by Zen DiPietro
Seriously. If I hadn’t fallen for Greta first, I’d have fallen for Pinky.
“Good morning,” Waldorf says, sounding like Good Waldorf. “Can I get some pancakes? And one of those Virgin Whatever-It-Was that you gave me yesterday?”
“A Virgin Cheerful Seagull?”
I shoot a look at Pinky. We hadn’t yet agreed on the recipe. She raises an eyebrow at me. Okay. The recipe has been determined. I hope it’s blood free.
“You got it,” Pinky says. “And you?” she asks Second Waldorf.
Second Waldorf scowls at her. “I haven’t liked a single thing you’ve made. Actually, I’m leaving. You suck!”
He stalks out, leaving us all astounded.
Well, except for Pinky. She merely looks unimpressed.
“Please excuse my brother Statler,” Waldorf says. “He’s always been the negative part of us. I’ve always been the positive. Together, we figure, we balance each other out.”
Greta, Pinky, and I share a long look. Ohhh.
This explains a lot.
“No problem, Waldorf,” Pinky says. “One Virgin Cheerful Seagull coming up, And I’ve ordered pancakes from the dining room. They should arrive shortly.”
“That’s my girl!” Waldorf praises her. “I knew I could count on you.”
Amused and perplexed and not knowing quite how to feel, Greta and I join him at the bar.
That’s right. My arm is still around her shoulders. We sit on stools at the bar, and only then does my arm fall to my side, but you and I know it was around her. For way longer than just a buddy-buddy sort of thing. We’ve gone to the next level.
I settle into place and sigh. Not a sad sort of sigh, or a disappointed sort. I’m talking more of a sigh of satisfaction. Of belonging.
There are many kinds of sighs. Don’t rush to judgment on a mere expelling of breath.
Sandwiched between The Good Waldorf and Greta, with Pinky on the other side of the bar, I feel like I’ve arrived. I’m a redshirt who has endeavored his way into space, has been married and divorced, and who has looked death straight in the eye and thrown sand at it.
I’m a badass. Not Pinky sort of badass, but as badass as a redshirt gets.
Pinky slaps a drink in front of me. “Friendly Grandma,” she announces.
I take a sip.
It’s mild. It has a chicken soup sort of comforting feel, with just a hint of an astringent mothball flavor.
“Not my favorite,” I admit. Still, it reminds me of my nana. I still haven’t written her a letter. She may be a cyborg and all, but I think whatever part of her is still my nana would be really proud to hear of what I’ve accomplished.
I’m an anomaly for my people. An outlier. I’ve done things no other redshirt has. And survived it, too. She deserves to hear about it.
Pinky finishes off the Friendly Grandma, to my relief. Waldorf eats his pancakes. Greta happily pulverizes and eats a lushfruit muffin alongside a tall ice water. I decide to try a lushfruit muffin, too, since I’m being so darn daring.
Actually, lushfruit is a lot like pineapple. But I’m not going to tell Greta that.
She doesn’t stay as long as I’d like. She has that promo to shoot down on Mar de la Mar. Pinky and I agree to come down in a few hours to meet her. Afterwards, we’ll do the sightseeing and beach-going that we had intended to do before we got such a raw deal. Holy mackerel, did those loan sharks ever get schooled. Pinky cast a wide net, and then she reeled them right in. They took the bait and ended up green around the gills. That’s what bottom-feeders like them deserve.
Come on, now that it’s all over, I feel like we can indulge in a few fish jokes. I’m done now. I’ll let you off the hook.
Okay, now I’m really done.
When I get back to 25J, I sit down and activate the lightstream. It’s time to take care of something long overdue.
Dear Nana, I begin. I have some amazing news to share.
I pause, thinking about everything I have to tell her. There’s so much, and I’ve never been much of a wordsmith. Maybe I should start thinking about a visit.
I pull up the Second Chance itinerary and start planning. As I do, my eye catches on the photo booth picture of me, Greta, and Pinky. And Pinky’s flamingo.
