by Penny Reid
I’d started at the counter but was quickly moved to the back where I could operate the screen printing machines. Every night I came in at five, an hour before the store closed to the public, then I spent the rest of the evening pumping out orders. I was usually done by ten or so.
If I got done at a reasonable time, I got to play with my own designs, often staying another two or three hours to knock out some new pieces. I liked to consider that my “real” job, but it was more like my goal job. The SplatScreen work itself was easy (boring) and paid the bills (barely) but the two main reasons I kept it was for the free use of equipment and the health insurance.
Those were things my Etsy store and occasional convention booth would never provide, no matter how successful they became. Even with a roommate and a car older than my (mom’s) high school diploma, health insurance would be impossible to pay for on my own, and I couldn’t even imagine being able to afford my own studio. Just keeping a single press in my room would be a lost-deposit waiting to happen.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining an ink explosion to Marc. The horror!
Anyways, it took every extra dime just to keep me stocked in supplies. It is the eternal struggle of many an artist, and I’m not saying my struggle was any more difficult, just that it’s real. The struggle is real. Hashtag, full stop.
And so, for that sad but reasonable reason, I put away the commissioned piece of Jessica Jones that Marc had mistaken for Orphan Black, threw on a pair of jeans and the new Stranger Things graphic tee I’d made a few nights before (#FreeBarb) and headed out to work.
The Closed sign was showing on the front door of SplatScreen as I pulled my car in front of the store, but sometimes it accidentally flipped as people were walking through so I thought nothing of it. The lights were on inside, and I could see JD, my boss, talking to a man dressed in jeans and a blue button-down. Obviously we were open.
Except, when I pulled on the handle of the glass door, I found it locked.
With my brow furrowed, I used my key and walked in to find the retail space’s carpet was squishy and damp. Beyond nasty. Beyond. And the smell? Bee. Yond. I was unpleasantly surprised, to say the least.
“Surprise!” Jack said pleasantly. “A pipe burst next door. Take the night off.”
I looked around to notice the wet floor extended through most of the store. “I can’t leave you to deal with this alone.” I had perfect attendance at work, thank you very much, and yes, I was bitter I didn’t get a little ribbon for it like I did in elementary school. “I could still go in the back and knock out some screening jobs, couldn’t I? You don’t want to get behind.”
“There’s too much water back there to run the machines safely. The plumber here is working on the pipe. Everything’s already off the floor, and I have a company coming in to take care of soaking everything up. You’ll only be in the way if you stick around. Plus, it smells like dead ass.”
That was an extremely accurate description of the smell. Perfect attendance or not, he didn’t have to tell me again. I was out of there like last year. A whole entire night to myself on a Friday? That was a three-day weekend. Another thing you don’t get nearly so often outside of school.
But wait. I turned around. And opened my mouth. “You’re still getting paid,” Jack yelled over. Closed my mouth and carried on. Score.
The situation definitely called for some celebration of my own.
I texted Ava, Lizzie, and Scarlet. Dranks on me.
Because I am nothing if not chivalrous. One by one the refusals came in.
Ava: banging the new guy rn suggest you find one 2
I know, sister. I know. But who has time to look? Not me. See the whole two job thing. Also, the anxiety. How do you even meet people when you’re out of school and working alone most days? If the answer is the internet, no thank you.
Lizzie: No sitter, sorry! *sad face emoji*
Always.
Scarlet: Can’t drink on my pills. Want to come to Bible group?
On a Friday? Heck no I didn’t. Or did I?
Me: Can I bring my own Bible?
Scarlet: The graphic novel collection that is Sandman is NOT THE BIBLE YOU HEATHEN.
Clearly not true at all, so I chose not to respond. Not the bible? It was my bible, and I felt duty-bound to spread the gospel. Excuse me, but do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Neil Gaiman? It was extremely apparent that she was discriminating against me. She was always casually leaving her King James edition around, I saw no reason I couldn’t hand out my Neil Gaiman edition.
