Take a Chance on Me

by Alexa Land

  My head was pounding, and I blinked again as I tried to get my bearings. After a moment, I realized the cop was my new roommate, and also that my legs were spread and he was getting a hell of a view of my junk. I pulled my left foot off its cardboard perch and winced as I jarred my sprained ankle.

  Duke barked, “What happened in here, Quinn?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Give me a minute.” I squinted against the glare from the light fixture on the ceiling. God, my head hurt.

  “Why is there glitter everywhere?”

  I thought about that, then tipped the cardboard box and looked inside. “It spilled.”

  He strode to the open back door and stuck his head out, and then he asked me, “Did you get naked outside? My neighbors can see right into the yard! And what’s that on the grass?”

  “Oh, I know this one! A lawn angel on crutches.”

  He turned to me and demanded, “Are you drunk?”

  I thought about that, then said, “Not drunk enough.” I held up the bottle I’d been cradling in my arms and contemplated the clear liquid, but my stomach churned at the idea of downing straight gin.

  Duke snatched it out of my hands. His eyes flashed with anger as he gestured at the bottles on the nightstand. “Did you drink all of that?”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “What? No! I just need to know if I should take you to the hospital to get your stomach pumped, so you don’t die of alcohol poisoning.”

  I snapped, “Of course not! I’m not that stupid!”

  I tried to get up, but it was impossible to balance on my one good leg, given how much my head was spinning. Duke barked, “Sit down before you fall over!” I did both, falling back into a seated position on the mattress. I looked around, then started to reach for a bottle of tequila on the nightstand.

  Duke grabbed it and said, “Are you kidding? You’ve had enough for one night!”

  That really pissed me off, and I yelled, “I decide when I’ve had enough, not you! I’m a full-grown man, and if I want to get drunk off my ass, then I’m damn well going to!”

  “Full-grown men don’t sleep with teddy bears, run around naked, trash other people’s houses, drink like fish, or toss around glitter like they’re at a rave!”

  “Yes they do! Maybe not you, Mr. Perfect Uptight Cop, but I do!”

  “Then you need to grow the hell up!” He stormed out of the room, and a few moments later, I heard the front door slam.

  It took a few moments for the guilt to reach me through my alcohol haze, but when it did, it hit me hard. I looked around at the mess I’d made and the bottles of alcohol and could plainly see why he’d been so upset. After he’d spent all day helping me, this was how I repaid him.

  I noticed a bag by the door, and when I hobbled over to it and looked inside, I was hit by a second wave of guilt. He’d brought home a couple of delicious-looking Mexican dinners, then left without eating anything. Oh man. I’d basically destroyed our first night as roommates.

  He probably hated my guts after all of that. He should. I’d been a drunken asshole, but maybe I could make it up to him. I limped out to the backyard, got dressed, and retrieved my crutches. Then I went in search of the vacuum.

  *****

  It was sometime after three a.m. when I heard the automatic garage door rattle open, then close again. I was sitting on a rainbow-striped beanbag in a corner of my room, and I turned off the movie I’d been watching on my phone and set it aside. I fidgeted with the tie on my red pajama pants, which featured an all-over pattern of yellow rubber ducks, and listened intently as Duke came in through the door off the kitchen and went to his room. After a pause, he crossed the ground floor and headed up the stairs. The house creaked just enough for me to follow his progress.

  He appeared in my open doorway a few moments later, dressed in a dark blue hoodie and jeans, and murmured, “Hey.”

  “Hey. Sorry about earlier.”

  “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

  “It was understandable.”

  “No it wasn’t. I never lose my temper.”

  “You had a lot of provocation.”

  Duke stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and said, “Thanks for putting my room back the way you found it.”

  “I tried. I even watched a YouTube video on how to make hospital corners, but I couldn’t get your sheets exactly like you had them. And I vacuumed for almost an hour, but I think you’ll still be finding specks of glitter in there for years to come.” I looked down at myself and brushed a fleck of glitter off my pink T-shirt. I’d taken a shower after cleaning his room, but somehow it kept reappearing.

  “You shouldn’t have done all of that on your sprained ankle. You probably made it worse.”

  “I was careful.” I got up and said, “I put your dinner in the refrigerator. Are you hungry? I could warm it up for you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I’m trying to make up for being an asshole earlier. Humor me.”

  He hesitated for a moment before saying, “Okay then.”

  I followed Duke out of my room on the crutches. When we got to the top of the stairs, he watched me trying to navigate the first couple of steps and blurted, “This is an accident waiting to happen. Can I carry you?”

  “Knock yourself out.” He scooped me into a fireman’s carry, jogged down the stairs, and deposited me on the ground floor. I murmured a thank you, and he nodded embarrassedly, then led the way to the all-white kitchen.

  I heated the enchilada platters one at a time in the microwave, and we sat down to dinner on a pair of barstools at the tiled kitchen island. He was quiet as we ate, and I was, too. I figured I’d gotten on his nerves enough for one evening.

  He seemed distracted though, so after a while I said, “I don’t know you very well, so maybe this is how you always are at three in the morning. But is something wrong? If you’re still pissed about what I did to your room earlier, I don’t blame you at all.”