Alone in my cabin, I laugh. Life just keeps getting better and better. Here’s hoping the next chapter is even greater.
A Visit to My Cyborg Nana
10
As I watch Greta Saltz, the love of my life (though she does not yet know this), I’m struck by her golden glow, her good humor, and her appalling manner of eating.
I’ve tried to get used to the way she decimates a hapless muffin into a pile of crumbs before eating it, but I can’t. It’s weird. To take a perfectly delicious-looking muffin and reduce it to hamster bedding is a crime against perfectly good food.
That muffin did nothing to deserve this kind of treatment.
But then Greta looks at me from the corner of her eye and smiles, and I know I’d forgive her anything. She could eat crackers in bed, and as long as I was there next to her, getting crackers in my crack, I’d make it work.
Even if it was the salted kind.
Not that I’ve even seen her bed. Or the inside of her cabin, for that matter. I’ve been on the Second Chance for months now, staring death in the face and screaming…ahem…I mean overcoming. Overcoming like a badass.
Yeah, that’s right.
By this point, I’ve figured out what’s what when it comes to living on an interstellar ship. How to properly use the water closet, how to get by Gus the Head Porter’s scathing condescension for sectarian rubes, and even how to mix a good cocktail.
I make a fantastic Indefinite Tailpipe Twister, and my Oblivious Flashers are every bit as good as Pinky’s.
I’ve always known that a redshirt like me can’t get a girl like Greta Saltz. She’s cute, fun, smart, and gosh-darn-it, people just like her. Part of it is her luck—a preternatural cosmic black hole of good fortune that comes her way. But part of it is also just Greta. She’s a Garbdorian goddess, as far as I’m concerned.
Yes, I’m a dipshit for refusing to acknowledge that she’s out of my league. But you know what? Screw leagues. This isn’t baseball. This is my life, and for a redshirt—a guy who should have already died from a papercut or a yeti-gator or some stupid thing—I am the man. Charlie Kenny: a rock star among my people.
It’s all relative.
As I watch Greta eat her disgustingly pre-pulverized breakfast, I’m not looking at her with rose-colored glasses, or beer goggles, or any other eyewear that’s catastrophic to my life choices. I’m looking at her as a man looks at a woman who is flawed and imperfect and more beautiful to him than anything else in the universe.
That’s true love, right?
“Want another Backdoor Special?” Pinky asks from behind the bar.
It’s become my breakfast drink of choice, from the very first time she served me one on the very first day we met. I don’t have them every morning. Only on the mornings we do fork training to help me work through that particular phobia.
Pinky is the other great love of my life. Not in the way that Greta is, though. I’m not nearly man enough to think about even being adjacent to a bed with Pinky anywhere near my relative vicinity. I’m not sure anyone is.
Actually, I really, really want to see the guy who can go toe-to-toe (literally) with Pinky and live to tell the tale. He’d have to be something amazing. Seven feet of pink Mebdarian mutant is enough to give any guy serious feelings of inadequacy.
And I know guys are her thing, so don’t think I’m assuming, like some sectarian rube.
I think this is a good time to let you in on a little secret. Remember that whole affair with me and my fishwife? Being a married man and then a divorced man, and then just kind of a confused man, helped me get my priorities straight.
At least marriage is good for something.
I realized that I have a lot more life to live. Not the scuttling-under-a-rock-
like-a-frightened-crab kind of a life. I mean the big picture. What I want out of life. What I want to experience before I die.
That’s what made me realize how precious Greta is, and that I must cherish every day I get to spend in her presence. Ideally, I’d like that to be in the I-get-to-see-her-naked kind of way, but even if it means nothing more than being friends, I’m good with that too.
That’s how much I love her. It’s not about what I can put claim to. It’s about what I’m lucky to receive.
Back to the secret. I meant to tell you about that, then I got distracted with Greta. It happens a lot.
Anyway, I bought a red shirt.
I know. I know. Don’t look at me like that. I bought it, but I haven’t worn it yet. Even having it folded in my tiny little storage compartment feels like I’m sitting on top of a bundle of warmth designed only for attracting a heat-seeking missile.