Apparently I’d mentioned it often enough that she was wise to my tricks.
Liquor store and Redbox it was, then, because I was not going to waste this night not drinking and watching stupid movies.
A few moments of wandering through the first fine establishment I could find, cleverly named BOOZE4LESS by some classy gentleman, told me that I had not been drinking enough.
When did so many glorious new flavors of vodka become available? Bubblegum? Cake Batter? Skittle? It was an alcoholic twelve year-old’s dream in there.
For a socially awkward ADD graphic artist? Eek.
See, when I get overwhelmed by too many choices, I tend to make a panic decision and choose something that was never actually on my radar. That’s totally how I ended up with the bourbon. I don’t even like bourbon.
And then, lo and behold, when I drove into the driveway I could see Marc through the window, lounging on the couch where I had mentally staked my claim. Dang. I didn’t have a TV in my room, so where was I going to watch the newest-ish superhero movie on my free night?
Anyway, wasn’t he supposed to be out partying it up on his own? So much for assuming that he had a more active social life than I did. Or, at least, less-lame friends. Apparently his friends called it quits before dinner, even, so I guessed he won that not-prize. Gosh, I really knew next to nothing about the guy I’d lived with for almost a year.
This was bad. I was not going to drink alone in my room. I wanted to drink alone in the living room! Wait. That sounded bad.
Actually, this didn’t have to be bad. Marc was totally a bourbon guy. Bourbon was a manly drink. Marc was a manly man. Maybe he’d be impressed with my choice. Maybe we could finally live out Couch Night, the fantasy I’d carried for the past ten months.
Ten whole months since the first time I touched his peen. With my chin.
Not that I thought about that. Much. In I went, bourbon at the ready.
Chapter 2
“You’re home,” Marc exclaimed when I walked in with the bagged liquor in my arms. His expression seemed to be a cross between shocked and mortified. The shock was understandable since I’d never come home unexpectedly on a Friday night, but the mortification did seem to be a little bit of overkill.
Until I really looked at him. And then I myself was a bit mortified because, was he not wearing pants?
Nope, those were totally just boxer-briefs. Red boxer-briefs. Tight red boxer-briefs.
Oh my. Who knew boxer-briefs were so...revealing? Maybe mortified wasn’t quite the word I was looking for. Astonished was more like it. Bewildered and amazed worked in a pinch as well.
“Um. Sorry. This is awkward,” Marc said, reaching for a blanket to cover his legs.
No! No, don’t cover them, I silently screamed. I’d seen him in his jogging shorts, but that hadn’t given the full effect. This was the full effect, and I needed to bask in it a little longer. Because those were some excellent legs. Superhero legs, if you will. And you will.
And then I had a stroke of utter brilliance. I removed my own pants without a word, leaving them in a pile by the door. The undies stayed on; I’m not a floozy. Just a fan of being Roman in Rome. Besides, if I were going to have something to look at, he should too. I also had fairly nice legs, if I say so myself, and, thank goodness, I’d shaved that afternoon.
Also, my boyshorts were printed all over like Spiderman’s suit. Excellent, right? And no o
ne had ever seen them but me. Time to rectify that.
“There! Now it’s not awkward.” I put my hands on my hips, posed, and waited for Marc’s impressed noises.
No impressed noises were forthcoming.
Then I remembered. Marc wasn’t a normal guy. He was a fancy guy. Professors are always fancy, right? That was why I had originally thought he probably liked bourbon, even though I’d never actually seen any laying around. I figured he had the good stuff hidden away in his bedroom or something. He didn’t really know me, after all, and liquor is a valuable commodity. I’d hide it too.
Anyway, it was pretty safe to assume that fancy guys were not Spidey guys. Watchmen, maybe…? But for sure not Spidey.
In fact, he was visibly weirded out. Well, bro, you de-pantsed first.
