Beer Goggles Anthology

by Anthology

  “You’re letting me out?” Apparently, I can sound braindead any day.

  Other travelers seem interested in his jailbreak option too. In the passport line, I saw people being barreled over, so I roll out before they cut in front of me.

  “I am. You looked stuck.” Dirty blond hair, a little longer on the top, and golden what-do-I-care five-o-clock fur on his face.

  “I was in line.”

  “Which I saw. It’s why I opened the…this thing for you.” Crazy perfect nose, not too long or too short or bent or anything. Norway nose, according to Poppa.

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” I puff like I’ve been running, which—Yeah, no running because all I’ve done is sit stock still for forever and a half. Also, that puff has nothing to do with his eyes being a midsummer-day-in-Norway super-light greenish brown and completely oval, like, weirdly rounded at the top in a gorgeous way. Geez Louise.

  “Værsegod.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sorry. I mean, you’re welcome.”

  Oh! I know that word.

  “Takk. Tusen takk!” I straighten in an effort to regain dignity. He can’t be impressed by my linguistic genius, but he still smiles, which looks all kinds of tasty on him. Little known fact: exhaustion rushes aside when a hot guy gets in the way.

  “You’re welcome,” he repeats. If I told him I’m here thanks to my very competitive master’s degree acceptance, he’d nod patiently, I can tell. His gaze would hold less approval though, and more incredulity. So far, I’m not convincing in the intelligence department.

  An old lady warbles behind me in that language I wish I knew better right about now. She secures his full attention, which makes sense, because I’m just a foreigner trapped in a line. Formerly trapped in a line. Until he freed me, and here we are: me, American with tons of luggage, and Viking-drunk dude helping an old lady from Norway.

  He’s not drunk though. Kara would be surprised at that.

  I really do need sleep.

  The airport bus is heated, but I Chihuahua-shiver from the short walk between the airport and the bus. Since I’m from Minneapolis, I’m not supposed to be shocked by the climate, but come on. It’s only August, and this is already Ice Country. Like midwinter at home without the snow. Or maybe my body’s in complete mutiny. Oh right, yes, it is.

  The bus has business-class seating all around and seatbelts that people glare at you over not fastening. Dope-sleepy or not, I get the message and buckle up before I cause a riot. I’m really happy that the bus is on the luxury side of decent since there’s no way I could’ve paid for a taxi. They’re all Mercedes, and by the price, those things run on virgin blood.

  My unceremonious drop-off occurs at the North Pole. Or a bus stop at Kringsjå, same thing. I’m the only person here, probably because it’s two a.m. on a weeknight, my only company a black forest. There’s a dog. Stray? It could very well be a wolf. Wait, was Little Red Riding Hood Norwegian? I make a mental note of leaving my red hat in the suitcase.

  Hmm. Pathways lead to rows of two-story student housing between the trees. I’m still cold and alone though and miss crazy Kara.

  21C is about three feet into the forest, on the corner of the first building I get to. Whoa, that was easy. Yellow streetlamps illuminate the path, and now I register people zigzagging around on a dwarfed plaza between the houses. Front doors swing open to a one-story building at the back of it. Alt-rock booms out, and—are those disco lights swiping in the background? Oh geez, here we go.

  They party, Viking-style, even on Thursday nights.

  How’s that Viking-style, Kara? Your imagination, I swear.

  From what I saw…

  Jesus, you were twelve!

  Duh, but I’ve got ears, and chaperones talk.

  Kara lets nothing go. Gossip brains suck when combined with a photographic memory. Come to think of it, this separation from my long-time bestie constitutes a sweet little break from reminders of stuff I’d rather suppress.

  “Heia! Hvor skal du med alt det der, da?” A tall guy with his eyes squinted like he’s got the sun in his face wobbles toward me.

  “Excuse me? My Norwegian isn’t all that good.” He covers a hiccup with a sideways fist. “You okay?”

  “Yup! Just hick!, ya know,” he says in a heavily accented hillbilly version of English. “Where’re…” He starts again. “Where’re…” He points. I nod that yes, I’m going to 21C.

