Dodging Fate: A Charlie Kenny Redshirt Adventure

by Zen DiPietro

  “I’ll try to find a way to fix this. I’ll check in with you soon,” she says. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  “Okay. Take care…I guess.” I’m not sure what the standard goodbye is for one’s accidental wife.

  “I will take care.” She says it with such vehemence that I think it must mean something else to her.

  As she retreats into the crowd and I rejoin Greta and Pinky, I’m concerned that Oolloo and I might have had another misunderstanding.

  I’m no longer in the mood to enjoy Garvon VII, so we return to the ship.

  We board the elevator.

  Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators.

  Not this again.

  We’ve developed the Chance 3000 to better serve you, our guests. We elevate you because you elevate us. Please enjoy your elevator experience. State your desired destination.

  “Up!” Greta shouts at it.

  You said, “Up.” Now going up.

  We begin to ascend and I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn’t want to have a whole get-off-and-on-again thing this time.

  Stopping at midpoint.

  “What?” Greta blinks at the speaker. “What midpoint? There’s up, there’s down, and there’s dangling in midair. Nobody wants to get off halfway up to the ship!”

  My Uncle Victor died that way, but I don’t think saying that out loud will help my companions in this situation.

  State your desired destination.

  “Up!” Greta’s shouting now. “Up, you stupid cow! Up!”

  As the elevator resumes its ascent, I hope the Chance 3000 doesn’t take offense to Greta’s directions.

  Would you like to hear a joke?

  “What?” Greta looks confused and outraged at the same time.

  What do you get if you cross a human and an Albacore?

  Now I’m the one who’s confused and outraged. That is just hitting too close to home.

  A Martian. Looks mostly human, but drinks like a fish.

  Even Pinky looks taken aback by that. Insulting three species in one joke is impressive, in an appalling sort of way.

  Arrived at up. You may now depart.

  The doors open.

  We walk back the way we came. First we drop Pinky at her cabin. She has to sling Mingo the flamingo off her back and give him a good shove to fit him through the door before going in herself. Now, Mingo takes up all the space behind her, and, once again, I am thwarted at getting a look at her living space.

  “Don’t worry, Charlie,” she says. “We’ll get all this figured out. There’s something fishy about the whole thing.”

  Is she joking? She looks dead serious, but come on.

  I merely say, “Thanks, Pinky. Goodnight.”

  Next, I drop Greta at her quarters.

  “I hope you had fun, before the whole kneecap-breakers-might-be-after-you thing. I had a great time with you. Even the part in the photo booth was fun.” She smiles, looking all glowy and wonderful.

  “Yeah. Except for that end bit, I had a great time.”

  “We’ll build on that,” she assures me. “Like Pinky said. We’re going to work this out. What is there that the three of us can’t solve? Nothing, that’s what!” She snaps her fingers.

  I wish I had her confidence, but I put on a game smile.

  “Thanks, Greta. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I feel better as soon as I see good old 25J. But before I can go in, the man next door opens his door and peers out at me.

  “You again!” He sounds so accusing.

  “This is my cabin.” I point to it.

  “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. Don’t go getting any ideas! I pay my taxes.”

  His door slams.

  Shaking my head, I go into my cabin. I hope that guy gets off at the ship’s next stop. But my nervousness and anxiety ebb as I go through my evening routine. I’ve always gotten comfort from routine, and there’s something about this cabin that makes me feel safe.

  I hope there’s some truth to that.

  7

  In the morning, I feel refreshed and eager for a new day. I’m not sure why. I should be riddled with anxiety about loan sharks hunting me down and making me sleep with the fishes. But I’m home on the Second Chance, and even if that does happen, it won’t be today.

  Outside my cabin, Gus hurries by. Good old Gus was one of the first people I met here, even before Greta and Pinky.

  Even though he appears to be in a hurry, he stops and gives me a courteous nod. “Good morning, Mr. Kenny. How are you today?”

  He refuses to use my first name or be casual in any way. He takes his job very seriously.

