by Zen DiPietro
“Did either of you have trouble with your lightstream?” I look from one to the other, but they both shake their heads.
“Huh. Mine was trying to do something new, but it didn’t work well.”
“Odd,” Greta says. “Usually I hear about upgrades early on, so I can tell people about them. Maybe it’s a pilot program. You know, just testing it out to see what people think.”
“Maybe.” I can’t imagine the response will be positive.
I keep them company until Greta’s done eating, then excuse myself to do my work. I pray that my lightstream won’t give me trouble again, and it doesn’t.
For the next several hours, I lose myself in the analysis of data and trends, and make predictions based on those trends. That’s my job. I love it. In all the hurly-burly of life and luck and everything that gets stuck in the corners, numbers are true, fair, and predictable. They’ve always helped me make sense of my world.
I stand and stretch my back. I decide to take a walk through the ship to stretch my legs and get my blood moving. A guy like me can develop deep vein thrombosis from just sitting around. And die. Just like that.
I’m glad not to find Waldorf in the corridor. I mosey to the right, past the water closet. I have fond memories of that water closet. Okay, well not exactly fond. I’m not a weirdo. But the first time I went in there, I wasn’t sure of how handling certain functions in space worked, but now I’m an old pro at it. It makes me feel very cosmopolitan. The complete opposite of a sectarian rube.
I continue along this familiar path, passing both dining room and the bar, but I walk past my usual haunt. The ship’s corridors are set up on a grid, so I can walk a big circle along the perimeter, as I’m doing, or turn a corner at a junction and do more of a blocky zigzag.
I continue along the perimeter. It’s nice to go for a walk. I didn’t do that on Earth. Too many risks and variables.
Gus turns a corner, right into my path. He’s walking fast, but slows himself to something more controlled and professional when he sees me.
“Hello, Mr. Kenny. Taking a walk?”
“Yes, getting some exercise.”
“Very good, sir. Don’t let me keep you.” And he hustles onward.
He must have something important to deal with.
I’m unusually tired. I thought the walk would perk me up, but it’s only convincing me that I could use some sleep. Just a few months ago, I’d immediately suspect carbon monoxide poisoning or sudden-onset anemia. Now, I think it’s more likely that I could just use an early bedtime.
After making the full circuit around the ship, I make it back to my cabin from the opposite direction. Still no sign of Waldorf. Phew.
Inside, I send messages to Pinky and Greta, telling them I’ll be staying in for the evening. They won’t be alarmed. My introverted nature still crops up, and I regularly spend a night in with a pack of dumplings or a pizza from the dining room and a movie.
What should I order tonight? I turn on the lightstream, hold my breath, and am relieved when I get to the daily menu without issue.
Though…the menu seems to be an issue. The dinner selections appear to be:
Big Bowl of Ice
Small Cardboard Hats for Hamsters
A Sad, Overripe Melon with an Air of Melancholy
Tiny Souls of the Damned Wrapped in a Flaky Crust
Baby Toes, Marinated in Orange Sauce
++Also available on request, a Small Bowl of Ice
Maybe this is what Gus was rushing off to handle. My guess is, there’s a disgruntled member of the kitchen staff.
This doesn’t help me in terms of getting food, though.
I call Greta. “Have you seen the dinner menu?”
“No, I’ve been catching up on some work correspondence. I’ve been getting a lot of new offers lately.” After a pause, I hear her laugh. “I’m tempted to order the souls of the damned and the sad melon and see what happens.”
“Have you heard anything about trouble with the kitchen staff?” I ask. People talk to Greta, so she tends to be in the know about such things.
“They did fire someone yesterday for eating a guest’s custom meal. I’m guessing he arranged this before he left.” She giggled. “Want me to go down there and see what kind of food I can rustle up for us? I was just about to order dinner, too.”
“That’d be great.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know what I come up with!”
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at my door.
“Pizza pizza!” Greta holds two pizza boxes, but there’s stuff stacked on top, too.
I move back and scrunch myself into the corner to give her a path to the table. I’ve already folded it down from the multipurpose furniture assembly. What my cabin lacks in space it makes up for in utilitarianism.
She slides the box off the bottom and sets it on the table. “One Earth-style pizza for you. I also got some dumplings, since you like them.”
She sets a sack on top of the box. “The head chef was so embarrassed that he kept giving me more and more food.” She laughed, turning to go.
My cabin has filled with all kinds of fragrant, delicious aromas. Suddenly, I’m starving.
“Do you want to stay and eat with me?” I ask.
“Sure! I mean, if you want me to. I thought you wanted a night in or I would have asked.”
“I’d love some company.” I really mean her company, but I play it cool.
“Great.” She sets her food down on the table, being careful not to let anything fall off its small surface.
She pulls a chair out of the wall and I do the same. When I first saw Gus do this furniture voodoo, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have the skill. Now here I am, an old pro.
We sit, and I realize there’s a logistical problem. The food containers are already covering the table, and even hanging off in places. We’re going to need plates and some room to maneuver.
“Should we put the boxes on the floor?” I ask, fearing this will mark me as a rube. Who puts food on the floor? Does this make me gross?
