Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (9 page)

CHAPTER 13

Gunshots color the
bland silence. Bullets pin the paper man, ripping into the intestines and
heart. I aim once more up, up, closer to the ears this time. I make sure to
fold my thumbs properly to avoid the violent recoil.
And I fire. The paper writhes alive then freezes dead.
            Echoes
reverberate about, carrying songs of steel, the harmonizing tune of metal on
fake flesh.
            On the
ground floor, even with headphones on, you can still hear the amazing blasts.
In between, whenever there's silence, you can hear the pleading for life.
            "Good
game," Piranha says. She peels off her headphones and I do as well, and we
caress our ears. They're red from staying cramped up so long.
            "You're
so much better," she says "I need to show up more. Your skill is five
star."
            "Not
any worse than me."
            "I got
a heart, thigh, and foot. Feet. So that's four. Everything else I missed. You?
You missed one. I counted. The entire body was mashed up potato salad."
            The shooting
ring we go to brims with testosterone. Here, doused in the fumes of men, I've
learned.
            I've learned
how to defend myself. Hopefully I'll never have to kill anybody ever. That's
not a goal. I respect firearms too much to take lives whenever I'm angry or
panicked. But the hot metal in your hands strengthens you. It emboldens your
walk. It's why Piranha has confidence. When she gets off late from work she
won't need to fear the night walking to the bus stop or while waiting for a
ride.
            I decided on
learning during my senior year. One sorority girl had been...raped. She called
the police, despite her friends telling her not to. But she wasn't able to
fight back. She recovered in the ICU suffering lacerations to the head and
back. Then an ass asininely circulated pictures online through social media
networks, and she was shamed. Guys—even other girls—slammed the survivor
for "dressing too revealing" or "asking for cock".
Humiliating.
            I stopped
following her story after the suicide attempt. The ordeal just bogged me down.
But if there was anything to pull away, it's to empower yourself.
We step onto the curb, awaiting the bus. Several men collect around the
entrance of the shooting range. An interesting business idea would be a ladies
hour. One day...
Our bus hisses and burps, blowing hot steam at us. Piranha ascends the stairs
then I follow.
            Multiple
stops later, and we arrive at the mall. Piranha jumps out and hops on her toes,
squealing.
            "I'm so
excited for you. We'll find everything you need. Just let me."
            Part of
growing up a tomboy meant not knowing how to dress appropriately. There were
several phases: inappropriately emo, stoner scene kid, then my horrid attempt
at mimicking "hot girl fashion" which included stripper heels and
denim skirts near my vagina. Right after, in college, came an exhibitionist lingerie
phase. I used to raid places like Victoria’s Secret for G-strings and
order sheer pantyhose with a cutout at the crotch, priming myself for sex with
a guy someplace at school. If I was going to trade sex for answers, then
I’d at least gain some modicum of pleasure from the activity outside of
money. I overcorrected though, dressing myself as a lumberjack with flannel for
a season. Beat up nerds (nice nerds!) who I knew I could push around.
They—those on campus—called me the Iron Vagina during that time
period. All terrible, terrible phases. Most of these memories have been sealed
away in the vault of Puberty: Never Again thanks to a semester-long shrink fest
with the university’s counseling office. If I was paying tuition, I might
as well patch myself up some before entering the adult world.
            I'm not too
bad now—primarily as a dresser—but I do rely on Piranha's
consumerist taste as a guide. She herself wears tight yoga pants paired with a
pink tank-top showing off her lithe frame. That’s apparently the trendy
look these days.

"This. This,
certainly. And this. Your hips would look swanky in this."
            Piranha's
arms lash out like fishing lines, each hooked to bait which I eat up. I have to
hide in the dressing rooms to get her moving and out of clothes-finding mode.
Her selections rattle on the wooden bench inside. I slip off the first garment,
a silk halter top with poofy shoulders.
           
"This?"
            "Try it
on, don't judge yet."
            I remove my
t-shirt and let the halter on. I don't bother with the mirror. Self-critiquing
how is impossible for me. I seriously can't tell if I'm ugly or pretty.
            "That's
decent," Piranha says. "What about the rest?"
            I cycle
through the collection, casting aside a significant portion. Not that her taste
is bad but my comfort zone hasn't reached the boundaries of sexy-sexy
sundresses and floral prints. I go with a pantsuit and an A-line shirt plus a
blouse, all in black except for a pair of red pumps.
            "When
we go home I want you to try on my stuff too."
            "My
stuff" is Piranha code for items she’s found and would like to gift
away.
            She's a
friend. A sister.
            "One
more place. I have this idea," she says. We ride an escalator downstairs,
passing through an immense, swelling crowd. Soon the stores will trap their
customers like tuna with holiday sales.
            Piranha
races the tips of her fingers on a rack of clothes. She tosses out three items
and shoves me into the dressing room.
            Zebra print
leggings. Neon pink tank-top. A pair of gladiator sandals. What?
           