  “I’m not upset about the room.”

  “Did something happen at work tonight?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  After a pause, I asked, “Do you want me to make you a margarita to go with dinner? It might help you unwind.”

  He glanced at me and said, “Actually, I usually do something else to unwind. If you’re going to be up for a while, you can join me if you want to.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m totally down for it.”

  After we finished our meal, he cleared away the plates and wiped down the kitchen island, and then he exchanged his hoodie for a simple, white apron. He took a bag of flour from one of the cabinets, and I grinned and said, “You bake to relax?”

  “It works wonders.”

  When he reached up and pulled a storage container of sugar off a top shelf, the sleeve of his gray T-shirt slid down two or three inches, exposing a white bandage that was wrapped around his big bicep. I exclaimed, “You’re hurt! Did that happen at work tonight?”

  “Yeah, but it’s nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing. What happened?”

  “A fourteen-year-old drug addict took a swipe at me with a broken beer bottle.”

  “Holy shit, Duke!”

  “It’s not a big deal. He barely grazed me. It didn’t even need stitches.”

  “No wonder you seemed rattled.”

  “That’s not why.”

  “You mean something else happened, too?”

  He said, “Most nights, my job is boring. But every now and then…not so much.”

  “What happened?”

  “Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Duke pulled some butter from the refrigerator and softened it in the microwave, and I asked, “Are you sure?” When he nodded, I said, “Okay. Tell me how I can help with whatever you’re making.”

  “You can pick out the cookie cutters if you want to.
They’re in there.”

  He pointed at what I’d assumed was a broom closet, but when I opened it, I was in for a surprise. The narrow closet was filled top to bottom with narrow drawers. I slid open the one labeled ‘Christmas’ and smiled. It was subdivided into little compartments, and each held a cookie cutter in a different, whimsical shape. I murmured, “This is the best thing ever.” Then I pulled open a few more drawers and exclaimed, “I never in a million years would have guessed you had a cookie cutter collection! Can we make one of each?”

  “It’s best to limit it to one shape per cookie sheet, so they bake evenly. This recipe makes about four dozen cookies, depending on the size of the cutter, so maybe stick to three or four shapes.”

  “Do we get to decorate them after we bake them?”

  “That’s half the fun.” He put on a pair of wire-framed glasses and began to carefully measure ingredients into a mixing bowl. Meanwhile, I went through every single drawer and commented on the treasures I found.

  By the time I’d made my selections, Duke had finished mixing the sugar cookie dough. He put it in a zip-top bag, stuck it in the refrigerator, and told me, “That needs to chill for at least thirty minutes. An hour is even better.”

  “An hour! What are we supposed to do while we wait?”

  “For one thing, we can plan how we want to decorate the cookies. Let’s see what you picked out.” I lined up my selections on the counter, and he said, “Really?”

  I smiled at him. “I knew you’d say something about my choices.” I’d picked out a Christmas tree, sled, Santa, and a six-inch-long dragon.

  “I mean, it’s Labor Day weekend….”

  “And you’ve never in your life used those cookie cutters outside of the holiday season.” He shook his head, and I said, “That’s exactly why I picked them out. Go crazy, Duke! Make Christmas cookies in September with me.”

  I could tell he wanted to protest, but after a minute he said, “Okay. But how does the dragon fit in?”

  “He’s going to pull the sleigh.”

  Duke looked a little pained, but he said, “If that’s what you want, then sure.” He opened another cabinet and pulled out a couple of pastry bags, a plastic box containing about two dozen little metal cones that turned out to be tips for piping icing, and some red and green food coloring. “What color do you want for the dragons?”

  I leaned my crutches against the counter, reached into the cabinet, and grabbed as many little plastic bottles of food coloring as I could. I handed them to Duke and exclaimed, “Oh my God, you have edible glitter! That’s awesome!” The little bottle of iridescent powder was still in its packaging, and I asked, “Can I open it?”

  “Yeah, but be careful. I’ve seen what happens when you and glitter get together.”

  I unwrapped it and asked, “What does it taste like?”

  “I think it’s flavorless, but I’m not sure. I’ve never used it. I only bought it because the lady at the baking supply shop insisted I give it a try. She was so excited about it, and I didn’t have the heart to turn her down.”

  I unscrewed the lid, sprinkled a little glitter in my hand, and licked my palm. “It doesn’t taste like anything, but I don’t even care. Can you pick up a case of this for me next time you go to the baking store? I’ll pay you back.”

  “Sure, but what are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to put it on every single thing I eat!”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  He took off his glasses and returned them to their case as he said, “There’s probably a limit to how much edible glitter one can safely consume.”

  “I’ll take my chances if it means all my meals will sparkle from now on.”

  Duke looked at me for a moment, as if he was trying to figure out what to make of me, and then he said, “Let’s go sit down while we wait for the dough to chill. The doctor told you to keep your foot elevated, and from what I’ve seen, you haven’t been doing a lot of that.”

  When we got to the living room, I stretched out on the wood floor and put my wrapped ankle on the pale green couch. My roommate asked, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you sat on the sofa and put your foot on the coffee table?”