But Greta’s a champ. “You bet. Sometimes we have to get creative out here in space. Next time we should do this in my cabin. It’s just a little roomier than this, which might make it easier.”
I’m momentarily stunned both by the idea that she already wants to do this again, and that I’d get to see the inside of her cabin.
I recover when she holds my pizza box out to me. “So what’s on your Garbdorian pizza?”
She leans in and takes a deep breath of it, then sighs happily. “It has a dough base, like yours, but instead of being layered with sauce, then cheese, then other stuff, it’s covered in cavalamitsi.”
She opens the lid and I’m a little afraid of what I’ll see.
“It’s macaroni and cheese.” I stare at it.
“What?” She tugs a piece onto a plate she’s removed from the interior of the box lid.
“We have that on Earth, but we call it macaroni and cheese.”
“Oh. Neat. Want to try?” She offers me the slice.
“Yeah. Thanks. Want to try mine?” I lift the lid.
“I dunno.” She eyes it warily. “No offense, but it’s kind of weird for me.”
I pull a slice of it onto my plate, next to the mac and cheese version. “How’s it weird?”
She bites her lip, reluctant to answer.
“It’s okay. I won’t get offended.”
“It’s that.” She indicates my favorite topping with an outstretched finger, which makes tiny, pointy circles. “It comes from such a dangerous-looking source, and it just seems strange to put on a pizza.”
“It’s just pineapple. It’s good. See?” I take a bite and chew to prove my point.
She looks unconvinced.
“I try things every day that I instinctively feel are a bad idea. But I try them anyway.” I raise my eyebrows at her.
“Ugh, you’re right, I’m being a baby. Okay. Let me try Earth-style pizza with pineapple.
”
I put a slice on her plate, then pick up the kind she likes and take a bite.
“Mm, this is delicious.” I’d have said so even if it hadn’t been, but it really is.
She releases a breath, sets her jaw, and takes a bite. She chews, looking thoughtful. “It’s not terrible,” she says slowly. “It’s kind of sweet.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It goes well with the acidic tomato sauce.” I finish off the slice of Garbdorian pizza, then start in on mine.
She finishes the slice, except for the crust, which she sets aside. Then she moves on to her own pizza with obvious relief.
“It’s okay if you don’t like it. You tried it, and that’s what matters.”
She smiles. “Thanks, Charlie. You’re the best.”
I’m sure that’s not true, but Greta sure makes it sound good.
After my second slice of pizza, I eat a fist-sized dumpling and I’m stuffed.
She polishes off a third slice of pizza and reaches for the mystery bag.
“What’s in there?”
“Fresh donuts!” She puts one on my plate, then one on hers.
They’re all roundy and caked with cinnamon sugar.
“These look fantastic.” I’m stuffed, but I bite into it anyway. Bliss! The outside has just a little bit of crunch, and the inside is so soft and cakey. “Wow. So good!”
“Right?” Greta chews, and her lips have a sandy coating of sugar. She looks adorable.
Then she sags into her chair. “I’m so full, though.”
“Me too. I can’t eat anything else. What do we do with all this food?”
She starts stacking it up. “I’ll find it a home. There are lots of other people confused about their dining options tonight, I’m sure.”
“I bet.”
“This was nice.” She gives me a sunny grin.
“Really nice. Thanks, Greta.”
We keep eye contact for a couple beats too long, and now this feels like a drawn out moment of expectation. Like in the movies, when people kiss.
Oh, man, I’m being weird again. I just know it.
“Let me help you with these!” I finish stacking the food containers and lift them.
She stands and walks to the door with me. Well, to be precise, she has to walk to the door first, and then out into the corridor. Then I have room to follow her and hand her the food.
“I really enjoyed this. I’m glad the menu got messed up.”
She laughs. “Sometimes even a mistake can be a lucky thing, right? I’m glad, too. Let’s do it again soon. Goodnight, Charlie.”
I lean against the door after it closes. It’s so foreign to me to connect bad luck to good luck, but she’s right. That’s what landed me here, after all.
Kenogu.
I change into my pajamas, then convert the table and chairs into my bed. I lie down and enjoy the sensation of a full stomach, a cabin that still smells delicious, and the lingering magic of Greta’s presence.
The next day, I am looking forward to visiting Perabo and seeing what the artist colony has to offer.
On the other hand, I have great trepidation about the elevator experience in getting there.
As Greta, Pinky, and I board, I’m tense with nervousness.
Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators.
I groan, bracing myself.
Now descending.
What? Greta and I blink at each other. It can’t be this easy.
We descend smoothly and without interruption. No weird jokes, no threatening to return to the top, just a simple ride down.
As we step off at the bottom, I look back at it, half-expecting something dramatic to happen. It doesn’t.
The ship has put us down at edge of the main thoroughfare. Each side of the street is lined with festive little shops. Some have wind chimes or streamers that flap in the gentle breeze and they range in color from sedate beige, which has a particular appeal for me, to a brilliant chartreuse that makes me a little nauseated.
I’m attracted to the little beige store, which is shaped like a little domed hut. “Should we start there?”
Pinky shrugs and Greta says, “Sure, why not?”
