by M. D. Cooper
As I set it down in front of the customer, my eyes are only on the drink. The best is yet to come. I drop in a marble-sized sphere. Its casing is instantly activated by the brandy, and for a bright, glorious moment, the whole thing lights up bright purple.
I smile to share my triumph with the customer, because an Oblivious Flasher is not an easy drink. Get it wrong, and it becomes a mere Forgetful Vagrant. And nobody orders those.
But then I freeze, because the customer is none other than my neighbor. Mr. 26J.
“Perfectly done, my good man,” he says jovially. “Well done!”
What? What’s happening? I look around, but Pinky doesn’t appear to notice anything amiss.
“Good to meet you, son!” My addled neighbor sticks his hand out. When I nervously clasp it, he shakes my hand vigorously. “I like I man who can make a good drink.”
Maybe this is the real him while the cranky man is just age and dementia. I’m sad for him. He kind of reminds me of my nana. She’s not herself these days, either.
“I hope you enjoy it.” I mean it, too. The poor guy deserves to enjoy whatever pleasures he has left.
“I will!” The man toasts me with his glass and takes a big drink.
Pinky passes me the drink orders from the dining car. Most are non-alcoholic, but some people, like my neighbor here, like to start the day off with a kick.
Since he isn’t spitting in my eye, I decide to get a name.
“Excuse me, sir, given that we’re neighbors, can I ask your name?”
“Are we?” The man looks delighted. “How nice! I’m Waldorf!” He sticks out a wrinkled hand.
I shake it. “Is that your first name or last name?”
“Only name. Why does a person need more than one? Seems excessive.”
I nod agreeably. “It’s nice to meet you, Waldorf. I’m Charlie.” I leave off all the rest of my formal name because I don’t think he’d like it.
He seems happy sipping his drink and munching on some wasabi peas. It’s not my idea of breakfast, but whatever. Old people can do what they want. They’ve earned it.
Pinky takes the top two-thirds of the drink orders and I work on the bottom third. That gives me a Feckless Lemonade, a Morning Wakeup, and a Friendly Fishmonger to mix. That last one reminds me of Oolloo, but I can’t think of her too much while concentrating on exacting recipes.
Pinky checks my work and grunts, which is glowing praise from her. A porter whisks all the drinks away.
It’s a quiet morning in the bar. A lot of our guests remained on Garvon VII, and we won’t onboard another large group for two days when we make our next stop.
Greta doesn’t arrive until noon, which isn’t unusual for her. She’s a free-spirited, I-wake-up-when-I-wake-up kind of girl.
“Can I get you something?” I ask her.
“Just water, with a twist of lime,” she says. “I stopped by your cabin to see if you were in it, but you weren’t. So I came here.”
“Boring story.” Pinky joins us.
Sometimes Pinky just says whatever she thinks.
Greta notices Waldorf. “Oh, hi! Nice to see you.”
He turns to peer at her. Several stools stand between them, and from the way he squints, I don’t think he can see her very well. “You too, young lady.”
“It’s Greta,” she supplies.
“Of course it is! Who else is pretty as a button like you? I’m always happy to see your smiling face.”
“Are you enjoying your stay?” she asks him. As brand ambassador, she has a particular duty to be kind to the passengers. It works well since she is naturally so bighearted and cheerful.
“Oh, yes. Except I keep hearing there’s a stalker around. Have you heard about it? Some skinny guy, always sneaking up on people.”
Does he mean me?
“I’ll make sure the captain looks into it,” she assures him.
“Thank you, young lady! Now, I think I’ll go see what’s on the menu in the dining room.” He takes his Flasher with him, moving somewhat faster than his usual shuffle.
“Are there any lushfruit muffins back there?” Greta asks.
“Yep.” Pinky plucks one out of the basket and sets it on a plate. “Here you go.”
“Thanks!”
I try not to stare as Greta goes through her process of tearing it up into a hundred pieces. She doesn’t do this with other kinds of food. Just bread-like items.
