The Unconventional (A Short Story) (3 page)

“
If you’d let me talk for a
second,” I say, buttoning my pants. “That was great.”

“
Great,” she mumbles around
the phone in her mouth while she adjusts her sweater. She pulls the
phone out of her mouth. “Great.”

“
Where the hell are we?” I
ask, looking at the shadowed edges of boxes surrounding
us.

“
Looks like a storage
closet.” She laughs. “Do you think I should ask God to absolve my
sins again?”

“
I don’t think he’s going to
absolve much of anything for us right now. Do you think we should
head back to the meeting? Or is it too obvious?”

“
Too obvious,” she says as
the light goes out on her phone. It glows again a few seconds
later. “Stay with me for a little bit. We’ll sneak out of here when
the session starts up again.”

She shines the light on the floor next
to the door, illuminating a space big enough for both of us to sit.
She sits down with her back against the door and pats the floor
next to her. I follow. Then she lets the light go out.

“
So…,” I say into the
darkness, wondering how the hell I managed to get to this point.
Around eight thirty every night of the last week, Christ the last
month, I was in my pizzeria keeping tabs on the table. Now I’m
sitting in the dark with a woman I just met and had sex with in the
basement of a church. The last time I did anything this crazy was
when I was eighteen…with Rosalyn.

“
So…” she
repeats.

“
What does it mean to be
alive, Sloan Carraway?” I ask, mocking Teapot’s tone from
earlier.

“
Exactly what we just did.
That’s what it means to be alive.”

“
Have sex in a storage
closet with a stranger?”

“
You’re not a stranger.
You’re Archie Briggs, a thirty-eight-year-old man in denial about
being an alcoholic. And a man who knows how to handle a woman, I
might add.”

“
I’m glad I can keep my
customers satisfied.”

“
What kind of customers do
you have? Please don’t tell me I just had sex with a male
prostitute.”

“
I own Archie’s Pizza. It’s
a few blocks away on – ”

“
Ninth Street,” she
interrupts. “Yeah, I know the place. Small, known for ‘ain’t that
bad pizza’ with the bar crowds. You’re
that
Archie, huh?”

“
Yeah, I’m
that
Archie. I’m not sure
if I should take that as a compliment or criticism. I’ve never seen
you there. I think I would have remembered you.”

“
Maybe, maybe not,” she
says. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“
Shoot.”

“
You could make a killing if
you made better pizza.”

“
That sounds obvious, not a
golden piece of advice that’ll make me a millionaire,” I
say.

“
You don’t seem like the
type who wants to be a millionaire.”

“
I’m not.”

“
Good, but theoretically,
you could make a killing if you made better pizza. You could have
some seriously satisfied customers. You’ve got the perfect location
next to the bars downtown, but your hours suck. Open earlier to
cater to the lunch crowd, sell pizzas by the slice. Use fresh
ingredients. I’ve got a recipe from my grandma for sauce that’s
amazing. I could give it to you if you’re interested,” she
says.

“
In exchange for what?” I
ask, mulling over her suggestions. I’ve heard all this before from
Brad and my mom, but for some reason, her ideas suddenly matter. It
isn’t just about making enough money to keep the doors open and a
roof over my head. I could have
satisfied
customers. The distinction
seems worthy.

“
You can have it. It will be
like a token of appreciation. Like a free pass to a better pizzeria
courtesy of the Sloan Carraway Think Tank.”

“
I don’t know. It seems like
a lot of work. Ordering fresh ingredients, hiring more staff to
cover the extra hours. It’s kind of out of my scope.”

“
You’re the owner,” she says
with skepticism. “That’s your job.”

“
Yeah, well…” I pull one
knee up and wrap my arms around it. “Job descriptions aren’t always
accurate.”

“
I’ll do it. Hire me,” she
says.

“
I thought you were a makeup
artist.”

“
I am.”

“
How can you have two
jobs?”

“
I never said I was employed
full-time right now,” she says. “I’m always looking for the next
big thing besides special occasion and photo shoot
contracts.”

