by M. D. Cooper
I slump to one side and freeze.
Greta claps. Behind her, a few hesitant shoppers also clap. I guess they figure that if Greta’s pleased, they might as well play along.
Maybe they think it’s some sort of performance art.
Pinky’s actually smiling as we return our dolls and belts to the shelf. “That was fun.”
“Yeah. It was.”
We don’t find any other items quite as enjoyable, but we have a good time looking around and trying on some hats. Except for when we realize the things we’re putting on our heads aren’t hats at all. I won’t say what the helpful store clerk tells us they are. Just believe me when I say that they don’t belong on people’s heads.
Just before we finish the last row, Greta notices some faux flowers strung to make necklaces. She plucks one off the hook and puts it on.
“Those remind me of leis,” I say.
“Of what?”
“There’s a beautiful island on Earth, and it’s a tradition there to give arriving visitors a lei.”
Pinky gives me a look.
“One of those,” I point at the flower necklace.
“Less interesting, but okay.” Pinky shrugs.
“That sounds nice.” Greta touches the petals of one of the faux flowers. “You know, I’m going to buy all these, and give them to people who board at Mar de la Mar. We’ll have a lot of new passengers coming aboard there, as they leave from their vacations. How nice would it be for the brand ambassador to give them flowers and welcome them aboard?”
She begins pulling all of the leis off the peg and draping them over her arm.
It does sound nice, actually.
We visit a few more shops, then go back to Mr. Renard’s to collect my paintings. When we enter, he’s there rearranging the paintings to fill in the two missing spots.
“Hello there! Mr. Corbeau has your paintings all ready to go.” He ducks through a doorway and reemerges, holding a large box.
I reach for it, but Pinky reaches past me. “Better if I take this one,” she says.
I’m okay with that. “Thanks.”
She bumps my shoulder with her fist, very gently. “You got it.”
I pay, basking for a few more minutes in Mr. Renard’s presence, and then we’re back on the street, returning to the ship.
This has been a great day. I’m not even mad when I hear: Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators.
Greta, holding her big bag of leis, groans.
Please select desired language.
That’s new.
“Earth standard,” I say and hold my breath. I fear it’s going to start talking to me in clicks and beeps or something.
English standard registered. Please state favorite type of bird.
What?
“Flamingo,” Pinky says.
Flamingo registered. Beginning ascent.
During the ride, I’m nervous that at any point, we will be besieged by birds. Or just bird calls piped over the audio speakers. I’m waiting for…something.
We arrive, the doors open, and that’s it. No disasters have befallen us.
You may now depart. Watch out for flamingos.
“Why? What does that mean?” Greta demands.
You may now depart.
“This thing is driving me crazy!” Greta shakes her fist at the speaker, and I’m afraid it will somehow sense that and visit retribution upon us, but nothing happens.
We depart.
Greta takes her bag of leis to her cabin while Pinky carries my paintings all the way to 25J, despite my assurances that I can manage myself.
She apparently doesn’t think I can.
“Thanks, Pinky.” I finally get my paintings at the doorway.
“You bet. Watch out for flamingos!”
She disappears down the corridor.
***
In my cabin, I check the lightstream for messages from work. I have lots of vacation days stored up, so it’s easy for me to take a day off when we arrive at an interesting port.
No word from work, but I do have a message from Oolloo.
Alimony has been nullified. You don’t have to worry about that anymore. Working to handle the debt situation with my parents. Will update you again soon.
That’s good news. I’d be pleased not to come face-to-face with those loan sharks.
I really should have discussed divorce proceedings with Oolloo. I’d thought about it, but it seemed like such a personal topic for our first real conversation. The next time I talk to her, I’ll definitely bring it up.
It’s getting to be my normal dinner time, but I’m not hungry, thanks to all the Death by Chocolate ice cream—which, by the way, was delicious. Possibly my new favorite. The irony is kind of delicious, too.