  “But that’s my house. You’re the new chick!” He’s excited. Overtly excited, because he claps his hands like a toddler. “This way.” A slow, continuous windmill wave urges me onward.

  “Right. Okay…” I examine my heap of luggage in the innocent way that always works at home. It hits no gentlemanly cord in Party Guy. Instead he shoots me a charmingly crooked smile as I pull-drag my suitcases along. I keep repositioning my purse over my shoulder, and the laptop slides down nonstop. Once, I almost fall.

  “Careful,” he reminds me while watching with interest.

  Three more steps, and I’m at the door next to him. The jury’s still out on the reason for my panting. Stress, jet lag, annoyance, or just straight up being in a terrible shape? Whatever. The jury can be out all night for all I care at this point.

  He initiates a fumble-fest with his key as soon as I’m at his side. Thirty seconds later, he’s still concentrating on the task.

  “Allow me?”

  “Yup.”

  I open the front door with no resistance at all, return his key, and he walks in first, the door slamming shut in my face.

  I grab the handle. Wiggle with no luck, and that’s when I’ve had it and bang so hard that I must wake up every law-abiding person around. If they exist. Most people appear to stagger about on that plaza or giggle-kiss in the doorway to the disco-flash house.

  Party Guy doesn’t return. Instead, the door swings open and a girl with freckles and shoulder-length blonde hair blinks sleepily at me. Law-abiding? “Oh, hey there. You must be Kristen Johansen?”

  The girl is American. There’s no doubt from her accent! The relief whooshes over me, and I’m seconds from sobbing out an affirmative. I manage a squeaked, “Uh-huh.”

  “Nice to meet you—I’m Jill Bjornstead. Oh, let me help you with that. Jack?” she calls behind her. “Kristen is here, and she’s got a lot of stuff.”

  I keep mumbling thank you, thank you, as this Jack comes into the picture, nodding politely and completely sober. Short hair and a woolen sweater with those Norwegian patterns Momma always got knitted for us for Christmas. He’s wearing pajama pants. Wal-Mart brand. Familiar and nice. I puff into a grin.

  They bustle my stuff to my room, a small utilitarian yet high-quality space with a desk, a bed that’s smaller than what I’m used to, bookshelves, and a closet.

  “Jack is my boyfriend, aren’t you, dear?” Jill beams up at him, a little more awake now after all the bustling.

  “Sure, yeah.” He thrusts a hand out and shakes mine. “Jack Oleson.”

  “Both of you are of Norwegian heritage, I presume? That’s why you’re here?”

  Jill’s gaze flares, and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s mad or interested in the topic. “Right, we’re Norwegian, and we came here to study Norwegian and Scandinavian literature.”

  Whoops. Yeah, she’s Poppa’s type. Fourth generation, my ass.

  “That’s awesome. Where’re you from originally? I mean, except from Norway?” I emit an awkward laugh. My game isn’t there at the moment. Did I mention jet lag? Exhaustion? Being cold?

  She gives me the benefit of the doubt and tells me she’s from Saint Paul, Minnesota, and Jack is from Norfolk, Virginia.

  “Is there a kitchen here?” I sure hope so, because if I’m stuck with restaurants and they’re anything like Mercedes cabs, I’ll croak from starvation in one of the richest countries in the world. Hey, I could always beg at the entrance to the U.S. embassy.

  “Yes, we just walked through it.” Jill links my arm with hers and pulls me t
he four feet back out of my room. Sure enough. The kitchen is big too. God knows how I didn’t notice it. All amenities, a smallish fridge, burners, a stove, except no dishwasher. Clean and neat, just…

  I point.

  “Yeah, that’s Andreas. He’s Norwegian.” Party Guy sits on the floor in front of the fridge, door open and a whole vegetable drawer pulled into his lap. “Also,” Jack adds. “He gets the late-night munchies after being at the club. He dances a lot. Right, Andreas?” Jack winks at me.

  “Yup, yup.”

  Funny how excited Andreas was at my arrival. Now, he doesn’t even look up. The man’s on a mission. “Is that a sandwich he’s making in that drawer?”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t like to clean up. Less spills, no need for a plate, and all that.” Jack’s expression brightens, like he thinks Andreas is onto something. “Hey, just sayin’,” he defends at Jill’s side-glare.