“
So Archie’s Pizza is the
next best thing?”

“
Sure,” she says. “Why
not?”

“
Deal.” I answer before she
can rescind. Having Sloan around the pizzeria could be what I need.
“As long as I don’t gag from your recipe, you’re in.”

“
You just hired a
stranger.”

“
You’re not a stranger.
You’re twenty-seven-year-old Sloan Carraway, a sexy makeup artist
who sins gratuitously under the eyes of God, has a tattoo on her
chest and has nowhere to go but up.”

“
Nowhere to go but up,” she
repeats softly.

“
I didn’t mean it that way,”
I reply, trying to backpedal. I like Sloan and don’t want this
storage adventure to be the last time I see her. “If it’s any
consolation, I’m in the same boat as you. I’ve got nowhere to go
but up with my crappy pizza.”

“
I get it,” Sloan says. “No
harm done. We met at an addiction meeting and had sex in a closet
during the break for Christ’s sake. That has to count for some kind
of crazy.”

“
Hey, I’m not complaining,”
I reply with a shrug, even though she can’t see me. “What’s the
tattoo?”

“
A footprint,” she answers.
“Sorry about the sweater thing, by the way. I just get
self-conscious.”

“
No need to
apologize.”

“
I have some scars. I used
to cut places I could cover up. I didn’t exactly think all that
through. I didn’t think at all when I did it. Two piece swimsuits
are my nemesis,” she says with an edge to her voice. “That’s why I
love winter. Summer can get ugly.”

“
Everyone has scars,” I say,
thinking about the pink patches littering my back and legs that I
cover up with jeans and a t-shirt, even on ninety degree days. “I’m
sure I have you beat.”

She’s silent for a second before she
replies, “I felt them on your back. What is it?”

“
A bomb in Afghanistan back
when I was in the Army. Got burned on over forty percent of my
body. Mostly my back and legs.” I suddenly feel the warmth of her
hand on my outstretched leg. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not trying
to pull a sympathy card here. It’s just the truth.”

“
I believe you,” she says.
“I just wanted to feel someone next to me.”

“
I’m here,” I reply, putting
my hand on hers. A warmth crawls over my body in a completely
unexpected moment of feeling that I’m not alone in this
world.

“
I’m alive,” I tell
her.

“
Me, too,” she tells
me.

***

“
The least I can do is walk
you home,” I say as we duck into the bitter cold. We stayed in the
closet for twenty more minutes, just enough time to ensure the
meeting had started again. Then we snuck past the closed door and
the circle of folding chairs to the stairs. My guess is that some
of them knew anyway. Without a doubt, Sex Addict did. But I didn’t
care. Sloan didn’t either.

“
You’re not walking me home.
Not a chance,” she replies over the wind. “It’s a strict rule I
follow. I never take a guy home that I just met.”

“
You took me in a storage
closet in the basement of a church,” I refute as the snow slides
into my sneakers. I curse myself for being out here without the
proper gear. At minimum, I wish I had a hat to cover the tips of my
already throbbing ears. “Somehow I think your place is a little
less risky than that.”

“
Funny,” she says, stopping
on the sidewalk. “Rules are rules. You have my number. If you get
lonely tonight, you can call me.”

“
Don’t tempt me. You know, I
get lonely as hell right around two,” I reply. As much as I want to
walk her home, I’ve got to get back to the pizzeria and to the
table. The table should be done for the night, and even though I
want to trust Sam, he’s been wrong on the books before. I can’t
blame him though, he’s only seventeen.

“
Call me at two then. I’m
here for whatever you need. It’s important for addicts to have
sponsors,” she says coyly with a shrug. She points south with her
gloved hand. “I’m this way.”

“
I’m this way.” I pull my
hand out of my pocket and point in the opposite direction. “I’ll
see you tomorrow then. Eleven in the morning. Archie’s Pizza. The
beginning of a prosperous partnership.”

