Dodging Fate: A Charlie Kenny Redshirt Adventure

by Zen DiPietro

  “Hey, 25J!” He calls.

  Too late.

  I peek out, like a turtle extending its neck outward only the barest amount.

  “I dropped my tray,” he explains. “Mind helping me pick it up? These old knees don’t work like they used to.”

  He’s smiling and not acting crazy, so it must be a good moment. I decide to risk it. I turn the tray over, stack up the four boxes and the bottle, and lift it. “I could carry it into your cabin, if you like.”

  Maybe a peek at his inner sanctum will reveal something to me.

  “Oh, thank you, young man, I’ll take you up on that. Otherwise, my dinner might end up being completely inedible if I drop it again.” He chuckles.

  He opens the door and lets me in first. As I step in, I see that his cabin is exactly like mine. His table is folded out, and the lightstream looks like it was in recent use, based on its haphazard angle.

  I see a jar of muscle cream on the table, but otherwise, nothing. His few personal items must be in the storage bin, just as mine tend to be.

  I put the food on the table and turn to leave. “Have a good dinner, Waldorf.” I cringe. He might not want to be called that today.

  “You too, young man. Charlie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is!” I say too enthusiastically. I’m just so excited he remembered.

  “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you have a date waiting for you. A certain green-haired girl, maybe?” Then he shrugged. “Or maybe a big pink one. Whatever you like.”

  “I’ll probably just order a snack and finish some work.”

  “Wish me luck with this,” he chuckled, pointing to the boxes. “I’m not sure how much will be edible.”

  “You can always call for room service if you need something else.”

  “I will. Thank you, Charlie.” He smiles.

  Back in my cabin, I feel sad. Waldorf is so nice when he’s not suffering from one of his spells.

  I determine to stop trying to avoid him. It’s not his fault his mind isn’t what it once was. I’ll do what I can for him, for however long he’s on board the ship. It is called the Second Chance, after all. It’s a place where good things happen.

  Maybe it’s my newfound determination to be an instrument of good fortune, or maybe it’s my pair of Renard paintings, hanging awesomely on my wall, but I spend my second evening in a row watching robot westerns until I fall asleep.

  It’s a nice life.

  Getting ready for a visit to Mar de la Mar gives me a mix of emotions. Greta told me to bring a swimsuit, because she’s bringing hers. I don’t have a swimsuit.

  Redshirts take swim lessons, and then never willingly swim again. It’s a survival tactic. The idea of having fun in the sun with Greta, though, has me thinking that I can buy a swimsuit at one of the shops.

  As long as I don’t go into the water more than ankle-deep, and Greta’s with me, nothing too terrible is likely to happen. Right?

  Pinky says she’s working on a plan for her to lure the loan sharks out, if they’re still looking for me. I like the idea of getting this situation settled, and if that’s going to happen, I’ll be with the best possible people to make that actually work out in my favor. On the other hand, I kind of feel like I’m throwing myself out like chum, just waiting for the monsters to arrive in the bloody, churning waters.

  On the other hand…fun in the sun with Greta!

  The ship lines itself up to the elevator shaft, the connections are made, and off we go.

  Oh, no. The elevator.

  With great trepidation, I board it, along with Pinky and Greta. I wait for the smooth voice to torture us with its unhelpful and bewildering assistance.

  Instead, a man’s voice comes over the speaker, screaming, “Down!”

  The elevator descends. It is just me or is it going faster than usual?

  Greta’s hand is on my arm, so I don’t think it’s just me. I look to Pinky, who seems thoughtful.

  We get to the bottom safely, though my heartrate has increased. I pat Greta’s hand.

  Not so long ago, she complained to me about how boring and predictable her life was, with things always going her way. She definitely can’t say that now. She’s getting more curveballs than a baseball game set up next to a black hole.

  She smiles at me, and that gleam of adventure is in her eye. She’s wearing a tiny backpack, and I’m guessing her swimsuit is in there. Then I look at Pinky and wonder what kind of swimsuit she wears.

