The Unconventional (A Short Story)

by Raen Smith

  “Archie Briggs. I suppose alcohol, if I had to choose something. To be honest, I had a drink about thirty minutes ago. I’m alive.” My words hang in the air.

  Smoking brings her hand to her chest while Sex puts his hand on Smoking’s knee. All the other addictions nod their head in empathy.

  “Alive,” Teapot repeats, clasping her hands in front of her face as if she’s just had a profound thought. “Hang on to that word, Archie. I’d like to talk more about that later. In the meantime, welcome. We’re glad to have a new face.”

  I nod my head at the series of smiles and welcomes that swarm me before turning my attention to Sloan.

  “Sloan Carraway. Oreos. Four-hundred-thirty-two days. And I’m fabulous.” She winks at me before the rest of the group erupts in stifled laughter. She clears her throat and adds, “Fine. Cutting. Still four-hundred-thirty-two days though.”

  “Damn right,” Meth says to no one in particular. “Over a year. Have to be proud of that.”

  Most people would look over at Sloan and wonder how the hell someone as beautiful as her would go about mutilating herself like that. But I know better than to stop at the exterior she wears. Uniforms don’t tell you shit.

  The woman next to Sloan pipes in with her introduction. Her poison is prescription pain medication. I don’t blame her; oxycontin gives you a ride. It took me three months to get off it after “the incident.” She says she’s at a low because of the holidays. She’s met with low grumbles of understanding and “Ain’t that the truth” from Meth.

  Finally, Teapot introduces herself as a recovering smoking addict. Her name doesn’t matter, but she says it’s been four years since she smoked a cigarette. I notice her fingernails are painted black, but I guess that might be a coincidence.

  The next forty-five minutes are filled with a box of tissues that’s passed around like clockwork. No one asks for the box. It’s just passed silently around each time the waterworks start coming. Usually it happens within two minutes after someone starts talking, except for Sloan, Prescription Pain Killers, Teapot and me. We don’t cry. If given the opportunity to talk more, I think Prescription Pain Killers would have. But me, I salute the prospect not to talk. I don’t have anything to say.

  The time is also filled with light leg brushes and exchanged glances that ratchet up the tension between Sloan and me. I’m not complaining.

  “Let’s break for fifteen minutes. Then we’ll come back for the last hour. I’d like to talk more about what Archie said earlier tonight. I want you to ask yourself, what does it mean to be alive?” Teapot raises her eyebrows as if she’s concocted the greatest question of all humanity. I don’t realize in this moment that it is the single-most important question of all humanity. It’s the very question I will face in the next two hours.

  But I don’t know any of this right now so I do what everyone else is doing: trade one addiction for another. I stand up and head to the soda and cookie table. I’m two steps in when a hand grabs my arm.

  “Grab your jacket,” Sloan says.

  “Why?”

  “Just grab your jacket,” she repeats as she pulls her coat off her chair and glides out into the hallway. I glance at the others congregating around the sugar table before I grab my jacket and follow her into the hallway. I don’t see her at first.

  Suddenly, she appears from against the wall and takes my hand, pulling me down the hall.

  “Where are we – ” I stumble behind her, taking one last look over my shoulder at the open door and empty hallway. They’re all enjoying the sweetness of those damn cookies. We turn a corner down the hall and walk a few feet further.

  “Shhh.” She stops in front of a door and quietly opens it. She slips into the darkness and pulls me with her, shutting the door behind us. I hear her heavy breath in front of me, the warm smell of peppermint tickling my nostrils.

  What I do next, I don’t regret because of all the things I do today, this is something I do right.

  I gently press her against the door and move my hands up to her face until I’m holding her chin in my hands. Then our lips find each other, fast and hot as our bodies push against each other. She winds her hands in my hair with recklessness, grabbing and tugging as I explore her neck and then her shoulders. I cup her breasts over her sweater, lifting them up as she snakes her hands down my back.

  She pulls me in tighter and lets out a soft moan into the darkness, “Yes.”

  Then I’m unhooking her bra and grabbing her breasts underneath her sweater, making her already hard nipples stiffen even more. She’s fumbling with my pants, unbuttoning and yanking my zipper down with force. It’s my turn to moan as she takes me in her hands. My body craves her. I need this woman right now. I take the bottom of her sweater, about to lift it over her head when she stops me.

  “Leave it on,” she mutters in between kisses. “My pants. Take off my pants.”

  I undo her pants and tug them down just past her hips to discover the soft silkiness of lace underwear. I play with them, tugging and pulling at them. Suddenly, her hand is on mine, stopping me. Then she pulls her lips away, but she doesn’t say anything. All I can hear is our panting breath.

  “Shit, I’m sorry – ” I stumble, tucking myself back into my pants. I curse myself for letting it get this far. For once, I actually think that I could get along with Sloan pretty well, and here I am, in a church basement, ruining it like I do everything else in my life.

  “Do you have a condom?” she asks, her breath hot on my face.

  “In my wallet,” I say hesitantly. “Look, Sloan. I like you. I think – ”

  “Don’t think. Get the condom.”

  Then we’re at it again, except she turns around and presses her hands against the door. We try to stifle our moans as we rock together in a fast and furious bliss with my hands pressed deep into her hips. I let out one last shudder before resting my cheek against the warmth of her shoulder.

  We fumble around in the dark, trying to straighten our clothes. Finally, she flicks on the light of her phone and lets out a small laugh.

  “How’s that?” she asks.

  “I – ”

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who acts like a bumbling fool afterward,” she says before she bites the phone between her lips and reaches under her sweater to hook her bra.

  “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.