“
The beginning.” She
hesitates for a second. It’s just enough time for me to lean in and
meet her lips with a soft, sensuous kiss.

“
It was nice meeting you,
Archie Briggs,” she says before she turns and walks away from
me.

“
It was nice meeting you,
Sloan Carraway,” I call into the night, but the wind carries my
voice away. I’ll think of this moment later, wondering and hoping
that she heard me.

***

It’s quarter past nine by the time I
walk through the back door of the pizzeria. The table is winding
down as the last game finishes and the final red glow of a cigar is
snubbed out. Hank goes home with the biggest winnings of the week.
He gives me a hearty handshake before I verify everything with Sam
and turn over the money.

The rest of the guys jeer and grumble
as they go home with empty pockets, but I don’t have to worry
because I know they’ll be back tomorrow. That’s the way the table
works. It’s a rotation of money each night from one pocket to the
next. They’ll get their turn, at least most of them do.

Once the back is clear, I check the
premade pizzas Sam has lined up for the night and the booths, which
are empty. It will be at least another hour or so before we’ll have
any customers. I watch as Sam wipes down a table that doesn’t need
to be wiped down, and I decide to do something I haven’t done in a
long time.

“
Sam, why don’t you go home
tonight. It’s cold as shit so I’m sure there aren’t many people
out. I’ll be able to take care of whoever comes,” I say. “Take the
rest of the night off.”

“
Boss, you know I need the
money.”

“
Archie,” I correct, waving
my hand at him. Sam’s a good kid, but he doesn’t come from a good
home. He’s got an absent mother who barely keeps the electricity
running. The money Sam makes here goes to his family. It’s a
goddamn shame. “I’ll still pay you.”

“
You sure?”

“
Yeah, I’m sure,” I say,
throwing a towel at him. “Don’t make me change my mind
though.”

“
Thanks,” he says as he
throws the towels back on the counter. “It means a lot, Mr.
Briggs.”

“
I know it does, Sam,” I
reply, clapping my hand on his shoulder like a son I’ve never had.
I’ve been able to rely on Sam for the last two years and want to
make sure he stays. “There’s going to be some changes starting
tomorrow so I’m going to need you on board. Some big changes. New
ingredients, new hours, new way of working around here. I think
it’s time to turn this place around. Make this better than ‘it
ain’t that bad pizza.’ We’ll make it ‘better than sex pizza.’ You
ready for it?”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “Well,
to be honest, I never had sex before, so I can’t tell you much
about that. But I think the pizza needs some work.”

“
Hell, yeah it does. We’ll
get those cash registers ringing. And we’ll work on that
tagline.”

“
Sounds good, Mr. Briggs.
Have a good night,” Sam calls over his shoulder.

“
Archie,” I correct
again.

“
Have a good night,
Archie.”

“
You too, Sam.”

It takes a few minutes
before the back door slams, but it finally does. I stand in the
middle of the pizzeria, looking down at the cracked red checkered
linoleum. I never noticed how dirty and shitty it really is. I
guess that’s what happens when you look at something every day. You
stop noticing the imperfections. You gloss over the fact that the
pictures on the walls haven’t been updated since the last owners,
the mustard paint has faded to brown, and the pizza tastes like
cardboard. Maybe I knew that last part, but I still had customers
coming through the door who didn’t seem to mind. I guess it helps
that they’re too inebriated to tell the difference. The lettering
on the windows is faded and chipping so badly that it almost looks
like
Archis Pzz.
I
wonder if anyone has wondered what the hell is
Archis
Pzz.

I didn’t mean for things to turn out
this way. I really didn’t.

I head back towards the ovens and
squat down to a shelf, moving a sleeve of napkins to the side. I
reach my hand in and find the cool metal flask I’ve hid here for
the last three years. It usually requires refilling every other
day. I run my fingers along the curved edges before I unscrew the
top and dump the amber liquid down the drain. I hold my breath to
avoid the temptation to stop. Then I throw the flask into the
trash.