Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (11 page)

CHAPTER 19

I
won’t lie. Mr. Preston is hot. His ties coordinate well with his
socks—today he’s got on a sheer zigzag pattern on both—and
his hair hugs his scalp so tightly you can see the craftsmanship of his
hairdresser. Not a single stroke of their blade was misused, and not a single
blade of hair remains out of place. Together, his hair is almost a public art
installation. His body gives his suit form. No missed workouts.

And
when he’s in the office, sometimes I’ll peek over my shoulder.
I’ll glance during breaks, watching him uncross and cross his legs with
the news playing on his lap via cell phone. Or sometimes he’ll hold his
phone to his face, typing a text to somebody else in the building.

Because
I man the front desk though, we rarely interact. He passes by frequently to
make sure I’m okay, but these stops will stop when I’m accustomed
to the way of life here.

“For
the weekends, we don’t book. So you can leave those rows empty.”

He
hovers over my shoulder, guiding me on what to check and not check. They have
an entire book, a keeping system that allows him to run his business. I’m
not dumb, but he likes to instruct and spill all the rules for me. Every square
inch of Jim’s Tax Services is explained. Where the bathrooms are. Who my
coworkers are—who I’ll never see anyway.

“Are
you comfortable?”

“Yes,”
I say, managing a quick smile. “I’ve got everything in order, and
I’m ready.”

“Fantastic.
If you need anything, I’ll be in the back. You can also dial two.”

Manning
the front desk bores me though. You sit and wait for calls and look pretty but
that’s it. No sense of accomplishment, unlike, strangely, my other
“job”.

Empire
was the word Bishop used. He built an empire, a world that he alone soldered
together, heat and raw passion. A wanting to thrive and escape oppression.

Is
what I’m doing crazy? Leaving a perfectly financially stable option?

My
ego, my pride. Is that what’s stopping me?

“Violet.”

I
turn around in my swivel chair. Mr. Preston.

“Just
passing through again. But I wanted to tell you we’re having our weekly
company lunch at twelve, and you’re more than welcome to join in.”

“That
would be great.”

And
off he goes again. I can’t help but watch the swagger in his walk, his
hip motion wavering from side to side.

Bishop
and I haven’t discussed anything exclusive yet, so I don’t feel too
terribly awful about watching eye candy pass me by. Besides, if men can do that
to women, women certainly can do that to men.

I
couldn’t have anything with him anyway though. He’s my boss. Not an
option to date. You’re not supposed to date your superiors.

I’m
a bad girl trying to go good.

It’s
a struggle that I hope ends soon.

CHAPTER 20

“You’ve
been busy lately. I feel like we’re strangers.” Bishop holds a
bouquet of red roses. The plastic wrapper covering them crinkles in his hands,
and he passes them while I smell the sweet sting of nature.

“I
know.” Though really it’s been two days since we last got together.
Not too extreme or anything. “You didn’t have to get roses.”

“You
deserve every one. After listening to me, I wanted to do something nice. Extra
nice.”

I
hold the roses and peek at the individual petals. They’re incredibly
flushed with color, as if someone had painted them aquarelle style, a dreamy
bouquet.

I
put the roses on my bedroom nightstand. Piranha’s out and so is Caddy,
thus Bishop and I have free reign of the apartment. Today, I figure, would be a
good day to introduce him to another aspect of my life: where I live.

“I’ll
say it’s all very cozy.”

“Thank
you,” I say. “It’s nothing like yours though.”

“As
I said. Cozy.” He plops himself on my bed and crosses his legs, hands
behind his head.

“It’s
a little messy.”

Bishop
draws his eyes to the clear floor below. It’s all carpet, brown, and dust
free. I spent hours combing through, trying to make the place spotless, more a
palace for a queen than a hoodlum’s abode. His eyes go to the walls,
which are blank, plaster, and somewhat yellowed. There’s a table opposite
the bed but it’s nonfunctional. I haven’t sat at that desk in ages.
Since school, perhaps.

I
plop myself next to Bishop. His body radiates this energy, not a sexual one,
but a comforting one. It would be best described as falling into warm ocean
water, where the waves crash onshore. You wade at the waist-high depths, and
see the oncoming waves. They don’t seem strong—the ocean is
picturesque rather than strong, beautiful and fragile rather than a tempest
force. But when the waves do hit, they slam right into you, smacking you
backwards and down under. The ocean’s might. Bishop’s gravity. Him.

