by Chase Connor
I promised myself quietly, as I scaled the stairs, that there would be no more driving even after a single drink. I would prepare to stay wherever I was when I drank. At least the house was dark and quiet at such a late hour, so I didn’t have to worry about Oma waking up and cursing me out, or worse, just staring at me in disappointment. When I finally crested the top of the stairs, I crept past her door, probably a lot less stealthily than I felt I did in my drunken state, and went down to the room I was staying in while at Oma’s.
Inside of my room, once I had shut the door, I began to strip. The coat got tossed on the couch, my shoes got kicked off haphazardly at the end of the bed. My jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped, and shimmied out of, left to lay on the floor a few feet from the shoes. Then my shirt was stripped off and tossed in the direction of the couch. It fluttered to the floor in a heap, which made me giggle for some reason. I chuckled drunkenly to myself as I stumbled over to the couch and picked up my shirt, somehow managing to not tumble forward myself. Once I rose, my head swam and I giggled again as I worked to balance myself. I finally dropped the shirt on the couch and I blinked drunkenly, trying to assess whether or not a trip to the bathroom to puke was in order or not.
Blurrily, I gazed out of the window that looked down on the backyard. Someone was in the garden. They were shrouded in a hooded cloak of some kind, hands aloft, towards the sky. Several shadowy creatures were circled around them. My head swam again as I stared down at what obviously had to be a hallucination in Oma’s garden. Next thing I knew, my head was on my pillow in bed.
Chapter 10
My dreams were filled with shadowy, scurrying creatures once again. I slept like a log, however, never once waking up from sounds or thoughts of my room or bed being invaded. Even when my mind was telling me that something was curled up by my feet, I continued to sleep. When I woke in the morning, I felt well-rested, but my head was not entirely happy with me. I sat on the edge of my bed for quite a while after taking my Paxil, then slid out of bed to start my day. The room only moved a little. Surely Oma was already at the breakfast table, waiting on me, but I figured getting bathed and washing up was important before showing my face. She would know that I had been out very late, but I didn’t need to give her another reason to worry, such as looking hungover.
So, I bathed. I washed my hair good. I dried myself off, styled my hair, shaved my face, put on fresh, clean clothes. I picked up my room and made everything presentable, hiding all evidence that I had come in drunk and disorderly. When I finally got down to the kitchen thirty minutes later, I looked bushy-tailed and alert. First and foremost, I was an actor, after all. I’d had plenty of practice looking ready when I was anything but. Oma was sitting at the table, a half-finished plate of food in front of her, and mine was sitting in my spot, ready to be eaten.
Eggs, bacon, hash browns.
My stomach only churned a little.
Oma eyed me stoically, looking up from her phone every now and then as I got a glass of water and a mug of coffee and joined her at the table. As I sat, she set her phone down and looked up at me.
“Good morning.” I smiled.
“You may be a good actor, but you ain’t foolin’ me.”
“I’m sorry?” I picked up my fork.
“Lucas done texted to ask if you got home safe because you forgot to text him yourself, ya’ dumbass.” She swatted at my arm. “What are you doing driving home drunk?”
“I was totally fine.” I waved her off.
My stomach churned and I had to shut my mouth to make sure nothing came up.
“You’re so fucking stupid.” She rolled her eyes.
“Okay.” I sighed. “Maybe I had a little too much wine. But I’m here and I’m fine. Let’s not fight.”
“Got a headache?” She pursed her lips.
“Not anymore.” I burped slightly.
“Mmhm.”
“We were just having a good time and I lost track of time and how much I drank…and, look, let’s just drop it.”
“Fine.” She said. “Make sure you text Lucas.”
“Okay.”
We sat in silence for several minutes, eating our food, Oma happily, me forcing it down. I drank my water slowly but steadily, hoping it would help everything going on with my body. Luckily, I was only in my mid-twenties. I hadn’t been drunk in a very long time, but I knew I would bounce back by lunchtime. And, apparently Lucas had already bounced back.
“Snitch.” I muttered between mouthfuls.
“Who?!”
“Lucas.”
“He was just making sure you were fine, ya’ asshole.” She swatted my arm again. “So…did you two have fun? Like I need to ask.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged. “I mean, yeah. Lucas is a really nice guy. I think we’re blood brothers now or formed a gang or something.”
Oma couldn’t help but laugh.
“Lucas is…nice.”
“He’s more than nice.” She snorted. “He’s a wonderful kid, and…”
“He’s older than me.” I eyed her. “I don’t think ‘kid’ is the appropriate term for what he is.”
She waved me off.
“Regardless, I’m glad you enjoy each other’s company.”
“Can I ask you a favor?” I asked with an evil grin before shoving eggs into my mouth, suddenly feeling better.
“I suppose.” She pursed her lips again. “I mean, I guess I owe you for not dying on your way home last night, huh?”
“Oma.”
She rolled her eyes and gestured for me to continue.
“I think Lucas needs a girlfriend.” I leaned in conspiratorially. “And I know a certain busybody who might be able to help with that. So, what do you say?”