Though, now that I thought about it, maybe stripping down had been a bit of a weird move on my part.
“I’m not sure that actually helps,” he said, confirming my suspicions. But he didn’t move to reach for the blanket again. And he did give my legs an appreciative look. So, progress.
Still, not quite the start to the great couch night I’d envisioned. Maybe it would be better once we loosened up.
Speaking of…
“Bourbon?” I offered.
“Bourbon,” he agreed. “Definitely bourbon.”
Yes, definitely bourbon. We were warming up, this was going to be great. I crossed to the kitchen and splashed Kentucky’s finest (okay, fifth-finest. Sixth. Shut up, I’m on a budget.) over a little ice and wondered if it was super amateur to add Coke. And if it was too late to slip on some pajama shorts.
Because holy cow, I’d taken off my pants in front of my hot roommate. What had I done?
See, not only do I make panic decisions when I’m overwhelmed with choices, but also when I’m overwhelmed just in general. Marc Kirby in his boxer briefs was rahthah overwhelming. I imagined we’d probably have gotten to that point, someday, eventually, maybe, if we’d both been around a bit more when the other was home. The hanging around intimately thing. That’s what happens with roommates. They get so used to each other that walking around without pants gets to be no big deal. At least me and my lady roommates always had.
Marc was not a lady. And we were definitely not at this point of familiarity.
But I couldn’t back down now. Then Marc would be alone in his underwear. And, after the way I’d dodged him that day we’d met, I probably owed him.
Thank god I had some liquid courage to help with that. Obviously, I shot back the entire glass of bourbon and poured another before filling one for him. Obviously.
I returned to the living room and handed him his drink super smoothly, with my newly steadied hand. Then I perched on the couch as though it were just another Friday for us two roommates, just sipping on some whiskey in our skivvies, even though we had literally never hung out. In our whole lives.
“Crazy schedules, huh?” I tossed out. Making conversation. As you do.
Marc swirled his glass without taking a sip. “Almost like living alone,” he said. “I imagine you’ll see me more in the future. Thesis done. Graduation is next week. I’ll have nothing to keep me occupied during the day. Hope that’s not going to infringe on your couch sleeping.”
Low blow, but I laughed. “Guess I better get used to sleeping in my bed.” But what I was really thinking was that I’d get to see him more and wondering exactly what that meant. Like, more often? Or more… bodily?
I had no sense of that, but I did sense that those were not thoughts a roommate should be having, particularly when said roommate was a friend’s cousin. So off-limits for anything but drawing. “Did you say you’d been offered a job at UMKC?”
“I did. I’ll be teaching a couple of courses in the undergraduate department. I start this fall.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic. Will you be signing another lease, then?” It was an honest question on my part and the panic that was stirring at the thought of him leaving had everything to do with logistics. I couldn’t afford this place without him, but then he might have wanted to keep it alone, and where would I go?
It was nothing to do with being worried I wouldn’t see him again, even in passing. Nothing at all. I waited nervously for his answer.
“Guh,” Marc finally replied.
Not the response I’d expected. He couldn’t even answer me properly.
Men had a habit of ruining all of your daydreams about them, I’d noticed. Looked like he was to be no exception.
Then I actually looked, and he was bright red. “Oh, god! Are you okay?”
Marc didn’t answer, which made me suspect he couldn’t answer.
“Shit! You’re choking!” I’d taken a first aid class in high school, so I knew what to do. First, you loudly state the obvious. Second, you ask for their permission to save them, because otherwise their corpse can sue you.
I did not make that up. It’s a real thing.
I moved closer to him, sitting up on my knees. “Would you like for me to perform the Heimlich?” I shouted in his ear, because it’s never clear how much of their surroundings dying people are aware of.
“Jiminy Christmas!” Marc exclaimed. “Stop yelling in my ear. I’m not choking. I’m burning.” He waited until I relaxed and sat back to explain further. “I just… well, I don’t really like bourbon.”