“You
are seriously just magnetizing,” I say. “It’s not even
infatuation anymore. At first, I thought, ‘Wow, hot guy.’”
Bishop chuckles. I inhale his scent like you might the ocean spray. It’s
pleasant and calms me. “Then,” I say, “you and I spoke to one
another. And everything just clicked. We’re on the same wavelength. I
spent years lingering in this city, languishing, not waiting, but getting
by.”

“The
same,” Bishop says.  

“And
when I told you about my real job, my real line of work, how I’ve been
able to afford my lifestyle. You didn’t judge me. You were quick on
hearing the details first, on listening.”

“I
like to listen to you.”

“And
I love that. Honestly.”

There’s
a pause in our conversation. The L-bomb was dropped.

Though
I didn’t say I loved him. I’m in the gray zone, the nebulous area
where you’re just unsure of how things might work out in the future, of
where things might go. How things might be.

“I
love you’re sense of duty,” Bishop says. “That’s the
best trait a girl could have. You did it before even I did, admitting what you
do.”

“I’m
sure you would’ve eventually.”

“I
was scared to. It’s not easy saying you’re a gambling head.
Admitting your sins is hard to do.”

“It
is kind of silly though,” I say, stroking his leg. He’s wearing
tight-fitting jeans, the boot cut style. “In a perfect world, we
wouldn’t have to feel bad about what we do.”

“No.”

“We
would just live our lives without others’ judgments.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m
still conflicted. I went in for work the other day. Boss is nice. Work is nice.
Pay is horrible. Not nearly what I would be making doing the cheating
thing.”

“It’s
hard because I want to do good too. I want to do a normal job, have a normal
routine, but like you…the freedom. The independence it’s given me.
I remember playing countless nights back home, I’d gamble with the
neighborhood “bad kids” just to spite my parents secretly.

“It’s
kind of weird. I’ve always wanted control in my life, and I chose
gambling as way to do so. You feel a sort of ownership when you gamble. For me,
it’s the same sort of peace that I get when I think about God. Control
over uncertainty.”

“Control
over uncertainty. I totally can see where you’re coming from.”

Bishop
turns to me and cradles my hands in his. He stares intently, studying my face,
my scars. It’s as if my face was once an unintelligible story, and now
he’s parsed the foundational elements of who I am.

“You’re
a good person,” Bishop says. “I don’t think we’re bad
people. Just caught in awkward circumstances.”

“I
know what you mean. I’d like so much more…it just gets lonely doing
it all by yourself. Even though you can be alone but not lonely, the realities
of situations just sort of…creeps on you.”

“You
feel stuck.”

“Exactly.
We’re on the same page again. Always.”

“You
feel stuck and can’t go anywhere. Like if you choose option A,
you’re shooting yourself in the boot. Option B, and you’re shooting
yourself in the other boot.”

“Boot.”
I giggle. “That’s cute. It’s foot though.”

“Same
story, different words.”

I
put my ear to his heart. “I can hear everything inside you.”

“And
you too.” He laces his pinky finger around my ear lobe.
“We’re connected now. And it’ll only get stronger.”

We
don’t have sex. Instead, I just look at the roses and admire them.  

Piranha
comes home before Caddy. She enters her room and starts up the National Anthem
in case Bishop hasn’t already heard it.

“So
good to finally meet you,” she says to him, “wow, you are handsome.
I can see why she likes you so.”

Bishop
tilts his head and shrugs.

“Nice
to meet you too.”

“Tonight
I’ll be making baked chicken with some parmesan seasoning. Do you like
that sound?”

“Yeah,
yeah, sure,” Bishop says, nodding and smiling. But Piranha flicks her
wrist, as if he said something stupid. “No,” she says, “I
mean the Anthem. Do you like the National Anthem played this way? I have other
versions.”

So
throughout the night, Piranha makes dinner, while making the occasional remark
about general American society. Bishop’s not even foreign, he
doesn’t need an intro to “our world”, but she insists on
playing tour guide for the native. That’s her prerogative, I guess.

Caddy
comes home later in the evening, somewhere around seven or eight. He avoids
looking at me, only bothering to glance briefly as an acknowledgement. When he
spots Bishop, he stays in his room, that is until Piranha serves dinner.

“You
two are so cute together,” she says, slicing up a piece of breast for us
all. “You are like red and white. You could make blue together, you
know?”