She stood brusquely from the table and took her plate to the sink.
“Whoa.” I sat back in my chair. “I didn’t mean to piss you off. The busybody thing was just a joke. Don’t get all testy, Oma.”
“I ain’t mad.” She grumbled over her shoulder.
“Seems like it…”
“Well, I’m not helping you find him a girlfriend, and that’s that.”
“Why not?” I frowned. “I don’t know anyone around here, and he’s not so keen on Jill at the café, and…”
“There’s not a girl around here for Lucas.” She turned and glared at me.
I held my hands up defensively.
“Okay.” I said. “I get it. You’re protective of Lucas. Jeez.”
“And don’t you dare even suggest to him that I’m going to set him up on no dates.” Oma glared at me. “You hear me, ya’ asshole?”
“How drunk did you get last night?” I snorted.
“Just don’t.”
“Fine.” I rolled my eyes.
“Good!” She growled, then calmed down. “I tried to set him up once and it blew up in my face and he got kinda perturbed with me and I promised I wouldn’t do it anymore.”
“That’s all you had to say, crazy.” I shoved hash browns into my mouth. “Well, if he got mad at you…I guess me doing it would be worse.”
She smiled slightly.
“Well, you are blood brothers and all now.” She teased.
I chuckled.
“Worry about yourself.” She waved me off. “You didn’t forget you’re going out with Andrew tonight did you?”
“Shit.” I lowered my head to the table.
“Shouldn’t’ve got so drunk last night, you sot.” She chastised me.
I sat there, my head laid against the table, wondering if there was a way to diplomatically get out of the date with Andrew. But I knew it would offend him no matter what and Oma would absolutely disown me—if not outright kill me. There was no way that I wasn’t going to be taking Andrew out for a dinner, at his place of choice, probably in Toledo, but he might even insist that we drive into Cleveland.
Getting stuck in a car with Andrew for an hour or more, one way, was just too much for me to consider with the state I was in at breakfast. M
aybe I could convince him to let me meet him wherever it was that we were going to meet. I considered that as an option to limiting one-on-one time with the eye-fucker, but thought that might be considered rude. This wasn’t a blind date, after all. We’d been properly introduced and manners most likely dictated that we ride together to wherever it was we were going to eat.
“Does Andrew live in Point Worth?” I asked Oma as I lifted my head and she cleared my plate away.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Well, I wasn’t going to be able to reason that it was ridiculous for him to drive to Point Worth from Toledo to just pick me up. Oma washed up the dishes as I sat there and rehydrated and sipped my coffee. After she had placed the plates and cutlery and pants in the draining tray, she turned and looked across the kitchen, out of the window. She seemed lost in her own thoughts for a minute before turning to me.
“I have a confession.”
I looked up at her with a cocked eyebrow, coffee mug held to my lips.
“I done texted Andrew and told him to be here by five to pick you up.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s going to take you into Toledo for Indian food.”
She rolled her eyes.
“That way he can get you home before dark tonight.” She added.
“Um, okay?”
I didn’t know if I was pissed off or relieved.
“You were out too late last night anyway, so tonight you should be home and in bed at a decent time. That’s all!” She said.
“I didn’t say anything.” I snorted.
“Well, anyway, he’ll be here at five.”
“So…you didn’t mind me going to dinner at Lucas’ near dark and getting drunk…but you’re worried about me being out after dark with Andrew?” I grinned widely. “Are you worried about my virtue?”
“Lucas is a good ki—young man.” She said. “Andrew…well, I don’t spend a lot of time with him away from the center except for an occasional coffee or something. I don’t want him to think you’re…ya’ know.”
“Easy?” I smiled sweetly.
“Sure. Let’s go with that.” She nodded. “I just don’t know him as well as Lucas by a long bit, so it’s different.”
“You’re too cute for words, Oma.”
“Look—it’s just—tonight—just make sure you’re home before dark, damnit.” She stammered.
“Calm down, crazy.” I laughed. “I didn’t want to go on the date anyway. This was all your crazy idea.”
“Maybe we could reschedule…”
“What?” I was so confused, but amused as well. “Why would I reschedule? If I’m going to go on this damn date, I want to just get it out of the way. Maybe he won’t be so bad? I mean, he seemed a little pervy and all—but what man isn’t to some extent, right?”
“Degrading your own gender.”
“Well, I mean, it’s true.” I shrugged. “Most guys have a little pervert in them. Some just control it better than others.”
“I guess so.” She chewed at her lip. “Well, anyway, be ready at five.”
“Okay.” I shrugged and stood from the table. “Whatever you say, boss.”
“Get the Hell out of here.” She waved me off violently.
As I left the kitchen, she was typing away on her phone like her life depended upon it. I just said a silent prayer to myself that she would find whatever help she needed for her mental health issues. First, she wanted me to go out with someone, then she didn’t. She talked to herself and slammed doors and acted crazy every time I turned around. Oma was definitely in need of a prescription for an SSRI herself, as far as I could tell. Possibly an antipsychotic.
