one day. 

My dad, Sebastian Wilson, started Wilson Contracting Company 35 years ago. 

People are always worried about AI taking over jobs. Safe to say Claude isn’t pulling up to construction sites pouring concrete for driveways anytime soon. 

I get into work and my office administrator Linda is already peppering me with questions. Linda has no respect for the fact I was up until 3:00 a.m. last night and am dealing with a major migraine. 

“Did you see the pay increase for the workers I sent you?” Linda said.

“No, I didn’t get a chance to review, can you tell me what the email said,” I responded. 

“One of the employees who has been with us for 15 years is looking for a raise,” Linda said.

“He’s good where he's at,” I responded.  

Friday at the office usually followed the same routine: answer two emails, lose thirty dollars playing online blackjack, walk around pretending to be stressed, then head home exhausted from the act. 

Around 3:00 p.m. my dad wandered into my office unexpectedly. Sebastian Wilson was a man built entirely out of hard work, discipline, and disappointment. All traits I embody, if I do say so myself. 

“Working hard?” he asked.

I minimized blackjack immediately.

“Always.”

He looked at me for a long moment and sighed. The same sigh he’d been using since I was a teenager. 

“Long day?” I asked. 

“Long life,” he replied. 

After about three hours of hard work, I head back to my apartment. I live with my friend Henry, who works in wealth management. I’m not quite sure why we got along so well, but somehow we do.

Henry’s ideal weekend includes creative writing, reading, running, and sitting on the beach to find his soul before the next week. 

And mine? 

Well mine looks like I’m still a sophomore in college. My weekend uber eats bill could solve the country’s deficit. 

Henry looks up from his laptop. 

“I can’t go out tonight Hugh, I’ve got the run club in the morning.” 

“Oh the club where everybody takes pictures pretending they’re mentally and physically healthier and happier than the rest of us?” I said sarcastically. 

“Like every club,” Henry responded. 

“You’re coming out. In forty years, you’ll remember our night out, not the picture club, I mean run club,” I said back to him in a demanding way.

“You say that every Friday.”

“You should listen to your wise older friend.” 

I loved using that on Henry. We were the same age and in fact born in the same month. But I never let him forget he’s two weeks younger than me. In reality it didn’t matter. Henry could be five years younger than me and he would still outlive me by at least twenty years. 

After about another thirty-minutes of bickering, like we did every Friday, Henry put on his clothes and made his way downstairs for the pre-game. 

I always invited my friend Kai to come out with us. Or as his close clients know him: “K-Dog.”

I say clients because Kai was technically my dealer. He supplied what he claimed was “the best kush in the state,” which felt like an impossible title to verify. 

Kai lived out of a van parked somewhere near the beach and honestly had a lifestyle I slightly envied. He didn’t have to worry about meetings, emails, or responsibilities. Just waves, weed, music, and whatever spiritual journey he happened to be on that week.

Henry called him Kai.

We made our way to the local dive bar. Every time I walked into that place I got the same feeling I had as a kid on Christmas morning. 

The smell of beer soaked permanently into the carpet. Classic rock blasting through blown-out speakers. The same three old men sitting in the corner booth every single night like the government had assigned them there decades ago. 

Honestly, I loved this place. 

Rocco the bouncer greeted me immediately and the bartenders waved to me. I spent more time here than I care to admit.

Henry and I grabbed pool cues and started playing. Around this point in the night Kai was usually off somewhere doing things that I don’t care to ask about. 

Two guys come up and ask to play pool with us. I hadn’t seen these guys in here before, which is rare for me. One of them was a local firefighter and the other worked in tech sales. Unfortunately, I got trapped talking to the tech sales guy. 

He spent the next twenty minutes explaining how his ex-girlfriend “still wasn’t over him.”  

For reference, if a guy at a dive bar is talking about how his ex-girlfriend wants him back…

He wants her back.  

Henry was talking to the firefighter. Their conversation actually seemed interesting. The firefighter was discussing a case where he saved this family from a burning car. Every time I tried to jump into the conversation, Mr. Tech sales would start another conversation:

“Anyways, tech is basically taking over everything now.” 

Or

“That’s why it’s a lucrative business and it’ll never go away.” 

One of those conversations you physically can’t escape without faking your own death. 

I would have walked away but we were playing an intense game of pool. For those unfamiliar with how a game of pool at a bar works. It’s all the same. At every bar, no matter what state, country, or time of day. 