Maybe I’ll order a snack later, but I’m going to hang my paintings, and then watch my favorite robot western, They Died with Their Datapacks On.
Next time, I might invite Pinky to watch with me, since she’s a fan, too.
Yeah, I think I will.
Chapter 4
In the morning, I do a session of fork therapy with Pinky and Greta in the bar.
Afterward, Pinky and I try out a few Cheerful Seagull recipes. Greta makes the perfect test subject, since alcohol doesn’t affect her.
“Too sweet,” she says of my first attempt.
“Too strong,” she says of Pinky’s.
I reduce the amount of passionfruit and up the amount of coconut.
She takes longer before pronouncing, “It’s just missing something. I don’t know. It just doesn’t taste cheerful.”
“Maybe orange juice?” I suggest.
“Might help.”
After sipping Pinky’s second attempt, her lips quiver. “What was that?”
“I added some rare steak.” Pinky looks hopeful. “Good?”
Greta’s shoulders do a little shiver. “No, that does not make people happy.”
“It makes me happy,” Pinky mutters under her breath. She scoops up the glass and takes a drink. “Yeah. That’s good.”
“People like different things,” Greta says. “Let’s come up with a name for your drink.”
“How about a Bloody Scream?” I suggest.
“Nah.” Pinky takes a sip, looking thoughtful.
“A Raw Deal?” Greta offers.
“Nah.”
I think. What would Pinky like? “A Vindictive Vampire!” I say, triumphant.
“Now that, I like.” Pinky raises her glass to me and finishes it off.
Greta and I have breakfast in the bar, as we normally do, then we need to work. Greta has correspondence, and I have numbers to crunch.
“See you back here for dinner?” Greta asks me.
“I’ll have to see how much work there is for me. Maybe.” I’d like to say yes, definitely, I’ll be here. I suspect I’ll have a lot to catch up on, though. Besides, I like to keep her guessing, just a little. You know, to preserve my aura of mystery.
In the end, I do work late into the evening. Sometimes I get involved with my work and don’t even realize hours have passed until my neck is cramping up from holding one position for so long.
As I’m leaning back in my chair, rolling my head from shoulder to shoulder to release the tension, I hear a clatter in the corridor.
Opening the door, I peek out.
Waldorf is there. Crap. I try to close the door quickly but not too quickly to avoid drawing his attention.
“Hey, 25J!” He calls.
Too late.
I peek out, like a turtle extending its neck outward only the barest amount.
“I dropped my tray,” he explains. “Mind helping me pick it up? These old knees don’t work like they used to.”
He’s smiling and not acting crazy, so it must be a good moment. I decide to risk it. I turn the tray over, stack up the four boxes and the bottle, and lift it. “I could carry it into your cabin, if you like.”
Maybe a peek at his inner sanctum
will reveal something to me.
“Oh, thank you, young man, I’ll take you up on that. Otherwise, my dinner might end up being completely inedible if I drop it again.” He chuckles.
He opens the door and lets me in first. As I step in, I see that his cabin is exactly like mine. His table is folded out, and the lightstream looks like it was in recent use, based on its haphazard angle.
I see a jar of muscle cream on the table, but otherwise, nothing. His few personal items must be in the storage bin, just as mine tend to be.
I put the food on the table and turn to leave. “Have a good dinner, Waldorf.” I cringe. He might not want to be called that today.
“You too, young man. Charlie, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is!” I say too enthusiastically. I’m just so excited he remembered.
“Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you have a date waiting for you. A certain green-haired girl, maybe?” Then he shrugged. “Or maybe a big pink one. Whatever you like.”
“I’ll probably just order a snack and finish some work.”
“Wish me luck with this,” he chuckled, pointing to the boxes. “I’m not sure how much will be edible.”
“You can always call for room service if you need something else.”
“I will. Thank you, Charlie.” He smiles.