"Piranha?"
            "Try
it!"
           
"This—"
            "We're
wasting our life force arguing!"
            I sigh. Then
I strangle my legs with the leggings and squeeze myself into the size zero tank
top. The sandals barely wrap around my calves. I exit the dressing room, arms
akimbo.
            "What
am I wearing?"
            "Oh my America." She skips to my side and shoves me back in, showing me the mirror.
"This is so gorg. So gorg."
           
"Gorg?"
            Piranha
squeals but heightens the pitch. "It is so gorg!"
            I start
kicking off the sandals and closing the door, but Piranha fights to keep it
open.
            "Stop
playing around."
            "But
you’re so fab." Piranha flaps her hands and twirls. "You're so
fab, you're so glam."
            Not laughing
would be a sin. And I can't restrain my muscles. So I laugh and beat her back
with a loosed sandal.
            "You're
so childish," I say.
            "You
love me." I manage to shut the door. "You love me," she says.
            After the
PTSD-inducing Piranha event, we worm our way to the food court and grab
pretzels.
            "You
giving me time is special to me," I say. "Thank you."
            "I
thought you would like the boost. Remember how in freshman year you thought it
was so, so dumb to dress 'regular'?"
            "I was
wrong, don't being back the memories."
            "You
can't forget the good times." Piranha rips off a stub of pretzel. She's
facing me and analyzing the crowd, flicking her thumb up and down to show
approval or disapproval of an outfit. Then her thumb turns down and hangs
limply.
            "Don't
look behind you," she says.
            I shrink in
my seat. "What's behind?"
            "We
need to skip out." She shushes me before I can even speak.
"Spade."
            He's here?
            "I'm
counting the yards for you. Stay still."
            Because of
the constant stalking, I eventually filed a restraining order against Spade. He
is to stay two-hundred yards away at all times and go no-contact. Our city has
one mall though and small networks. You can't ban him from public though. We
have to share.
            "I
swear he's like breaking the rules by three." Piranha glances at me.
"I'm counting."
            "Is
he—"
            "Close
your lips. I'm counting."
            I'm a
patient girl I said, but Piranha can be ridiculous. She bequeaths me the right
to speak when he's apparently gone.
            "He was
buying a soda. And a pretzel like ours. Just like ours. Then he went to go but
video games."
            "I know
three stalkers now."
            "You're
taking pity on him? They gave that restraining order for a reason."
            "And
now it's past and almost done."
           
"Nothing is done with guys like that. Nothing."
            We rip apart
our pretzels and dust off our salty palms. She's angrier than me about Spade.
To me he's a joke now but to her he's shit.
            "We
should get home," she says.
            "No
makeup haul today?"
            "We can
do it at home."
            I stumble
after Piranha as she scours the crowd ahead, retreating backwards like a spy,
detailing the surroundings even though I can see the surroundings—I'm no
more than two feet from her.
            "You
don't have to go into insane mode with him. He made a mistake. He's not
harassing me."
            "He's
gross."
            We sneak
around the mall's backside near a series of dumpsters. This is supposedly safer
since you can "be more aware with less people." Fetid rot perfumes
the alleyways. We wend the long way around to the bus stop, where we inhale
oily exhaust from passing vehicles. Then finally our bus arrives and we hop in,
smelling nasty.
Piranha though is smiling. She's patting herself on the back for keeping me
safe. But if you squint, there's a distinguishable figure lurking sneaking
among the mall crowds.
            Spade. While
he didn't break contact, I'll admit to being unnerved.

My phone vibrates.
It’s not a text or call from anybody I’d like to know. It’s a
movie already watched:

"I have a
restraining order against you." I keep my voice low as to not alert
Piranha in the kitchen or Caddy next door. On the other end, Spade pants like a
dog. “You need to give it up.”

"But
babe—"

"I slept with
you. It was a hookup scenario. Don't make it into anything more than a couple
of transactions. It was business only fun second and relationship never. Now please,
give me peace. I don't want to date you, I never have, and I never gave any
ideas of such."