I’m wiping down the counter when Pinky takes the towel from me.
“I’ll do this,” she says. “Go sit.”
I mostly do whatever Pinky tells me. Don’t judge. You would, too.
Pinky begins talking. “I’ve done some research into those Albacore loan sharks. They’re bad news. They write unfair, misleading contracts, then strong-arm people into complying.”
“What should I do?” I ask.
“In a week, we’ll be visiting Mar de la Mar. It’s a touristy, beach resort, and those sharks love the beach.”
Has she been watching old detective movies? The way she said that sounded oddly familiar.
“So we’ll lure them in?” Greta sounds far too excited about this plan.
“That’s right.” Pinky nods. “We’ll stick it to ‘em, and then they’ll sleep with the fishes.”
Yeah, she’s definitely been watching detective movies.
“I think that’s species-ist,” Greta points out.
“Is it?” Pinky frowns.
Greta nods. “For Albacore, I think it is.”
“Huh.” Pinky doesn’t look repentant.
“Should we still visit Perabo?” I ask. It’s our next stop, and I’ve been looking forward to it. I enjoy all my outings with Greta and Pinky, but Perabo particularly appeals to me. It’s an artist’s colony. They welcome tourists who ooh and ahh over their art and love nothing more than buying things they don’t need. My favorite artist, known only as Mr. Renard, sells his work exclusively at Perabo. I’d love to get a signed original, if I can afford it.
I’ve never been a collector, and own only a handful of items. But looking at Mr. Renard’s art has always inspired me. Now that I have what I consider to be a real home, I’d like to decorate it with artwork that is worthy of it.
“Might as well,” Pinky says. “Artists rarely sign contracts, so loan sharks have no reason to go there.”
“Good!” Greta looks up from her plate. “I’ve been wanting to get back to that glass place. They make the most amazing things.” She pops a bit of lushfruit muffin into her mouth and chews happily.
She points at her plate to offer me some, but I smile and shake my head. It looks like a small cake exploded, and is not the least bit appealing to me.
“Did I tell you I have a promo spot to do while we’re at Mar de la Mar?” Greta asks.
I shake my head.
“It should only take a couple hours. Just a quick perfume commercial. Personally, I think the idea of it is stupid—how can a video tell you how something smells? But it must work or they wouldn’t do it.” Greta takes another bite of muffin.
I’ve always thought the same thing.
“Perfume’s stupid,” Pinky says.
We wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. Apparently that was her sum total opinion on the matter.
I say, “When you said you had a promo spot to do, I thought maybe it was for the new elevator system.”
Greta laughs. “Nope. I’d have to work hard at saying nice things about it. I hope they get the problems worked out soon.”
“Did either of you have trouble with your lightstream?” I look from one to the other, but they both shake their heads.
“Huh. Mine was trying to do something new, but it didn’t work well.”
“Odd,” Greta says. “Usually I hear about upgrades early on, so I can tell people about them. Maybe it’s a pilot program. You know, just testing it out to see what people think.”
“Maybe.” I can’t imagine the response will be positive.
; I keep them company until Greta’s done eating, then excuse myself to do my work. I pray that my lightstream won’t give me trouble again, and it doesn’t.
For the next several hours, I lose myself in the analysis of data and trends, and make predictions based on those trends. That’s my job. I love it. In all the hurly-burly of life and luck and everything that gets stuck in the corners, numbers are true, fair, and predictable. They’ve always helped me make sense of my world.
I stand and stretch my back. I decide to take a walk through the ship to stretch my legs and get my blood moving. A guy like me can develop deep vein thrombosis from just sitting around. And die. Just like that.
I’m glad not to find Waldorf in the corridor. I mosey to the right, past the water closet. I have fond memories of that water closet. Okay, well not exactly fond. I’m not a weirdo. But the first time I went in there, I wasn’t sure of how handling certain functions in space worked, but now I’m an old pro at it. It makes me feel very cosmopolitan. The complete opposite of a sectarian rube.