  “So what’s the plan, Pinky?” I ask. This has been her department, since I have faith in her abilities for mayhem, punishment, and shaking people down. It just seems like the sort of thing that would be in her wheelhouse.

  She nods as if she’s been expecting me to ask. “Okay, here it is.” She extends her arm toward the beach, which is still a little way off. “We go that way. At a relative speed. If people get in our way, we go around them. Unless they’re the loan sharks. Then I kick their asses until they agree to leave you alone.”

  “That’s the plan?” I expected more. A lot more.

  “What more do you want?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. I feel like there should be more of an overall strategy. Something more, you know, strategic.”

  Pinky stops walking. “That sounds like a challenge.”

  Crap. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Pinky’s shaking her head. “No, it’s too late. I’m totally challenged now. And I never fail to deliver on a challenge.”

  This feels like a bad thing to me. I peek at Greta, and it seems like she’s unsure of what to make of this.

  “I don’t mean anything by it, Pinky. I just, you know, expected something elaborate. It’s my mistake.”

  “Oh, no. You’re not getting out of it that easily. You’re going to get a plan, all right. You won’t even know it when it hits you.”

  Right. I don’t even know what that means. But Pinky’s annoyed, so I go along. “I’m sure it will amazing.”

  “It will,” she confirms.

  What have I done?

  “Let’s change into our swimsuits,” Greta suggests.

  I’m grateful for her intervention. “I’ll need to buy one first.”

  “Oh, okay. Pinky, do you have one?” Greta asks.

  “I’m wearing it under my clothes.” She’s wearing a button-up shirt with a lushfruit print and a pair of khaki shorts. That kind of rig is apparently universal beachwear.

  “Did you have something particular in mind?” Greta asks me.

  “I’m not even sure of all the options. I’m thinking just basic swim trunks and a UV-proof shirt. Beige or tan or something like that.”

  Greta’s lips twist in a funny little smile. “I had a feeling you might prefer beige. I think I know the place.”

  She ushers me into a cabana with only three walls. I feel a bit exposed, but I go along with it. We browse and I’m disappointed to find that swimwear on Mar de la Mar favors bright colors. I see a lot of blues and oranges and acid greens, but no beige or tan at all.

  “How about this?” Greta plucks out a trunks-and-shirt combo that are a pale sky blue with some swirls of a deeper blue. Compared to the other offerings, I think this is as good as I’m going to get.

  “It’ll work.” I grab my size and quickly pay.

  Then we’re at the changing cabanas. Pinky and Greta go into the unisex section, and I go past it to the men’s section. I’m paranoid enough about changing in public. I prefer for it to be a gender-specific event. I know, it’s small-minded. I’m working on not being such a rube. I’m just glad that there’s a facility for someone like me.

  After we’ve changed, we jam our stuff into lockers and walk down to the beach. I don’t make a peep about The Plan because I already screwed that up once. I’m just going along with whatever Pinky says at this point.

  I walk onto the beach in my bare feet, which Greta has assured me is the norm. I’m nervous about broken glass, jellyfish, and other horrible things, bu
t I’m trying very hard to be cool.

  She’ll never know how hard I’m trying.

  Anyway, we walk down the beach and I have to admit, I really like the feeling of the warm sand shifting beneath my bare feet. It’s so…soft. And squishy. Like walking on piles of sugar. Very unique. I’m broadening my horizons, here, wearing blue and exposing my skin. My family wouldn’t even recognize me if they saw me.

  The thought makes me proud of myself. I’ve come a long way.

  I’m usually of the cautious, creeping walk persuasion. But this burst of pride makes me loosen my gait into a free-swinging stride more akin to my fellow denizens of the beach.

  That’s right. Charlie Kenny’s on the beach, y’all. Ready to edge into the water in my bare feet, like a badass.

  Like a badass.

  I hear you laughing at me. I don’t even care. For my people, I am in the crazy, out-there, thrill-seeker zone. I feel like I should be wearing a red shirt that says, I am a redshirt. This is not normal.