Sometimes,
Piranha, is just too weird.

“Kids
are way too early in the discussion,” I say. Bishop agrees with a curt,
awkward, “Yeah. I’m not too good with babies anyways.”

“You
seem so happy,” Piranha continues, “and if you’re happy, I
am. Caddy is too.”

Caddy
himself offers a curt, “Yeah,”

The
table remains an awkward assemblage of people who don’t want to be here,
save for one, the ever cheerful Piranha. She yaps on and on about the discounts
she gets at work, and even explains the mechanisms behind our cheating
operation. As if Bishop needs to know, but hey, her prerogative and all.

“You
can web design?” Bishop says.

“Yeah,”
I say, “sort of learned it in college, screwing around after
class.”

Caddy
glances at me. I read his face:
Screwing around after class? She really
means screwing guys after class…

“I
would love to see some of your designs.”

“After
dinner, I can show you.”

“She
was supposed to update the website too,” Caddy says, “but
she’s been so busy.”

“I’ll
do it tonight. Don’t worry.” Caddy chews on his chicken, munching
like he’s chewing gum.

Dinner
wraps up, and Piranha says, “Did everyone enjoy?”

“Yes,”
everyone says, though some more enthusiastic than others. Caddy pushes himself
away from the table first and drops his plate clattering into the sink. He
moseys on to his bedroom and shuts the door quietly.

“You’re
friend seemed angry,” Bishop whispers to me. “Is he all
right?”

“He’s
dealing with change. Some things going on in his life. I’ll explain
later.”

 
We go to Piranha’s bedroom, and she logs onto her computer. I show Bishop
the designs I’d created a long time ago, plus the new logos I’d
stopped working on prior to my existential job crisis.

“These
are so professional looking,” he says. “You shouldn’t even
have to do receptionist work. Forget that. Look at this!”

I
tend to be simple with designs. Nothing super souped up, but a minimalist
approach. One single repeating pattern, black and white, a single color with
gradient shading around. Geometric figures aligned with pleasing text boxes. A
logo. A picture. Plain text.  

“You
should seriously look into graphic designing. Maybe make a portfolio.”

“I
know only some code though. And I don’t think that’s what graphic
designers do. Do they?”

“I’d
think so. But I bet you learn super fast I’m really impressed.”
Bishop cups his hand around my head and presses me against his hip.
“Receptionist. Nothing wrong with starting out there, but you should keep
your mind open.”

“I
will. I think I just need the confidence to pursue it.”

“I’m
with you every step of the way,” he says.

Not
blushing when someone’s complimenting you nonstop—impossible. The
compatibility between us is alluring and intense.

Never
did I hear my Dad say to the effect, “I support you” or even
“I love what you do” or “I love this about you.”

Dad
never said anything like that. Neither did Mom.

The
bad memories of them begin to fade though. They’re being replaced with
true…love. Care. Emotion.

“I
love that you’re so kind,” I say. Bishop presses me tighter and
cradles me. “And I love that you’re so open,” he says.

If
there is a God, I want to thank him now for sending Bishop my way.

CHAPTER 21

Neither
of us has asked each other to be exclusive.

So
when Mr. Preston does his rounds around the office and I catch him winking, or
read into his actions more than I should, I don’t exactly feel bad.

“How’s
your day going?”

“Great.
I just called back Mr. Warner too. He’s coming in tomorrow at
nine.”

“Fantastic.”
Mr. Preston glances at his wrist. He wears what I believe is a Rolex, though
I’ve never been close enough to examine. Maybe an Omega?
“Well,” he says, “lunch is starting soon. Going to join
us?”

“I’ll
be there. I just have to call back this one Mrs. Fischer.”

“Fantastic.
We’ll see you then.”

Mr.
Preston doesn’t indulge me in any conversation besides that. The casual,
how are you doing, what’s up, let’s eat lunch stuff. It’s all
quite boring if you’re wanting more. And I somewhat do.

But
then he’s my boss. A flight of fancy, nothing serious. Not like Bishop.
Though a part of me thinks it’s odd, I’m considering dating a
gambling ring leader over an established business man. Why hedge my odds with
the kid over the man?

Because
Bishop and I are on the same level. If I dated Mr. Preston, I’d feel a
power imbalance—hell, I title him a “mister” in my head even
though Preston would do fine.