I continue along this familiar path, passing both dining room and the bar, but I walk past my usual haunt. The ship’s corridors are set up on a grid, so I can walk a big circle along the perimeter, as I’m doing, or turn a corner at a junction and do more of a blocky zigzag.
I continue along the perimeter. It’s nice to go for a walk. I didn’t do that on Earth. Too many risks and variables.
Gus turns a corner, right into my path. He’s walking fast, but slows himself to something more controlled and professional when he sees me.
“Hello, Mr. Kenny. Taking a walk?”
“Yes, getting some exercise.”
“Very good, sir. Don’t let me keep you.” And he hustles onward.
He must have something important to deal with.
I’m unusually tired. I thought the walk would perk me up, but it’s only convincing me that I could use some sleep. Just a few months ago, I’d immediately suspect carbon monoxide poisoning or sudden-onset anemia. Now, I think it’s more likely that I could just use an early bedtime.
After making the full circuit around the ship, I make it back to my cabin from the opposite direction. Still no sign of Waldorf. Phew.
Inside, I send messages to Pinky and Greta, telling them I’ll be staying in for the evening. They won’t be alarmed. My introverted nature still crops up, and I regularly spend a night in with a pack of dumplings or a pizza from the dining room and a movie.
What should I order tonight? I turn on the lightstream, hold my breath, and am relieved when I get to the daily menu without issue.
Though…the menu seems to be an issue. The dinner selections appear to be:
Big Bowl of Ice
Small Cardboard Hats for Hamsters
A Sad, Overripe Melon with an Air of Melancholy
Tiny Souls of the Damned Wrapped in a Flaky Crust
Baby Toes, Marinated in Orange Sauce
++Also available on request, a Small Bowl of Ice
Maybe this is what Gus was rushing off to handle. My guess is, there’s a disgruntled member of the kitchen staff.
This doesn’t help me in terms of getting food, though.
I call Greta. “Have you seen the dinner menu?”
“No, I’ve been catching up on some work correspondence. I’ve been getting a lot of new offers lately.” After a pause, I hear her laugh. “I’m tempted to order the souls of the damned and the sad melon and see what happens.”
“Have you heard anything about trouble with the kitchen staff?” I ask. People talk to Greta, so she tends to be in the know about such things.
“They did fire someone yesterday for eating a guest’s custom meal. I’m guessing he arranged this before he left.” She giggled. “Want me to go down there and see what kind of food I can rustle up for us? I was just about to order dinner, too.”
“That’d be great.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know what I come up with!”
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at my door.
“Pizza pizza!” Greta holds two pizza boxes, but there’s stuff stacked on top, too.
I move back and scrunch myself into the corner to give her a path to the table. I’ve already folded it down from the multipurpose furniture assembly. What my cabin lacks in space it makes up for in utilitarianism.
She slides the box off the bottom and sets it on the table. “One Earth-style pizza for you. I also got some dumplings, since you like them.”
She sets a sack on top of the box. “The head chef was so embarrassed that he kept giving me more and more food.” She laughed, turning to go.
My cabin has filled with all kinds of fragrant, delicious aromas. Suddenly, I’m starving.
“Do you want to stay and eat with me?” I ask.
“Sure! I mean, if you want me to. I thought you wanted a night in or I would have asked.”
“I’d love some company.” I really mean her company, but I play it cool.
“Great.” She sets her food down on the table, being careful not to let anything fall off its small surface.
She pulls a chair out of the wall and I do the same. When I first saw Gus do this furniture voodoo, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have the skill. Now here I am, an old pro.
We sit, and I realize there’s a logistical problem. The food containers are already covering the table, and even hanging off in places. We’re going to need plates and some room to maneuver.
“Should we put the boxes on the floor?” I ask, fearing this will mark me as a rube. Who puts food on the floor? Does this make me gross?
But Greta’s a champ. “You bet. Sometimes we have to get creative out here in space. Next time we should do this in my cabin. It’s just a little roomier than this, which might make it easier.”