"You said you
wanted me solo. That if I wasn't with—"

"If you
weren't with her, I would've been with you, but you were with her, so I
couldn't be with you, and then I decided we should stop seeing one another
because I didn't want to jeopardize your relationship. I don't enjoy being the
home wrecker. We were never to be together outside of strictly what we
did.”

“I miss you
though.”

“It’s
been nearly two years.”

“One year
and a half.”

“I have a
restraining order. I saw you at the mall. Me and my friend did. I see you there
enough. Stop calling. Don’t ever text.”

“Haven’t
I gotten better about the texts?”

“Yeah.
Sure.”

He used to text
five times a day three times every hour.

“Some
progress is better than none?”

“Yeah.”

“Violet?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss
you.”

I hang up and
block what is most probably a payphone number. After reporting him so many
times, he’d become crafty, manipulating I.P. addresses and harassing me from
“China”.

My phone vibrates.
I shut off my phone and sleep.

CHAPTER 14

“That’s
ew.” Piranha points to my white trousers and says, “That’s ew
too. You’re going to get caught.”

“How
are they ew?”

“Those
pants are not innocent. They’re pants that are just gross.” Piranha
shivers. She swims through her closet and plucks out a pair of red pumps.
Basically, she flails her arms around, fishing for patterns. She decides on a
Lady Liberty theme, having tossed out the pantsuit from yesterday. It’s
“too manly”.

I’m
squeezed into a white A-line skirt to compliment the pumps. Pretty blue blouse.
Black hose with the slight patina shimmer.

“You
deserve this,” Piranha says, “I’m so happy for you!”

“Thank
you, Piranha.”

“I
know Caddy’s stubborn, but it’s great you’re thinking about
the future.”

“Right?
We all can’t do this gig forever.”

“Though,
honestly, I kind of agree with him.” Piranha covers her mouth.
“I’m saying that only.”

“Why?
You don’t think that getting more respectable work is better?”

“Mm.”
Piranha tilts her head. The clothes hangers rattle in her grip. I step into the
skirt and put on the blouse while she adjusts the final look. “Mm,”
is all she says.

“It’ll
make us all feel better. Real careers.”

“We
could be pioneers. And then it could be a real career.”

“What’re
we pioneering? Intellectual dishonesty.”

Piranha
primps my hair and combs out dust on my dress with a static brush.
“Students would be better learning data aggregation. Learning how to
critically think in a world exploding with information. Picking out the
important details.”

“We’ll
just have to disagree.”

“You’re
still going to be friends with me, even if you give all this up?”

“I
will.”

“Promise?”

“Until
the end,” I say, hugging her. “Thanks for being my Sam.”

“Your
dreams are important to me.” Piranha puts down the brush. We grab our
things from the living room, then make our way down to the parking lot. She
owns a pre-90’s Mustang, an old shell of a machine, but despite its age,
it wakes without a wheeze.

She
backs out the driveway in a wild arc. “You need to be awake for the
interview. I’ll ask you lots of questions!”

And
she floors out of the lot with me faceplanted to the passenger window.

Piranha
manages to arrive ten minutes early, thanks to her interesting driving abilities.
Her mouth runs like Mustang’s motor: fast and unyielding.

“What
is your worst flaw?”

“They
don’t ask things like that.”

“Mine
did. It was phrased differently, but it’s the concept that
matters.”

“My
worst flaw? I’m too available and work so hard that I feel tired a
lot.”

“That’s
secret flattery not a real flaw,” Piranha says. “You want to be
sympathetic but not fake. It’s different than asking ‘how are
you?’. They really want to know about you.”

“I’m
perfectly fine with the interview part. Don’t worry about that.”

Piranha
looks at me. “Do you want me to ask you other questions?”

“I’m
good.”

“Great.
Now we can listen to some relaxing music.”

Cue
ten minutes of, yes, the fucking Star Spangled Banner. Again. I should’ve
let her ask questions instead.

When
the ten minutes end, I finally escape the car and Piranha’s embarrassing
head bobbing. She likes to pretend she’s at concerts inside her vehicle,
and since there aren’t any tints on the windows, every passerby can see that
my friend is crazy.

I
walk into Jim’s Tax Services. As I pass the doors, a breathless man at
the receptionist’s desk titters on the phone. He’s wearing a
pinstripe suit and glances at me. He offers a curt nod and a smile. He has
dimples that collect attractive shadows on each side of his face.