  “Surprisingly well, thank you, Gus. How are you?”

  “Fine, fine. Always a good day with the Chance Fleet. Though if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see a disgruntled passenger.”

  “Of course, don’t let me keep you. Did something happen?”

  His chipper smile momentarily dims. “It’s that elevator. We’ve been getting a lot of complaints.”

  I bet they are. But I say only, “Well, good luck.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kenny, and have a wonderful day.”

  I plan on it. I’m making every day count, and not even my current situation will keep me down.

  How amazing is that?

  I feel so awesome about it that I decide this is the moment to write my letter to Dr. Ramalama. Now. Right this minute.

  I return to my cabin, activate the lightstream, and open up the communication tool.

  The spinny thing is spinning, but nothing is happening. I wait.

  How long do you wait on the spinny thing before you start feeling like an asshole? For me, it’s probably about a minute and a half too long. My mojo for this task starts to wane, but I fight through it.

  Fine. I turn the lightstream off and back on again. Again with the spinny thing. I wait not as long this time before turning it off again.

  Dammit.

  I turn it on for the third time, then look for updates. Yeah, there’s one that indicates I need to click to verify all RSTLNE variables and install the GTFO update.

  I do that, then wait.

  I’m not a computer guy, but I am a statistics guy and I can tell you with a ninety-nine point nine percent confidence interval that what happens next is not normal.

  First, the dreaded blue screen of death. Next, a picture of a panda.

  Why? Why a panda?

  A pink screen. What does a pink screen mean? Or maybe it’s fuschia. Is that different than regular pink?

  Now a picture of…well, I’m not sure what that is. It looks like toenail clippings on a beach with the ghost of a smiling octopus in the background.

  My cabin fills with the sound of cheering, clapping, and a very commercial-sounding theme song.

  And then the worst happens. I mean, the absolute worst.

  I’ll warn you now, there’s some profanity ahead.

  Welcome to the Chance Lightstream 3000. A new experience in lightstream technology.

  “Fuck!” I scream. “Fuckety mcfuck fuck!” My happy mood is gone.

  Then I freeze in terror. What if this this is voice-activated?

  But the screen creates another pop-up.

  We’ve developed the Chance Lightstream 3000 to better serve you, our guests. We implement you because you implement us. Please enjoy your lightstream experience.

  “Not bloody likely!” I say, feeling emboldened by its apparent lack of voice interface.

  State your desired tool.

  Is this a double entendre?

  I type, Communication.

  The spinny thing starts spinning, but I regard it with nothing but suspicion. Rightfully so, because it brings up a chatbox and tells me, “Running search for serial killers looking for love.”

  “No! Nonononono! So much no!” Frantically, I click the chatbox, and, mercifully, it closes.

  I take a breath. Dare I try again?

  I type, Write a letter.r />
  Dictated or typed? I stare at the screen, kind of amazed that this makes sense.

  Typed.

  Finally, the communication tool engages, and I’m now able to write that letter of effing off to Dr. Ramalama. I mean, the notice of termination of services.

  Am I even in the mood anymore? Minutes ago, I felt shiny and cheerful. Now I feel disgruntled and crabby.

  Maybe that’s even better.

  Dear Dr. Ramalama, I begin.

  I held a fork yesterday. I have two amazing friends who made that happen. Friends who make me feel safe and accepted and gosh darn it, even interesting. They like having me around. They help me be a better person, and they don’t charge me money for it either.

  I don’t believe I would ever have been able to do something like hold a fork if I had remained on Earth under your care. For this reason, I am hereby informing you that you are no longer my mental healthcare physician.

  I debate about the writing the next part, but if it were Greta, she’d do it. So I do.

  Turns out, all I really needed was some good luck and for someone to genuinely care about me.

  I sign off politely, with my full name: Charles Kenny II, Esquire.

  Don’t be too impressed. The esquire is just something passed down through my mother’s family. It’s not like I earned it.

  On second thought, I add P.S. Would it have killed you to remember my birthday?