  “Although most of us use plates in this apartment. Don’t we, honey?”

  “They do.” Andreas gives us all a four-second time of day, nodding to ensure that I don’t doubt Jill’s assessment. When he grabs a carton of milk and downs it from the spout, I have a serious moment of reconsidering my accommodations.

  Chapter Two

  University

  “Vikings didn’t speak unless they had to. They were silent brutes and all about action and violence and stuff you don’t even want to know about.”

  Kara’s words again. I don’t know where she gets it from. The History Channel? No, some of it is quasi-facts at best. Surely not from a week’s choir trip back when she was twelve.

  “You want to chip in on spaghetti and meatballs tonight?” Jill half-directs her attention to Andreas. It’s my first Sunday in Oslo. It’s also two in the afternoon, and Andreas just rolled out of the sack. Me, I’m already past the jet lag, up at a decent time in the morning, and in bed before twelve.

  “Naw.” Andreas lumbers toward the door. Then swings back and rummages in his pocket. He drops a couple of bills on the table in front of Jill. “Okay. Here.”

  “You like my spaghetti,” Jill says, grandmother syrup in her voice.

  “Uh-huh.”

  When Andreas is sober, he’s a philosophy student with a hazy plan for the future. The guy only talks when he’s drunk—which he is every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. He gets up looking haggard as hell, and then he dives into the fridge to see what’s left of the week’s shopping. Jill assures me that the only times we share groceries is when we do apartment meals, and I exhale my relief at that. It’s good to know I don’t have to ban myself from milk anymore.

  “He’s like a pet, you know?” Jill grins as she watches the door slam shut behind Andreas. “Like, a not potty-trained one.”

  “What? He…”

  “No!” She bursts out laughing. “Just saying, like a black sheep of a pet. You know what I mean? You gotta love him even though he is the way he is.”

  I peer out the window. Cigarette smoke curls from the steps. Andreas seems to be philosophizing, stare glued to the low clouds.

  “Plus, he’s the only one around here with a car.” Right, the tram takes most students everywhere, and though it isn’t cheap, it’s no virgin-blood-driven taxi. Jack and Jill buy tram passes every month. I’ll have to get my own pass sorted out too.

  “He’ll probably drive you for your first day of school.”

  Andreas maneuvers his car safely enough. Five minutes into the drive, I’m already desensitized to the silence. I’ve attempted several easy conversation openers, but he only offers grunted affirmatives or headshakes. The silence was awkward as heck until I peeked over and found him completely at ease, staring beyond the traffic—probably at something philosophical. Is that safe to do though?

  My heart sledge-hammers as I enter my first course, Nordic Politics. I’m barely contained exuberance as I thump into my auditorium seat and wiggle out my laptop. I spread out pens and a notebook too, because I’m not going to lose out on a damn thing today.

  Minutes into the class, I’m deeply in love with the professor’s accent, I’ve exchanged a few words with the Italian girl to my right, and I’ve come to realize that the forty-eight-year-old prime minister of Norway is a freaking hottie. Jesus H. People listen to him? I’d simply be gawking.

  “…because of Norway’s international focus, the prime minister’s office extends regular internship opportunities, which I would like for all of you to apply to.” Low laughter spreads throughout the auditorium as we eye each other. Professor Einbekk smiles, nodding. “What do you have to lose? Nothing. You were accepted into the master’s degree in Peace and Conflict for a reason. It means you’re already above and beyond the regular Political Science crowd from your bachelor’s degrees. You might have some experience already. You’ve written some papers, yes?”

  Some of us bob our heads.

  “The upcoming internship is only a month long.” She fans her arms out. “Your duties would be more supportive in nature, of course, but you’d be sitting in on a few of his international meetings. There might be traveling involved. Several of my students have been accepted over the last two years, and in more than one case, the interns were asked to prepare their written advice directly to the prime minister. Long story short, what you get out of this chance depends on what you’re willing to invest in it.”

  There’s nothing I want more than a month in the prime minister’s office. Is he married?