The
lunch table in the back of Jim’s Tax Services stretches as one long sheet
of lacquered mahogany. My coworkers, whose names I barely know, busy themselves
at the coffee maker or the fridge. Generally, most staff probably
wouldn’t eat together buddy-buddy in any capacity. Most would probably
prefer to wind down and relax, play some stupid YouTube videos on their phones
or Facebook in the interim. But because Mr. Preston offers to eat with
everybody, everybody ends up schmoozing.

Like
this one guy in across the table from me. Imagine a five foot seven guy in a
suit that’s a little too big for him. He’s maybe lower-middle
class, trying to rise up the ranks. He’s balding but the hair he has left
sits attractively on his scalp, in a wavy gelled swoosh swept over his
forehead. His name is Mark or Clark or Aardvark, and he steals Preston’s attention the entire time. Constantly talking to him. You couldn’t
even get in a word if you’re name was Bill Gates—he would interrupt
and continue forevermore his vision for the company.

“Fantastic,”
Mr. Preston says, “that’s a fantastic idea.”

“And
you know,” Mark Clark the Aardvark says, “you know that the
customers—and this is just a personal opinion—the customers really
seem to enjoy the simple amenities we offer. If we could just improve on
them…”

Thankfully,
Mark Clark loves working so much, he spirits himself away before the lunch
break is totally over. Of course, he has to tell boss about it.

Schmoozing,
I tell you, is annoying as hell.

“What
do you like to do in your spare time, Violet?”

“Hang
out. I like taking walks at the park. I’m kind of lame. Not much going
out these days. I did that a lot in college but lack the time and effort for
that stuff.”

“I
see. I’m in the same position. Fun when you’re younger, but harder
to keep up as you get older.”

“Yeah.”

“So,
tell me, what do you think about Jim’s Tax Service? You getting used to
everything and everyone?”

“Totally.
Being a receptionist here is more exciting than I thought.”

And
see, now I have to schmooze too, because what person would gripe about their
job to their superior. Fastest way to become a hated person at work.

“Is
it really?”

“Some
days are slow. Some days are more challenging.”

“Be
honest though. If you could have a different line of work, would you?”

I
glance at my lunchbox. I brought crackers and cream cheese dip, which allows me
to focus on the needling task of scooping the cracker just right into the cream
cheese. You don’t want too much after all…

“Honestly,” 
I say, “it’s not bad. Though I do have other skills I think you
might be interested in.”

“Name
them. Shoot.”

“Web
design. I’ve designed entire web sites before. And while yours
isn’t ugly, I do think it could be updated. I happen to know basic
code.”

“Do
you have any design samples I might be able to look at?”

“I
can bring them in next time.”

“Do
so. I’m very interested in extra skills. The team could definitely use an
on-board designer.”

I
arrive home, ecstatic and energized.

Mr.
Preston could put to use my design skills. They could use me for other than
just a glorified phone operator.

“That’s
great,” Piranha says. “That’s—I’m just so happy
for you!” She gives me a hug and a kiss and a pat on the back and fixes
up a bowl of American macaroni and cheese.

“You
deserve so much,” she says, “you’re really getting out there
and killing it.”

“Caddy
won’t—”

“Don’t
worry about him. He’s just being babyish. You’re better.”

“Where
is he?”

“His
room. Working on clients.”

“You
think I should bother him?”

“He
actually want me to tell you to go see him.”

“Oh.”

Piranha’s
purses her lips and steps aside. I trudge along through our bedroom hallway and
knock at his door.

“Come
in.”

“Piranha
said to see you.” I walk around a pile of clothes—Caddy keeps both
clean and dirty clothes on the floor thanks to his laziness—and set
myself on his grungy bed. Caddy’s unchanged self wears on me. He was the
most stable man in my life throughout college and till now, yet he’s too
stable, too safe.

“You
have to get talking with the Chinese and Angolans. They’re back for more.
More English assignments. You’re due to speak with them tomorrow. When
are you free?”

“After
work, I guess.”

“You
guess?”

“Yeah,
I’m free then.” I edge myself off his bed and hover over his
shoulder. He’s facing his own laptop, the one which keeps track of our
online bookkeeping. He looks behind, then swivels around to face me.

“We’ve
got a lot of work,” he says. “They keep coming.”

“The
won’t ever stop though.”

“And
that’s a good thing. I don’t want them to. We need to pay the
bills, girl, like the water, electricity, gas.”