  I press the send button before I can second-guess myself. There. It’s done.

  I leave my cabin again. Although I open the door slowly, my neighbor is outside and he drops to a wide-legged, arms-akimbo stance, looking at me warily.

  “You again!” He glares at me.

  “Yes, sir. This is my cabin. I’m your neighbor.” I’m feeling too jaded at the moment to be taken aback by his behavior. Besides, I think he’s crazy.

  I’m unprepared for his response.

  “You got nothin’ on me, copper!” He takes off running. Or at least he walks rapidly with his elbows out, which I presume is what he thinks is running.

  Things are getting weird around here. Is it just the universe or is it my redshirtness bleeding through?

  I make my way through the ship, nodding and greeting people I know. I carefully sidestep the dining room and arrive at Pinky’s bar.

  “Charlie!” Pinky calls to me. “This gentleman would like an Oblivious Flasher. Can you take care of that?”

  I can’t help it. I snicker.

  Pinky gives me the stink eye, so I hustle behind the bar. But I’m still struggling to get hold of myself.

  I turn away and begin mixing. This drink is two parts Singapore brandy (which is not from Singapore, or even from Earth for that matter) and one part iced tea.

  As I set it down in front of the customer, my eyes are only on the drink. The best is yet to come. I drop in a marble-sized sphere. Its casing is instantly activated by the brandy, and for a bright, glorious moment, the whole thing lights up bright purple.

  I smile to share my triumph with the customer, because an Oblivious Flasher is not an easy drink. Get it wrong, and it becomes a mere Forgetful Vagrant. And nobody orders those.

  But then I freeze, because the customer is none other than my neighbor. Mr. 26J.

  “Perfectly done, my good man,” he says jovially. “Well done!”

  What? What’s happening? I look around, but Pinky doesn’t appear to notice anything amiss.

  “Good to meet you, son!” My addled neighbor sticks his hand out. When I nervously clasp it, he shakes my hand vigorously. “I like a man who can make a good drink.”

  Maybe this is the real him while the cranky man is just the result of age and dementia. I’m sad for him. He kind of reminds me of my nana. She’s not herself these days, either.

  “I hope you enjoy it.” I mean it, too. The poor guy deserves to enjoy whatever pleasures he has left.

  “I will!” The man toasts me with his glass and takes a big drink.

  Pinky passes me the drink orders from the dining car. Most are non-alcoholic, but some people, like my neighbor here, like to start the day off with a kick.

  Since he isn’t spitting in my eye, I decide to get a name.

  “Excuse me, sir, given that we’re neighbors, can I ask your name?”

  “Are we?” The man looks delighted. “How nice! I’m Waldorf!” He sticks out a wrinkled hand.

  I shake it. “Is that your first name or last name?”

  “Only name. Why does a person need more than one? Seems excessive.”

  I nod agreeably. “It’s nice to meet you, Waldorf. I’m Charlie.” I leave off all the rest of my formal name because I don’t think he’d like it.

  He seems happy sipping his drink and munching on some wasabi peas. It’s not my idea of breakfast, but whatever. Old people can do what they want. They’ve earned it.

  Pinky takes the top two-thirds of the drink orders and I work on the bottom third. That gives me a Feckless Lemonade, a Morning Wakeup, and a Friendly Fishmonger to mix. That last one reminds me of Oolloo, but I can’t think of her too much while concentrating on exacting recipes.

  Pinky checks my work and grunts, which is glowing praise from her. A porter whisks all the drinks away.

  It’s a quiet morning in the bar. A lot of our guests remained on Garvon VII, and we won’t onboard another large group for two days when we make our next stop.

  Greta doesn’t arrive until noon, which isn’t unusual for her. She’s a free-spirited, I-wake-up-when-I-wake-up kind of girl.

  “Can I get you something?” I ask her.

  “Just water, with a twist of lime,” she says. “I stopped by your cabin to see if you were in it, but you weren’t. So I came here.”

  “Boring story.” Pinky joins us.