  Lunch is interesting. The Italian girl Silvina and I go to a small student-driven cafeteria at the outskirts of campus. I’m unsure if they own the establishment or if it’s some initiative to teach business majors their craft before they’re let loose on society. They’ve got student down more than anything, but the prices are livable. I can afford a bowl of chicken soup and hot tea on the side. Even so, I’ll do water the next time, because the tea’s half the price of the soup.

  “Silvina! Who’s your friend? Anche parla Italiano?”

  “No, she’s American.”

  “Ooh!” Yep, people are easily excited over foreigners here. I love that, especially when it means I can expand my horizon from Andreas as my only (mute-slash-drunk) real Norwegian acquaintance so far. Which reminds me. I’m not sure how I’m getting home today. The tram?

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kristen.”

  “I’m Mari. And that there’s Anna.”

  “Nice to meet you. Your names are very international.” I smile and blow on my tea.

  “Right?” The two of them bump shoulders, the dainty version of a football-player move. Both of them are prototype Norwegian from the Daughters of Norway website, naturally blonde to the point of not needing the light on to find the bathroom at night. They’re also way cute. Screw them.

  “So, there’s this back-to-college party tonight at Schroeder’s. You want to come?”

  The name of the place is suspicious in itself—I mean, are we in Norway or Germany—and then there’s the fact that we’re talking a Monday.

  Viking-drunk! Scary shit. Thanks, Kara. Wow, okay. I’m a party-pooper, and I haven’t been to a single party here yet.

  “Sure. What time?” My instant response makes all the sense to the blonde could-be-models.

  “We’ll be there, I don’t know, around ten?” Mari looks at Anna, who looks at Silvina. Who incidentally looks at me, and then we all sort of simultaneously nod in international agreement.

  Shabby-chic and freak-fancy, Schroeder’s is a tiny establishment on Oslo’s east side. Like everywhere else, people are either as tall as me or taller. In the case of the guys, much, much taller. This makes me run into an issue I don’t have in the U.S. Usually, I’m able to survey the clientele from the door if the club is small. Now, there’s no way I can locate my new friends without walking around and practically wedging myself into people’s groups.

  “There she is!” Mari hollers at the top of her lungs. She almost overpowers Kygo, who booms out his signature melodic, upbeat electron
ica over the speakers.

  “We saved you a seat!” Anna shouts, because this club is seriously loud. Is it a club or a bar though? Two-square-feet dance floor, swiping lights, crazy decibel level, yet the place is the size of my old living room and it is chockfull of people. Mari insists that I try her absinthe.

  Even before the alcohol hits, the ambience is electrifying. Laughter. Shoulder bumps—which these girls are experts on—and by the time I nudge through the mass of bodies to the restroom, I’ve already contracted that heady feeling of being on top of the world.

  These whiffs of cologne and the light sweaters the guys wear. I haven’t had a boyfriend in a while, which might be why everyone seems so sexy. Some have short haircuts, other shaggy dos like they don’t care. Always eyes that look like they’ve been carved out of glaciers. Not white, but you know what I mean. Geez, am I drunk? Nah. Nu-huh.

  Beyond the kitchen entrance on the right and the last bar table on the left, the hallway narrows toward the restrooms. That last table’s crowded, mostly guys by the looks of it, and I knock into the closest specimen on my retreat. Of course he’s tall and tips his head down to see me.

  “Forsiktig.”

  Oh I so got that: “Careful.” Makes me proud and full of myself, which totally works for me right now.

  “Careful? You stepping on me now?” I retort, and I do it so coquettishly I’m not sure if Kara would high-five or berate me. Either way, I blame the absinthe. Tomorrow, I’ll know if I’ll ever drink it again.

  “Traveler Girl!” he exclaims, and then I recognize his eyes. When someone has rainbow-shaped eyes there’s no way around recognizing them.

  “Rope Guy!” My giggle explodes in a burst of air. Spit too, I bet. I hope my lipstick is in place. I put on another layer after my first drink at the table, because local habits, and Mari and Anna initiated them. Yep, I should be gleaming gloss right now. Pretty sure my smile is fuchsia-colored. “What’re you up to?”