So don’t give me a lecture about how a redshirt owning a red shirt is just begging for trouble. If anyone knows that, it’s me. Seriously.
But think about it from my perspective. I’m sitting across the bar from Pinky, the baddest person who has ever been born on any plant, ever, and sitting next to Greta, the love of my life.
Can you blame me for wanting to be more than the sum of my parts? For wanting to look death in the face and laugh? Okay, to be honest, I don’t laugh. I just hide behind Pinky. But still. I’m right there, facing death, all the same, and surviving. That’s a long way from the guy who intended to live out his days on a Mebdarian retirement planet.
The way I figure it, my phobia about forks, and the one about being strangled by my pants and—well, okay, all my phobias—it all comes down to me being a redshirt, right? So if I actually put that thing on, and I wear it, and I don’t die…doesn’t that mean I’ve won?
Not that today’s the day. I feel like tomorrow’s not the day, either. But the shirt is there, where I could even touch it if I wanted to. And my intent is in place. So one of these days…yeah. One of these days, I will face the redshirt apocalypse, and wear that red shirt, and I will survive, and it will be glorious.
Just not today. Or tomorrow. Next week doesn’t look good, either.
I mean, I’m not stupid.
“I miss Waldorf,” Greta sighs. “He was so sweet.”
“Not like his bastard of a brother,” Pinky notes. “I’m glad to get that paranoid nut off my ship. If I’d known he was disembarking, I’d have attended, just so I could kick his ass on his way off.”
Greta and I pause to look at Pinky. It’s a certain solidarity between us, our mutual appreciation for Pinky’s take-no-shit attitude and the social discomfort that sometimes comes along with her blunt views.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if I hadn’t fallen for Greta first, I’d have fallen for Pinky.
Pinky turns away and begins her violent ballet of drink making.
I’m a little sad about our recently departed Waldorf. He and his brother have left us for Mebdar IV. Ironically, it’s the retirement colony I was planning to inhabit when I first arrived on the Second Chance. But Waldorf will quickly become popular, I’m sure, and his brother Statler will hopefully find the right elements to keep him content in his own cranky milieu.
“Our next big port is Summadonna,” Greta says between bites. “I’m trying to think of a nice boarding gift for the new guests.”
As the brand ambassador of the Garbdorian Fleet, Greta has a duty to the guests of the Second Chance. Recently, she handed out flower necklaces as newcomers boarded, which I’d described to her as leis. That resulted in much confusion and hilarity, and she’s switched to welcoming guests with more benignly named goods.
“Should we visit Summadonna?” I ask. “I’ve never been there.”
Greta looks thoughtful. “Most of the planet is basic suburbia. Pleasant enough, but nothing special. The port, though, has a great laundromat. That’s why so many people board from there.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine what makes a laundromat such a popular destination, but it must be pretty good. “Laundromats are really dull where I’m from. Let’s check it out.”
“Cool,” Greta says. “It’ll be fun. Pinky loves the laundromat.”
“What’s so great about it?” I ask Pinky.
She shrugs. “It’s a chance to get out of the rut and do something different.”
Maybe this is a cultural thing that humans have been doing all wrong. For us, it’s a mundane necessity at best.
“I’m looking forward to it, then.”
Greta looks pleased. “I didn’t think you’d want to go. This will be fun.” She notices the time. “Oh, I’d better run! I have a teleconference on the lightstream in five minutes.” She stands, stuffing the last of her muffin crumbs into her mouth as she does.
“New job offer?” I ask. She gets them all the time. Most of them, she turns down. She only chooses the ones that sound interesting or fun.
She nods and, since her mouth is full, she strikes a bodybuilder pose, with her arms hanging in front of her, bent at the elbows, hands in fists.
“Exercise equipment?” I guess.
She shakes her head.
“Nutritional supplements,” Pinky says.
Greta nods, waves, and hurries out of the bar.
“She won’t take it,” Pinky predicts. “She doesn’t like that kind of thing. Too much of an individual-results-may-vary thing.”