Having
our cheating ring has kept us afloat far longer than I thought it would. I
figured it would fizzle out years ago, after the first semester or two of
starting. But now it’s grown, and Caddy shows me the statements.
We’re raking in ten times what I make as a receptionist, especially from
the online component. At least half of our business now makes money off students
in other universities far flung from my alma mater.

“Are
you going to pay all these bills now with your new job?”

I
frown. “Why are you being so passive aggressive? It’s like suddenly
we’re in different worlds. I haven’t changed a thing about myself
but you’re acting like a child again, really.”

Caddy
rises from his seat. He checks my shoulder and closes the door. Fear sprouts in
the center of my being, blossoming like an ugly flower. I try plucking the
flower before it fully bloom, but the growth rockets, brushes past my hands.

Stopping
fear is like grasping water. You can only contain so much.

“If
you don’t pick up your slack, you’ll be screwing us over,”
Caddy says.

“I’m
not going anywhere though.”

“But
you will. But you will. You can’t just stay a receptionist forever.
You’ll want more. This setup didn’t just start up out of nothing.
Your ambition, girl, your love of the game did this. You made this.
Why’re you throwing it all out? It’s crazy.”

“It’s
for the best. We can all make ourselves better by pursuing other avenues. We
don’t have to have a field day with cheaters everyday. Don’t you
feel any guilt at all? Shame?”

Caddy
grimaces and his temples fill up with wrinkles I’ve never seen before.
All the worry comes out now, spills before me. “Why feel shame when we
need to survive? This is a good thing. We can make and stash as much money as
we possibly can now and get out later.”

“You
said it yourself. It’s ambition—you’ll never want to get away
from the money we make. Impossible. We’re humans, and we always want
more. Greed feeds our egos and egos make us greedy.” I straighten my
chest and pin my eyes on Caddy, plucking the petals of fear away fast, fast,
fast. I will not fear Caddy.

“You’ll
be sinking me and Piranha.”

“Don’t
guilt me.”

“You
can guilt me but I can’t you? Is it working? No, because you don’t
bother to care about us.”

“That’s
not true at all. That’s not true!”

“Then
you have to promise us: you won’t leave us high and dry. You won’t
break the lease and you’ll stay on board with the business we started
until then.”

“Fine.
I didn’t even intend on moving out. Where would I go?”

“Your
boyfriend.”

“He’s
not. Not yet.”

Caddy’s
grimace morphs into a smirk, the kind mean girls at lunch tables would employ
after spreading nasty gossip. “You’re in love.”

“That’s
none of your business.”

“You
were making it so weeks ago. Spilling all these details.”

“You’re
the one with the dossiers about everybody. You brought this unto yourself. If
you’d never push me to talk to him, this wouldn’t have happened.”
I sidle around the foot of his bed, aiming to escape soon. Caddy angles himself
so he might capture me. He’s never used force before, but if even tries,
I’ll leave for sure.

“Piranha’s
always been supportive of us. Of me. Of you. Why can’t you be the same
way?”

“Wouldn’t
that be boring. Us all like robots, doing the same damned thing.”

I
put my hand on the doorknob. He steps aside and lets me pull.

“You
clients tomorrow,” he says, “remember that.”

“I
didn’t forget.”

As
I walk to my room, I can feel Caddy’s eyes on my back, boring a hole
straight through my spirit.

He
fails to even see me anymore. He doesn’t consider me a human being with
my own agency to command.

Maybe
that’s the root of his stability. Stability
on
others. It’s
as if he’s leaning on us, Piranha and I, and we’re crushed under
his weight, and we want to go, to leave, but can’t as the pressure
continues to crank downwards.

See
his perspective, his side. What causes his fear and outrage? Losing Educate?
Losing me? He got me on hypocrisy, but I’m not out of selfishness, not
trying to be.

The
city I’m in is stifling though. No graduate plans on staying near their
alma mater forever. I dreamed of travelling to a paradise untouched. I dreamed
of finding the key to my shackles. Unbuttoning the straightjacket of
adulthood’s taxes and pension plans and debt. Of travelling beyond America and out of this small college town, of jumping out the fishbowl.

I
need space.

But
I want closeness. Friends and family.

Doesn’t
have to be either or. Both can occur with strategic planning. Everyone has to
come on board though, else the ship will remain in harbor, stewing in a pool of
unfulfilled but possible dreams.

I’m
on board. Where is everybody else?