It’s a tidy, spare little place. Even Pinky has room to maneuver without worrying about knocking anything over. The shelves along the walls are lined with small driftwood carvings.
“How cute!” Greta points to a seagull that somehow appears to be smiling. “He’s so cheerful.”
“A Cheerful Seagull would make a good drink name, don’t you think?” I say.
“I think so. I’d try one.” Greta sidesteps, scanning the shelves.
“It could work,” Pinky says. “Sounds like it would be a tropical drink. I’ll think about it.”
“You could invent the next big fad,” I suggest.
Pinky likes that idea. I can tell. Her frown is more Hmm than her usual I enjoy smashing things look.
We find many pleasing carvings, but none of us appears to be in the market to purchase one. I prefer not to own much, and surely whatever Greta wants magically appears when she wants it. At least, that’s how I imagine it.
The next few shops are brightly colored and sell an assortment of decorative bottles, wall-hanging wish charms, and hand-painted miniature ships. All very interesting, but nothing I need.
I’m keeping an eye out for Mr. Renard’s shop. I don’t know where it’s located, but each time we approach a shop, I hope this will be it.
Not this time. But Greta’s delighted to have arrived at the glassblower. We don’t even notice the goods on display because we’re immediately entranced by the master herself at work. She’s rolling a long stick back and forth, back and forth over her work surface. At the end of the stick is, what I presume, a blob of molten glass.
I can’t even count the number of ways I’d injure myself with that.
Just to be safe, I stand behind Greta as we watch. When the master gets the glass to where she wants it, she puts her mouth to the end of the long stick and blows. The bulb expands slightly. More rolling.
Apparently, rolling is a very important part of this process. The master inserts the glass into a container on the floor that has a star-shaped cut out. She blows into the stick, and when she pulls the glass out, it’s now elongated, and has ridged sides.
Now that’s cool.
Pinky isn’t as fascinated. She’s moved off to study the completed works on display.
“Charlie, which one do you like?” She’s standing next to a collection of large sculptures.
Greta remains, watching the glassblower, and I join Pinky. In front of me are representations of an ocean wave, breaking high with lots of white foam, an octopus with dozens of tentacles, a ballerina, and a flower.
“The wave,” I answer. “It’s looks natural and fresh and free.”
“Me too.” She holds up her hand for a fist bump. “I’m going to check out the next place.” She lowers her voice “Glass doesn’t do much for me.”
“Okay, we’ll catch up in a few minutes.”
Pinky makes a hand sign that I interpret to be something akin to rock on or a thumbs-up, though on Earth, what she did would be considered a very rude gesture. Especially for Italians.
Okey dokey. Put that on my list of things that are way different out here in space.
I return to Greta, who doesn’t appear to have moved an inch.
She turns to smile at me. “Neat, isn’t it? I like how something can go from being one thing and transform into something completely different.”
“Yeah, it’s cool. Have you ever bought anything here?”
She laughs. “No. I spend almost all my time in space. Such fragile, purely decorative things aren’t a good fit for my lifestyle.”
“What about these?” I direct her to a counter that has a variety of small pendants. “These take up almost no space and shouldn’t be too prone to breakage.”
“Oh, I’ve never seen these. They must be new.” She leans for
ward to study them. They’re roughly oval-shaped flat discs with different patterns in them. Some are looping swirls, some seem to have suspended multi-colored pieces inside.
“Which do you like best?” I ask.
“They’re all so pretty. How about you pick one for me? I’m sure that one will be my favorite.”
There must be a hundred pendants. How do I choose?
I’ll be methodical. First, color. Green appeals to me, because it’s the color of the luck stone she gave me. There’s a reciprocity about that that seems right. Okay, so green. That narrows my choices to about one-fifth of the items. Now I just need to pick the pattern. I think the swirly ones suit Greta.
I settle on a green pendant with prominent whorls. It sort of reminds me of the circles inside a tree trunk. It feels natural and organic, and suitable for Greta.
“This one.” I hand it to her.
“It’s perfect. Definitely my favorite.” She looks so happy, I feel like I’ve performed some major feat.
“Do you have chains for these?” I call to the attendant behind the counter, but not too loudly because the glassblower is looking very intense about a glowing ball of glass.
“Yes, bring it over.” He’s a teenager with the good looks of youth. He bears a resemblance to the master, so I wonder if it’s her son. “What length do you like?”
He shows Greta a variety of lengths, while I go back to the pendants and select a deep blue one with pink swirls.
While she puts her necklace on, I ask, “How much?”
“Four hundred, all together.” Before Greta can protest, I whip out my account card, swipe it, enter my code, and it’s paid for. I put the second pendant, which is now on a long chain, in my pocket.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Greta chides me.
“I know. I wanted to. You gave me my luck stone. Now I’m giving you an adventure necklace. It’s fair, don’t you think?”
She beams at me. Then she seems to remember something. “Oh! We’d better catch up to Pinky or we’ll never find her.”
“How could she be too hard to spot? She’s Pinky.”
“You’d be surprised,” she says.
There’s a story behind that, I’m sure.
We find Pinky three doors down, sitting on a bench and eating an ice cream cone.