“Yeah. She doesn’t want to rep anything that disappoints people.”
“She’s a peach that way.” Pinky clears Greta’s plate and wipes the bar.
“I like that about her, too.” I finish the last sip of my drink, which is only aperitif-sized because I have work of my own to do today. “Well, I’d better get to work. Those statistics won’t analyze themselves.”
Pinky shrugs. She has no interest in my work.
“I’ll come back to help with the dinner rush,” I add. Pinky always gets inundated with drink orders from the dining room and room service that time of day.
“Sure. See you then.” She doesn’t turn to look at me.
I don’t take it personally. I walk the long way around the corridor to my cabin, stretching my legs a bit before I sit down for hours of analytical work via the lightstream.
I crunch numbers, do regressions, and interpret results for the next eight hours. Finally, when I’m ready to join Pinky to work the dinner hour, I check my messages. My boss has been known to deliver end-of-day work that absolutely must be done immediately. He’s kind of a jerk that way.
There’s nothing from work, but I have received a letter from my nana.
Dear Charlie,
Received your message. The news that you are not dead is very satisfactory. I had assumed your death to be a foregone conclusion. Your accomplishments show an adequacy previously unknown to our family.
Nana used to be like other grandmothers. She patted my head and praised even the most basic of efforts, and always had baked goods to share. Ever since the cyborgs assimilated her, she’s been underwhelmingly…well, underwhelming. I realize that’s repetitive, but it’s the best description of her. You’ll see.
She’s sort of like my nana, in that she remembers her experiences and still likes baking. However, she’s not the nana I once knew due to her marked lack of warmth or personality of any kind.
Nana’s crazy strong now, though, and has much greater perception than us mere biological beings. I guess that’s some sort of trade-off for the other things.
Anyway, back to the letter.
Given your recent improbable success, maybe you could provide me with assistance. The cyborg union has denied me a replacement for my acoustic interlink, as well as repairs on my right shoulder. These things are problematic. I either can’t hear what I should, or I hear things that don’t exist. My shoulder prevents normal movement. If you get back to Earth, maybe you could help me find replacements? I also wouldn’t hate seeing you for a visit. I’ll make you some rai
sin bread.
Love,
Nana
She only uses that last bit because she knows she’s supposed to. I don’t think she’s capable of feeling love as we know it. She needs help, though, and she’s still my nana. Why the cyborg union goes around assimilating hapless grannies and then not giving them proper maintenance, I don’t know.
If I’m lucky, she’ll forget her promise of raisin bread. Nana used to be a first-rate cook, but everything she makes now comes out tasting like robot ass. I prefer not to think about why.
I pull up the current itinerary of the Second Chance. We’re already on a course back to Earth, so visiting Nana is a no-brainer. First we’ve got the stop at Summadonna, then on to Mars. From there we’ll be full-on to Earth.
A certain ambivalence comes over me. Earth is home, and home is always a good thing. On the other hand, my entire life on Earth was one of anxiety and bad luck. If it weren’t for Nana needing help, I don’t think I’d even leave the ship during that stopover.
But what kind of guy doesn’t help his ailing nana, even if she is a cyborg? I don’t really have a choice here.
That means after the laundromat and Mars, Charlie Kenny will be making his triumphant return to Earth.
11
“Going back home, huh?” Pinky jiggles the hell out of a silver cocktail shaker, looking more like she’s murdering the thing than mixing a drink.
“Yeah.” I’ve explained to her my nana’s plight, and am hoping she’ll offer to help. I’ll need her and Greta both if I’m going to make this work.
“I’ve never visited Earth,” Pinky muses as she pours a Cheerful Seagull into a glass and garnishes it with an orange slice. “I guess I could check it out with you. You can show me some sights after we help out your grandma.”
If sightseeing is the price I must pay for Pinky’s help, then that’s what I’ll do. “Sure. We can get some funnel cake.”
“Funnel what?” Pinky’s looking at me like I’ve suggested we lick filth off the floor.
“Cake. It’s a fried dough. They put sugar on it. It’s good.”