  A moment of epiphany comes upon me. The rush of waves in the near distance is the musical backdrop, and I can taste the salt in the air. It’s like a movie moment. Not a robot movie moment, cause they’d rust like fuck in about two seconds out here. But in a feel-good kind of movie-moment way. The cries of the seagulls elongate, becoming deeper, and Greta’s smile becomes almost frozen in time. Pinky’s skin is bright in the glow of the sun. It’s a moment that seems to last forever.

  I’m going to wear red. For real. Red. The curse of my people. The bane of our existence. I will wear an actual red shirt.

  I mean, not today or anything. Eventually. At some point. But I will.

  Time returns to normal and I feel changed, as a person. Lighter. Better. Evolved.

  Which, of course, is when everything turns to shit.

  You can only push fate so far.

  Time has slowed again, but not in the good, glowing, gorgeous way. It’s slowed in the bad, screaming, horrible way.

  Albacore men in dark suits come at us. Greta notices them, fear dawning on her face. Pinky already sees them. Her face has darkened to a deeper pink. Kind of a maroon. No, that’s kind of more purply, isn’t it? What I mean is magenta. That’s a pinker version of red. Or maybe it’s a redder version of pink.

  I’m getting off point.

  Even as I see these things developing, I somehow trip and fall. On nothing but sand. Because of course I do.

  I land face-first into a small dune and roll down the other side. Whatever else is happening in the meantime, I have no idea because I know nothing but sand in my mouth and eyes and rolling and the heat beating down on me and the sound of seagulls in the distance.

  Is this what it’s like to be drunk? If it is, I will gladly continue not getting drunk, ever. Because this sucks.

  I’m digressing again.

  I roll to a stop on a red-and-white checked blanket, spitting out sand and trying to see. I think there’s egg salad in my hair. And on my neck. I feel kind of squishy and I smell mayonnaise. When I finally get a good look, I see a flurry of pink fists and dark suits and sky and a glimpse of horrified picnickers.

  It’s a vast panorama of so many things. It’s hard to take it all in.

  I find the ground with my fists and push myself upright. Rubbing the sand out of my eyes only seems to get more sand in them. Why are beaches so popular? I can’t imagine anything that sucks this much.

  I hear Pinky’s voice in front of me. “The forks, Charlie! Use the forks!”

  What? I blindly feel around what feels like a sandwich and some soft, globby things that are either devilled eggs or eyeballs.

  There’s no telling what other species bring to a picnic, so I really hope they’re devilled eggs.

  My hands close around the plastic forks.

  What do I do? I can barely see. I think of Greta.

  “Kenogu!” I cry, and throw the forks.

  My hand finds a bottle. Still thinking of Greta, praying it’s water, I uncap it and pour it on my face to rinse my eyes.

  When I can see again, I see three Albacore on the beach, lying limp. And Greta. Oh, wonderful Greta. She’s descending upon me.

  “Charlie, are you all right?” Her arms go around me, and she begins drying my face with something soft.

  “I think so…what happened?” My vision is clearing.

  “You did it! You hit those guys with the forks and they went down like a ton of tuna. I guess they’re horribly allergic to plastic. And then Pinky was on them. It was terrible.”

  It makes no sense, but I feel so discombobulated that I sink into Greta’s arms. It’s the place I never thought I’d be. I might as well go with this. It’s a far better way to die than I ever imagined.

  But I don’t die. My vision clears.

  I’m getting better.

  Actually, I’m just fine.

  Authorities are taking away the Albacore, and my head is in Greta’s lap, and holy crap, this was totally worth it.

  Then I see Oolloo rushing forward, and I start to feel weird. My wife is coming, and here I am in another woman’s lap.

  What a great problem to have!

  I sit up, but keep my arm around Greta. Because I have an excuse to.

  “Charlie, are you okay?” Oolloo drops to her knees in front of me.

  Do Albacore have knees? She seems to.