“You’re
welcome,” the man says, hanging up the phone. “Can I help
you?”

“I’m
here for an interview. I spoke with a man named Preston yesterday.”

The
man’s hand juts out at me. I shake it, feeling the warmth of his clammy
palm. It’s a nice, soothing palm, soft without any calluses. Gentle.
“That’s me,” he says, still shaking. He holds his gaze for a
moment too long, and we both look away nervously. “Will you follow
me?”

The
phone rings at the front, though Preston’s not in any worry to answer. He
takes me past three rooms painted white, our heels clopping against the tile
floors. Overhead, glittering lights shine down on us.

He
stops at a black door, then presses onward into a room with tables and desks
resting adjacent to one another. Papers clutter the tables. If only Piranha
were here: there’s an American flag sticking out of a mug on one of the
desks.

Preston sits down in a swivel chair. His pants rise a little, showing off cute black socks
with argyle print.

“How’re
you doing today?”

“Wonderful,”
I say. “Yourself?”

“Fantastic,”
Preston says. He holds a really long gaze again, and I have to break away from
looking. Not only does he have dimples, but a square jaw with a bladelike edge.

“So,
you’re interviewing for the receptionist position. If you couldn’t
tell, we don’t exactly have one here. My colleagues and I just relocated
here and lots of shifting about means things are still in a flux.”

“That’s
okay.”

“So,
to begin…I want to ask you, what exactly do you know about Jim’s
Tax Services?”

“I
saw online that you’re a small company focusing on state and federal tax
preparation.” I try not to butcher the more technical sounding
talk—there’s a lot to know about taxes in the United States. “I know that you’re looking for a receptionist to answer calls,
file papers, run the occasional errand.”

“Thank
God someone actually read the ad. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to
tell you the amount of times people will waltz in here without knowing what
we’re expecting. Beautiful.” Preston scribbles on a paper attached
to a clipboard. “It says here on your resume that you’ve had
cashier experience as well as several part-time jobs involving customer
service. Can you tell me more?”

“I
answered phones. I ran a lot of errands. Dealt with a ton of people in retail.
I think my skills in those areas would help you guys out immensely because of
my ability to deal with people, angry, happy, sad. I can handle all. Even
people screaming at me.”

Preston scribbles again, though I’m not exactly sure what you could be possibly
writing down for an entry receptionist position.

“Your
availability is only part-time?”

“I
can do fulltime. It’s possible.”

“I
won’t lie,” Preston says, “you probably won’t have a
ton to do all the time, at least not for the meanwhile. We’re still
configuring everything and getting started back up.”

“That’s
fine.”

He
launches another barrage of questions and I answer them without hesitation,
simply due to their basic requirements. Once, he asks me if I’ve ever
showed up to work late, and who would reply in the affirmative? The interview
winds down. Preston’s focus wanes and he seems more intent on blasting
through the little details in favor of getting someone on board already.

Preston adjusts his silk tie. My cheeks flush. Men in suits are my weakness, no lie, and
it’s increasingly difficult to resist not staring at his more intimate
body parts. His trousers fit spectacularly around his legs and his arms are
sheathed in a fine navy blue cotton.

Slut
slut slut.
I can imagine my mother shaming me with my thoughts. And
actions. I slept around with preppy dudes like Preston all the time back in
college.

On
one hand, I repress my lust. My mother can’t be right. But at the same
time, why deny myself the eye-candy experience? I feel what I feel, and I feel Preston’s one hot man.

“You
also have a B.S. in Business Administration. Impressive.”

“Thanks,”
I say, embarrassed. If only he knew about what I’ve used it for.

“I
think that’s it, really. Nothing too major.” We shake hands, and
now I linger, I hold my gaze on him. We exchange an energy, sexual, romantic,
something
,
an electric energy which warms my skin. I let go first and press the wrinkles
from my skirt, busying myself immediately. He fixes his tie even thought
it’s straight and perfect.

“You
seem like a hardworking girl who would give her all for us,” Preston says. “Do you have any questions?”

“No,”
I say, “not at all. Just that I’m super appreciative of the
opportunity you’re offering.”

Preston flashes a white smile. “My pleasure.”

And
with that, I bustle out of Jim’s Tax Services. I slam the passenger door
behind once inside the Mustang. Piranha gawks at me, bringing herself close.

“Is
something wrong?” she says.

“Nothing
at all.”

“It’s
like you’ve just seen God.”

“I
might’ve. But I think I just saw a guy who gave a job.”