  “God no. That’s like, an April Fool’s prank disguised as a couch. I’m pretty sure it’s actually a big slab of concrete wrapped in minty green fabric. I don’t know what compelled you to buy it.”

  He just shrugged and said, “It was on sale.”

  “That’s no excuse.” I shifted around a bit and told him, “If you want to do something while we’re waiting, you can bring down one of the boxes in my room labeled ‘entertainment’.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what’s in them.”

  “All sort of things: games, sporting equipment, dress-up clothes, porn. There’s no way of knowing what we’ll end up with, so let’s just commit to doing whatever’s in the box you bring downstairs.”

  “I don’t know about this idea.”

  “Come on, it’s brilliant! In fact, I think I’m not even going to unpack them. That way, whenever I’m bored, I can just grab a box and surprise myself.” He hesitated, and I said, “I was kidding about the porn. Just go grab a box. It’ll be fun.”

  He muttered, “Yeah, alright,” and I flashed him a big smile as he headed upstairs. Duke was back a minute later with a medium-sized cardboard box, and he said, “Half the boxes in your room are labeled ‘entertainment’.”

  “I know. Open ‘er up and let’s see what we get to do for the next hour.”

  He sat on the couch with the box on the floor in front of him and carefully peeled back the packing tape. Then he lifted the flaps, stared inside it for a few moments, and finally said, “I have no idea what I’m looking at here.”

  I sat up and said, “Oh shit, did you end up with the porn?”

  “I thought you said you were kidding about that.”

  “I lied.” I leaned over and peered into the box. “Oh hey, you got crabs in my pants!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you ever play that game ‘ants in my pants’ as a kid?”

  “I’ve never even heard of it.”

  “Really? I have no idea how you missed it! The game came with a plastic pair of pants, and you had these little fake ants that you tried to flip into them.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I know! It was awesome. When I found that amazing planter at a garage sale, I knew I had to make my own version.” The object in question was nearly two feet high and eighteen inches in diameter, and it looked like a pair of jeans with red sneakers sticking out at the bottom. I had no clue why anyone would ever want to plant anything in it, because it would look like a super creepy cut-in-half guy with a shrub growing from his midsection. But it was perfect for my game.

  I asked Duke to position the planter across the room. After he centered it precisely in front of the glass doors that blocked off the fireplace, he removed a trio of weird little ceramic figurines from the mantel and relocated them to the dining table, which was just outside the kitchen. Even though I was curious about the figures, I didn’t ask, because I knew my question would basically come out as, “What the fuck is up with those?”

  We sat side-by-side on the couch, and I dumped about five dozen miniature beanbags onto the coffee table. Each was about an inch long and printed to look like a tiny crab. My roommate raised an eyebrow and asked, “Another garage sale find?”

  “Actually, they’re from a cool import store in Japantown. I have no idea what you’re actually meant to do with them.” I lined up a slingshot, a tiny plastic crossbow, and a pair of mini catapults beside the beanbags as I said, “We can trade off on the crab launchers. Oh, and you have to keep score for us, because I always lose track.”

  “Can’t we just toss them in the bucket?”

  “That’s too easy. Plus, then we’re basically just playing basketball. Or, you know, crabsketball. You can go first.”

  He held up a
little catapult and asked, “Did you make this?” It consisted of a ten-inch wooden frame with a metal spoon held taught by rubber bands. When I nodded, he said, “You have a truly bizarre skill set, Quinn.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Go ahead, launch a crab.” He loaded the device with a tiny beanbag and spent a long time lining up his shot with his brows knit in concentration. After a while, I said, “Just give it a try, Duke. If you miss, it’s no big deal. You get about thirty more chances.”

  He lowered the catapult and shot me a look. “You’re distracting me.”

  “You’re taking too long.”

  “You didn’t say there was a time limit.”

  “There’s not.”

  “Then let me do this.”

  “Fine. Oh, you know what? We have to decide what we’re playing for.”

  He said, “Loser cooks dinner for both of us, tomorrow night.”

  “That’s a great idea, but I’m a little surprised you’d come up with that. I’d assume the thought of turning me loose in your pristine kitchen would make you all twitchy.”

  “Oh, it does, but I’m sure I’m going to lose.” He positioned the catapult and launched the little orange crab, and it overshot the planter and bounced off the fireplace. “See?”

  “But I suck at this, too.” I loaded the plastic crossbow, aimed it at the ceiling, and fired. The mini-crab ricocheted and landed on the honey-colored wood floor.

  “You did that on purpose to make me feel better,” he said. “You didn’t even aim at the pants!”

  “I was trying to do a bank shot off the ceiling. The crossbow fires in a straight line, but you need an arc to get the crab up and into the slacks.”

  “That makes sense, actually.” He picked up the slingshot and fired a crab at the ceiling, and it bounced off and landed in the planter. He yelled, “Yes!” But then he glanced at me and looked embarrassed.

  “Don’t hold back,” I said as I sent a crab flying with one of the catapults and missed again. “If I ever get one in, I’m totally going to scream and yell and do some kind of awkward, one-footed victory dance.”