  Sometimes Pinky just says whatever she thinks.

  Greta notices Waldorf. “Oh, hi! Nice to see you.”

  He turns to peer at her. Several stools stand between them, and from the way he squints, I don’t think he can see her very well. “You too, young lady.”

  “It’s Greta,” she supplies.

  “Of course it is! Who else is pretty as a button like you? I’m always happy to see your smiling face.”

  “Are you enjoying your stay?” she asks him. As brand ambassador, she has a particular duty to be kind to the passengers. It works well since she is naturally so bighearted and cheerful.

  “Oh, yes. Except I keep hearing there’s a stalker around. Have you heard about it? Some skinny guy, always sneaking up on people.”

  Does he mean me?

  “I’ll make sure the captain looks into it,” she assures him.

  “Thank you, young lady! Now, I think I’ll go see what’s on the menu in the dining room.” He takes his Flasher with him, moving somewhat faster than his usual shuffle.

  “Are there any lushfruit muffins back there?” Greta asks.

  “Yep.” Pinky plucks one out of the basket and sets it on a plate. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks!”

  I try not to stare as Greta goes through her process of tearing it up into a hundred pieces. She doesn’t do this with other kinds of food. Just bread-like items.

  I’m wiping down the counter when Pinky takes the towel from me.

  “I’ll do this,” she says. “Go sit.”

  I mostly do whatever Pinky tells me. Don’t judge. You would, too.

  Pinky begins talking. “I’ve done some research into those Albacore loan sharks. They’re bad news. They write unfair, misleading contracts, then strong-arm people into complying.”

  “What should I do?” I ask.

  “In a week, we’ll be visiting Mar de la Mar. It’s a touristy, beach resort, and those sharks love the beach.”

  Has she been watching old detective movies? The way she said that sounded oddly familiar.

  “So we’ll lure them in?” Greta sounds far too excited about this plan.

  “That’s right.” Pinky nods. “We’ll stick it to ‘em, an
d then they’ll sleep with the fishes.”

  Yeah, she’s definitely been watching detective movies.

  “I think that’s species-ist,” Greta points out.

  “Is it?” Pinky frowns.

  Greta nods. “For Albacore, I think it is.”

  “Huh.” Pinky doesn’t look repentant.

  “Should we still visit Perabo?” I ask. It’s our next stop, and I’ve been looking forward to it. I enjoy all my outings with Greta and Pinky, but Perabo particularly appeals to me. It’s an artist’s colony. They welcome tourists who ooh and ahh over their art and love nothing more than buying things they don’t need. My favorite artist, known only as Mr. Renard, sells his work exclusively at Perabo. I’d love to get a signed original, if I can afford it.

  I’ve never been a collector, and own only a handful of items. But looking at Mr. Renard’s art has always inspired me. Now that I have what I consider to be a real home, I’d like to decorate it with artwork that is worthy of it.

  “Might as well,” Pinky says. “Artists rarely sign contracts, so loan sharks have no reason to go there.”

  “Good!” Greta looks up from her plate. “I’ve been wanting to get back to that glass place. They make the most amazing things.” She pops a bit of lushfruit muffin into her mouth and chews happily.

  She points at her plate to offer me some, but I smile and shake my head. It looks like a small cake exploded, and is not the least bit appealing to me.

  “Did I tell you I have a promo spot to do while we’re at Mar de la Mar?” Greta asks.

  I shake my head.

  “It should only take a couple hours. Just a quick perfume commercial. Personally, I think the idea of it is stupid—how can a video tell you how something smells? But it must work or they wouldn’t do it.” Greta takes another bite of muffin.

  I’ve always thought the same thing.

  “Perfume’s stupid,” Pinky says.

  We wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. Apparently that was her sum total opinion on the matter.

  I say, “When you said you had a promo spot to do, I thought maybe it was for the new elevator system.”

  Greta laughs. “Nope. I’d have to work hard at saying nice things about it. I hope they get the problems worked out soon.”