Back in my cabin, I feel sad. Waldorf is so nice when he’s not suffering from one of his spells.
I determine to stop trying to avoid him. It’s not his fault his mind isn’t what it once was. I’ll do what I can for him, for however long he’s on board the ship. It is called the Second Chance, after all. It’s a place where good things happen.
Maybe it’s my newfound determination to be an instrument of good fortune, or maybe it’s my pair of Renard paintings, hanging awesomely on my wall, but I spend my second evening in a row watching robot westerns until I fall asleep.
It’s a nice life.
***
Getting ready for a visit to Mar de la Mar gives me a mix of emotions. Greta told me to bring a swimsuit, because she’s bringing hers. I don’t have a swimsuit.
Redshirts take swim lessons, and then never willingly swim again. It’s a survival tactic. The idea of having fun in the sun with Greta, though, has me thinking that I can buy a swimsuit at one of the shops.
As long as I don’t go into the water more than ankle-deep, and Greta’s with me, nothing too terrible is likely to happen. Right?
Pinky says she’s working on a plan for her to lure the loan sharks out, if they’re still looking for me. I like the idea of getting this situation settled, and if that’s going to happen, I’ll be with the best possible people to make that actually work out in my favor. On the other hand, I kind of feel like I’m throwing myself out like chum, just waiting for the monsters to arrive in the bloody, churning waters.
On the other hand…fun in the sun with Greta!
The ship lines itself up to the elevator shaft, the connections are made, and off we go.
Oh, no. The elevator.
With great trepidation, I board it, along with Pinky and Greta. I wait for the smooth voice to torture us with its unhelpful and bewildering assistance.
Instead, a man’s voice comes over the speaker, screaming, “Down!”
The elevator descends. It is just me or is it going faster than usual?
Greta’s hand is on my arm, so I don’t think it’s just me. I look to Pinky, who seems thoughtful.
We get to the bottom safely, though my heartrate has increased. I pat Greta’s hand.
Not so long ago, she complained to me about how boring and predictable her life was, with things always going her way. She definitely can’t say that now. She’s getting more curveballs than a baseball game set up next to a black hole.
She smiles at me, and that gleam of adventure is in her eye. She’s wearing a tiny backpack, and I’m guessing her swimsuit is in there. Then I look at Pinky and wonder what kind of swimsuit she wears.
“So what’s the plan, Pinky?” I ask. This has been her department, since I have faith in her abilities for mayhem, punishment, and shaking people down. It just seems like the sort of thing that would be in her wheelhouse.
She nods as if she’s been expecting me to ask. “Okay, here it is.” She extends her arm toward the beach, which is still a little way off. “We go that way. At a relative speed. If people get in our way, we go around them. Unless they’re the loan sharks. Then I kick their asses until they agree to leave you alone.”
“That’s the plan?” I expected more. A lot more.
“What more do you want?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I feel like there should be more of an overall strategy. Something more, you know, strategic.”
Pinky stops walking. “That sounds like a challenge.”
Crap. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Pinky’s shaking her head. “No, it’s too late. I’m totally challenged now. And I never fail to deliver on a challenge.”
This feels like a bad thing to me. I peek at Greta, and it seems like she’s unsure of what to make of this.
“I don’t mean anything by it, Pinky. I just, you know, expected something elaborate. It’s my mistake.”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting out of it that easily. You’re going to get a plan, all right. You won’t even know it when it hits you.”
Right. I don’t even know what that means. But Pinky’s annoyed, so I go along. “I’m sure it will.”
“It will,” she confirms.
What have I done?
“Let’s change into our swimsuits,” Greta suggests.
I’m grateful for her intervention. “I’ll need to buy one first.”
“Oh, okay. Pinky, do you have one?” Greta asks.
“I’m wearing it under my clothes.” She’s wearing a button-up shirt with a lushfruit print and a pair of khaki shorts. That kind of rig is apparently universal beachwear.