One guy thinks he’s incredible. He’s not. 

Somebody accidentally banks a ball into the wrong pocket and acts like they planned it. 

Every four minutes somebody asks, “Wait, are we stripes or solids?” 

And somehow the game lasts significantly longer than the movie “Gone with the Wind.” 

Finally, I had enough of Mr. Tech and decided it was time to get another drink to numb the pain of listening to him. 

I asked Jenna for a beer. Jenna is one of the bartenders. Jenna and I existed in that weird gray area between flirting and actually doing something about it. 

As I waited for my beer. The local dive bar mom starts hitting on me. She smells like cigarettes and cheap Chardonnay. This wasn’t her first time hitting on me. 

Before I could politely steer her attention in a different direction. Jenna hops in. 

“Ms. Tate, he’s mine now.” 

“Since when?” Ms. Tate responds in disappointment. 

“It’s new. Try not to steal my new boyfriend away,” Jenna responds. 

Ms. Tate walks away. 

“Thanks, Jenna. Didn’t realize we were dating,” I said.

“Not going to let you fall in love with her before giving me a chance,” Jenna said back to me. 

“I’ll have to take you everywhere with me, so you can protect me from now on,” I said sarcastically. 

“Here’s my number, why don’t you take me out first,” she said. 

Now I was in a good mood. 

Suddenly, Mr. Tech became significantly easier to tolerate. 

After another hour of world championship level pool games. We decided to head home. Once we got home, Henry went up to bed and K-Dog appeared out of thin air (like he usually does). K-Dog and I partook in some extra curricular activities into the early morning. 

The next morning was no friend of mine. 

Head pounding, throat dry, stomach turning. The kind of morning where bread, fries, and electrolytes become medically necessary. 

To make things worse, Henry had already come back from a run. I hate people who are active after a night out. He’s trying to assert his dominance over me, like he’s happy and healthy. Classic run club behavior.

Surfing was my hangover cure, not a 5K like Henry. 

About thirty minutes later after chugging random water bottles I found around the apartment, I headed to the beach with my board under my arm and approximately zero athletic preparation. 

Technically I had been surfing my whole life. Unfortunately, “surfing” and “being good at surfing” are two completely different things. 

The waves were bigger than usual that morning, which normally would’ve concerned me, but I was hungover. 

About ten minutes after paddling out I found myself getting thrown underwater like loose laundry in a washing machine. 

My board disappeared. I swallowed half the Pacific Ocean and somewhere in the distance I could hear the lifeguards yelling at me. 

Suddenly a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me back toward the surface. 

A few seconds later I was coughing up water on the shore trying to regain what little dignity I had left. 

“That was a pretty terrible idea,” a voice said. 

I looked up. 

Blonde hair pulled back, mirrored sunglasses, calm expression, and pure beauty. The kind of person who looked significantly more put together than I did at that moment. 

“You okay?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” I coughed. “That never happens to me.” 

She laughed. 

“You probably shouldn’t have paddled out that far.” 

“I actually surf all the time,” I said.

She looked at the leash wrapped around my arm and board floating twenty yards away in the ocean. 

“Sure you do,” she said.

She handed me water while helping me up. 

“I’m Lucy, by the way.”

“Hugh.”

“Well Hugh, maybe try not to drown next time.” 

“No promises.”

She started walking back toward the lifeguard tower before I stopped her. 

“Wait” 

She turned around. 

“I should probably get your number. You know, for safety reasons and water condition reports.” 

She smiled. 

“Only because I’m genuinely worried about you.” 

“And here’s my number in case you want to check in on me.” I said back. 

A minute later I was sitting alone on the beach staring at her number written across my arm like I'd just survived war. 

What a morning. 

I got back home and collapsed on the couch. 

Henry looked over from the kitchen. 

“How was surfing?"

“Almost drowned. But I got a number.” I said. 

“I’m not even going to ask,” he responded.

A few seconds latermy phone buzzed. 

A text from Lucy: “Try not to drown tomorrow if you do go back out.” 

Then immediately another text came through. 

Jenna: “Rooftop party tonight. Need you there.” 

I stared at both texts for a long moment before leaning my head back against the couch. 

I closed my eyes and smiled…

Nobody Asked. Now you know anyway. 

Hugh Wilson: To Be Continued…