I’m momentarily stunned both by the idea that she already wants to do this again, and that I’d get to see the inside of her cabin.
I recover when she holds my pizza box out to me. “So what’s on your Garbdorian pizza?”
She leans in and takes a deep breath of it, then sighs happily. “It has a dough base, like yours, but instead of being layered with sauce, then cheese, then other stuff, it’s covered in cavalamitsi.”
She opens the lid and I’m a little afraid of what I’ll see.
“It’s macaroni and cheese.” I stare at it.
“What?” She tugs a piece onto a plate she’s removed from the interior of the box lid.
“We have that on Earth, but we call it macaroni and cheese.”
“Oh. Neat. Want to try?” She offers me the slice.
“Yeah. Thanks. Want to try mine?” I lift the lid.
“I dunno.” She eyes it warily. “No offense, but it’s kind of weird for me.”
I pull a slice of it onto my plate, next to the mac and cheese version. “How’s it weird?”
She bites her lip, reluctant to answer.
“It’s okay. I won’t get offended.”
“It’s that.” She indicates my favorite topping with an outstretched finger, which makes tiny, pointy circles. “It comes from such a dangerous-looking source, and it just seems strange to put on a pizza.”
“It’s just pineapple. It’s good. See?” I take a bite and chew to prove my point.
She looks unconvinced.
“I try things every day that I instinctively feel are a bad idea. But I try them anyway.” I raise my eyebrows at her.
“Ugh, you’re right, I’m being a baby. Okay. Let me try Earth-style pizza with pineapple.”
I put a slice on her plate, then pick up the kind she likes and take a bite.
“Mm, this is delicious.” I’d have said so even if it hadn’t been, but it really is.
She releases a breath, sets her jaw, and takes a bite. She chews, looking thoughtful. “It’s not terrible,” she says slowly. “It’s kind of sweet.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It goes well with the acidic tomato sauce.” I finish off the slice of Garbdorian pizza, then start in on mine
.
She finishes the slice, except for the crust, which she sets aside. Then she moves on to her own pizza with obvious relief.
“It’s okay if you don’t like it. You tried it, and that’s what matters.”
She smiles. “Thanks, Charlie. You’re the best.”
I’m sure that’s not true, but Greta sure makes it sound good.
After my second slice of pizza, I eat a fist-sized dumpling and I’m stuffed.
She polishes off a third slice of pizza and reaches for the mystery bag.
“What’s in there?”
“Fresh donuts!” She puts one on my plate, then one on hers.
They’re all roundy and caked with cinnamon sugar.
“These look fantastic.” I’m stuffed, but I bite into it anyway. Bliss! The outside has just a little bit of crunch, and the inside is so soft and cakey. “Wow. So good!”
“Right?” Greta chews, and her lips have a sandy coating of sugar. She looks adorable.
Then she sags into her chair. “I’m so full, though.”
“Me too. I can’t eat anything else. What do we do with all this food?”
She starts stacking it up. “I’ll find it a home. There are lots of other people confused about their dining options tonight, I’m sure.”
“I bet.”
“This was nice.” She gives me a sunny grin.
“Really nice. Thanks, Greta.”
We keep eye contact for a couple beats too long, and now this feels like a drawn out moment of expectation. Like in the movies, when people kiss.
Oh, man, I’m being weird again. I just know it.
“Let me help you with these!” I finish stacking the food containers and lift them.
She stands and walks to the door with me. Well, to be precise, she has to walk to the door first, and then out into the corridor. Then I have room to follow her and hand her the food.
“I really enjoyed this. I’m glad the menu got messed up.”
She laughs. “Sometimes even a mistake can be a lucky thing, right? I’m glad, too. Let’s do it again soon. Goodnight, Charlie.”
I lean against the door after it closes. It’s so foreign to me to connect bad luck to good luck, but she’s right. That’s what landed me here, after all.
Kenogu.