Wait, what? Not bourbon? He was going to be a history professor. What else would he—oh. Oh, of course. Scotch. I’m an idiot!
Although I bought this for me, I reminded myself, not him. It was beside the point that I didn’t like bourbon either. I could not be blamed for my panic decisions.
Certainly not because he’d been in the back of my mind. Pssht.
“I could put some Coke in it,” I said conciliatorily. Please note that I could not have pronounced ‘conciliatorily’ at that point because I’d finished my drink. And I was feeling it.
He didn’t answer, but merely thrust his glass at me.
I had spent many an evening picturing him above me thrusting something else, so I took what I got, and also took the opportunity to put some soda in my own glass as well when I refilled it yet again.
“Why are you here, anyway?” he asked when I returned. I assumed he was not so demented that he forgot I lived here. He’d written a thesis, after all. He was an intelligent man.
“Pipe burst at work.” I sipped some more bourbon.
“No orgies tonight?”
“Guh?” I responded. Bourbon was not a fun thing to choke on, it turned out. I now understood Marc’s earlier distress.
“Artists. You are an artist,” he enunciated so clearly that I knew he was drunk already. Lightweight. It was also beside the point that I was too. Professors had to schmooze, you had to hold your liquor for that. It was known. He continued.
“I know a thing or two about artists. You spend your time boinking college students and bartenders and same-sex acquaintances.”
It was difficult to know what to think about that. On one hand, I was flattered to think he thought basically every person I met wanted to do it with me. On the other, I was super insulted that he thought my standards were so low as to boink anyone who was in college or in a bar or who was a chick.
“No…orgies,” I said as casually as I was capable of. “Not tonight, anyway.”
“Disappointing,” Marc said more unintelligibly as he gulped another finger of bourbon. I’d brought the bottle back with me from the kitchen and stuck it on the coffee table.
“Are you an orgy aficionado?” I asked extremely politely. It’s the only way to ask that question.
“If by aficionado you mean frequent fantasizer? Then yes.” Well, well, well. Marc was kinky. This was a surprise. I was both frightened and turned on at once.
“Magnifique,” I said. “You would understand that if you spoke Françoise.”
“Francais?”
“Obviously.” That was what I meant, I thought.
“I’m working on it. I’m
spending August in France before school starts.” He cackled, actually cackled to himself. “I’m taking a bangcation.”
“Is that… what I think it is?” Is this what the literati get up to? Could a man who used the term bangcation still be considered part of the literati?
“Look,” he said. I waited. And waited some more. Poured another round of bourbon.
“I thought there was going to be a follow-up to that,” I finally remarked.
“No, I mean just look around. Look at me.” I did. “Not my crotch.” Oh. “This is where I live.” I sort of knew that part already. “And this is the most exciting Friday night I’ve had in recent memory. My whole life is just… beige.”
“I’m sure there’s…Well maybe…” I had nothing. I really didn’t know the guy.
“The beigiest beige that ever beiged,” he opined, slopping some brown drink on the (yes, beige) couch. It created a dark beige mark. I began to see his point. “Unlike you. You’re all bright-colored nn shiiiit.”
“What, this?” I pulled on a lock of my recently dyed hair. The bottom few inches were a shade of purple that The Joker would be pleased with. “It’s just Manic Panic. It washes out after a couple weeks.”
“No. I mean you’re exciting. You stay out all night. Those orgies you do. I never do anything like that. There’s a million things I haven’t done. It’s just study and write papers and study some more. And then at the end of it? I’m going to teach. Literally school forever. France is gonna be everything I missed. It’ll make up for all of it.”
I couldn’t argue that, and not just because the room was starting to tilt in varying directions.
But I could make him feel better.
“I don’t orgy,” I sighed. There went my brand new rep as a badass. “I’ve only been with two guys in my life. And you do know that I work the night shift?”
“You bartend to support your art? You’re so co—wait, did you say two guys? You’ve only threesome-d?”