“Did you have something particular in mind?” Greta asks me.
“I’m not even sure of all the options. I’m thinking just basic swim trunks and a UV-proof shirt. Beige or tan or something like that.”
Greta’s lips twist in a funny little smile. “I had a feeling you might prefer beige. I think I know the place.”
She ushers me into a cabana with only three walls. I feel a bit exposed, but I go along with it. We browse and I’m disappointed to find that swimwear on Mar de la Mar favors bright colors. I see a lot of blues and oranges and acid greens, but no beige or tan at all.
“How about this?” Greta plucks out a trunks-and-shirt combo that are a pale sky blue with some swirls of a deeper blue. Compared to the other offerings, I think this is as good as I’m going to get.
“It’ll work.” I grab my size and quickly pay.
Then we’re at the changing cabanas. Pinky and Greta go into the unisex section, and I go past it to the men’s section. I’m paranoid enough about changing in public. I prefer for it to be a gender-specific event. I know, it’s small-minded. I’m working on not being such a rube. I’m just glad that there’s a facility for someone like me.
After we’ve changed, we jam our stuff into lockers and walk down to the beach. I don’t make a peep about The Plan because I already screwed that up once. I’m just going along with whatever Pinky says at this point.
I walk onto the beach in my bare feet, which Greta has assured me is the norm. I’m nervous about broken glass, jellyfish, and other horrible things, but I’m trying very hard to be cool.
She’ll never know how hard I’m trying.
Anyway, we walk down the beach and I have to admit, I really like the feeling of the warm sand shifting beneath my bare feet. It’s so…soft. And squishy. Like walking on piles of sugar. Very unique. I’m broadening my horizons, here, wearing blue and exposing my skin. My family wouldn’t even recognize me if they saw me.
The thought makes me proud of myself. I’ve come a long way.
I’m usually of the cautious, creep
ing walk persuasion. But this burst of pride makes me loosen my gait into a free-swinging stride more akin to my fellow denizens of the beach.
That’s right. Charlie Kenny’s on the beach, y’all. Ready to edge into the water in my bare feet, like a badass.
Like a badass.
I hear you laughing at me. I don’t even care. For my people, I am in the crazy, out-there, thrill-seeker zone. I feel like I should be wearing a red shirt that says, I am a redshirt. This is not normal.
A moment of epiphany comes upon me. The rush of waves in the near distance is the musical backdrop, and I can taste the salt in the air. It’s like a movie moment. Not a robot movie moment, cause they’d rust like fuck in about two seconds out here. But in a feel-good kind of movie-moment way. The cries of the seagulls elongate, becoming deeper, and Greta’s smile becomes almost frozen in time. Pinky’s skin is bright in the glow of the sun. It’s a moment that seems to last forever.
I’m going to wear red. For real. Red. The curse of my people. The bane of our existence. I will wear an actual red shirt.
I mean, not today or anything. Eventually. At some point. But I will.
Time returns to normal and I feel changed, as a person. Lighter. Better. Evolved.
Which, of course, is when everything turns to shit.
You can only push fate so far.
Time has slowed again, but not in the good, glowing, gorgeous way. It’s slowed in the bad, screaming, horrible way.
Albacore men in dark suits come at us. Greta notices them, fear dawning on her face. Pinky already sees them. Her face has darkened to a deeper pink. Kind of a maroon. No, that’s kind of more purply, isn’t it? What I mean is magenta. That’s a pinker version of red. Or maybe it’s a redder version of pink.
I’m getting off point.
Even as I see these things developing, I somehow trip and fall. On nothing but sand. Because of course I do.
I land face-first into a small dune and roll down the other side. Whatever else is happening in the meantime, I have no idea because I know nothing but sand in my mouth and eyes and rolling and the heat beating down on me and the sound of seagulls in the distance.
Is this what it’s like to be drunk? If it is, I will gladly continue not getting drunk, ever. Because this sucks.