Chapter 11
The drive to Toledo with Andrew had not been as bad as I had thought that it would be. Andrew had picked me up at Oma’s house a few minutes until five and was perfectly respectable towards me and even more polite with Oma. He hadn’t leered at me lasciviously when I had answered the door, nor had he made any inappropriate comments about my outfit or how I looked. I mean, he had said that I looked “very handsome” but he had done it with an appropriate tone and look in his eyes, so no harm, no foul.
On the ride into Toledo, he kept to his side of the car as he drove us down the highway, making small talk about his work. I made sure to steer every question and answer back to him and what he did as to avoid admitting that I was a famous actor who he just hadn’t recognized yet. Andrew informed me that he was financial manager at a corporation in downtown Cleveland, and I quickly lost interest. Not that it didn’t sound exciting in its own right, but he started talking numbers and cost estimation and financial statements and cash-flow statements and profit projections and my eyes glazed over. I had never been one to think that business and accounting was an exciting career to consider, mostly because I hated numbers. I tried to remind myself that many people found the business world to be fast paced and exciting, but I just couldn’t make myself get incredibly interested in what he had to say about his job. Did that make me an asshole? Probably. But I tried and failed to show much of an honest interest in what Andrew did for a living.
When we got to the restaurant, valet service parked Andrew’s car and we entered, Andrew making a big show of opening the door for me. I did my best to look impressed by his manners. We were seated without incident, though the host of the restaurant did a double take when he saw me. It was almost a look of recognition, but it quickly disappeared as the host seemed to convince himself that he was just being ridiculous in thinking that I was who I am. Once we were seated, Andrew ordered a beer and I asked simply for a water as I was trying to get over my hangover still. It wasn’t bad, but it was lingering.
Immediately, I picked up my menu, giving it a glance before realizing that the Indian food offered was pretty standard. Andrew leaned in, using his finger bowl to wash his hands. I disregarded the finger bowls as I planned to eat with my cutlery. Andrew noticed that I didn’t wash my hands and gave me a five-minute lecture about how all Indians eat with their hands and what the purpose of the bowl was. He also told me that traditionally, we would be sitting on the floor on comfortable mats to eat if we were eating like real Indians. I had asked him if he had ever traveled to India and he confessed that he had not, but he hoped to go one day.
It was difficult, but I kept myself from informing him that in Northern and Western India, if you ate with your hands, they might tell you that you “ate like a Bengali”, which was not a compliment, and that not all Indians ate with their hands. In fact, a lot of Indians regarded guests in their homes and at their table as higher than God. If cutlery was asked for, and it was available, it would be provided—no questions or comments. Additionally, it was quite common for restaurants, hotels, and upper-middle class homes in India to have tables and chairs for those who were dining.
When he gave me a lecture about how samosas were his favorite Indian pastries and how they had originated there, I had to hold my tongue again. Then he talked at length about how most Indian food was highly seasoned but rarely had enough spiciness for him, I was tempted to “accidentally” kick his shin under the table. God, he was arrogant. And he knew the effect his looks and charisma had on other diners at other tables. I wanted to throw my water in his face. But I also found him very attractive and desirable, so there was an epic battle between good and evil going on inside my head. He seemed to put off some type of pheromone that made me want to drag him across the table and have angry sex with him right there. However, he was just arrogant enough that I wanted to throw my water in his face more than I wanted to fuck him.
After we had ordered—Andrew opting for Chicken Tikka (Northern India) and I opted for Bhindi Masala, also from Northern India—Andrew asked if I ever managed to travel much. Feigning ignorance, I told him that I didn’t get to travel much and wished I could travel more. The second part was true, so I didn’t feel too bad about the first part being a lie. Then I was treated to a lecture about how travel was the best education. He ask
ed where I went to college. I told him I hadn’t. He asked what I did for a living. I told him that right now I was between jobs. At first, I wanted to be embarrassed at my answers to his questions, but realized that maybe sounding like a roustabout would make him less interested in dating me.
Unfortunately, it didn’t.
Sounding like I was uneducated, not worldly at all, and unable to find gainful employment just made me a prime target for his arrogant belief that he was better than me in almost every way and needed to educate me. If it made the date easier, I was willing to have him believe that I was just some country bumpkin. However, when he told me that he really wanted to travel more because racism was almost solely an American problem—I wanted to hit him. For someone, who racism was obviously a very prominent issue, I thought it was so ignorant to not be aware of racism and ethnic cleansing and classism in other countries. Even people who looked similar to others in a country might commit acts of war and genocide over preconceived superiority.
I kept my mouth shut.
“So, what do you think you’ll do, once you go back to work?” Andrew asked as he struggled to pull some Chicken Tikka off of its skewer with some Naan and shove it into his mouth. “Surely you have something in mind?”
I shrugged, using my spoon to scoop up some of my food.
“I don’t know.” I replied honestly. “I’m not so sure what I want to do next. If at all.”
“Well, we all have to have money to survive, right?” He smiled at me, his thumb covered in sauce. “You can’t just sit at home and live off of your savings forever.”