  I suspect I’ve hit my head harder than I thought. Things are still coming at me in disjointed bits and confused blurs. I don’t want to sound dopey in front of Greta. I want to say something that shows her I’m cool.

  “I’m cool,” I say.

  Fucking A. I totally nailed that.

  “I’m so sorry. I tried to get here sooner. My parents’ debt is handled. You won’t hear from those guys again.” Oolloo looks worried. Her whiskers are all a-tangle.

  “Groovy,” I agree, feeling fine. Greta’s arms are around me, and I can feel her breathing. Her nearness makes me bold. “Can we have a divorce now?” I ask Oolloo. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  “Oh, it’s me, too,” Oolloo assures me. She slaps me.

  “What was that for?” I roar. Actually, if I’m honest, that’s probably more of a whine. But since this is my story, I’m going to characterize it as a roar.

  “Slap me back,” Oolloo says. “Then we’ll be divorced.”

  “You’re a violent culture, aren’t you?” I say. “This would not be at all okay on Earth.”

  I slap her anyway.

  Oolloo’s whiskers wiggle and straighten themselves out. I think she’s smiling at me.

  “You’re a good one, Charlie Kenny. I’m glad I married you.”

  “Uh,” I say. “Likewise?”

  I feel the brush of whiskers on my cheek and my wife is gone. I am now a divorced man. Apparently. I feel instant nostalgia for all that I’ve lost.

  It’s good to have the chance to lose something and not die.

  Pinky helps me to my feet. Whee, suddenly I have no weight at all. That’s definitely egg salad on the back of my neck.

  “You okay, Charlie?”

  “Was this your plan?” I ask.

  “Every bit.” She says it so authoritatively, I instantly believe it.

  “I may be punch-drunk from a sand dune,” I say, “but you look nice in a swimsuit.”

  “I hear that a lot, but thanks.” Pinky swings me up into her arms. “Let’s get you to the medbay.”

  “What about our day at the beach?” I ask.

  “Later.”

  I’m good with that. So I take a nap.

  9

  I wake up alone.

  I feel…different. I run my hands over my face and sit up.

  My cabin. I see my two Renard paintings, side by side, creating a panorama that they were secretly always meant to.

  I feel good. The kaleidoscope of beachy images hits me. Loan sharks. Forks. Oolloo. A public divorce.

  Oh, my god. I touched forks. On purpose!

  Leaping out of bed, I perform a d
isplay of changing-out-of-my-pajamas-and-into-regular-clothes so swift that even I’m amazed.

  Holy crap, how did I do that? It took, like, two seconds.

  Never mind! I’m riding high, and seizing the moment, and making the most of it, and all those clichés.

  I scramble down the hall to Greta’s quarters. I don’t even pause. I just knock.

  Like a badass.

  No answer, though. That’s a bit of a letdown. But no matter! There are only so many places she could be on this ship.

  I peek into the dining room, and there are forks, but I stare them down. To be clear, I don’t go in to the dining room but I give those forks a staring down that they won’t soon forget.

  No Greta, though.

  When I look into Pinky’s bar, though, there she is. My heart sighs in relief.

  I love Greta. She may not know it, but I know it and you know it. It’s our secret. For now. Hopefully, not for too much longer. I promise, I’ll do my best to move this along. I’m not like other, more authoritative guys, but I know what it means to be the underdog, and I swear I will not let my unlikely fortune go in vain. I will make this count.

  Stay with me.

  I stride into the bar.

  Greta turns and sees me. “Charlie! How are you feeling?”

  “Good. I’m good.”

  She leaves her seat at the bar and rushes forward to hug me. I hug her back, breathing in the scent of flowers and sweetness and all that is good and Greta.

  “I’m so glad.” She smiles at me and kisses my cheek.

  But not my cheek exactly. It’s kind of further back. You know, closer to my ear. This is definitely not a Good morning, Grandpa! kind of peck, but a Howdy, Sailor kind of kiss.

  Oh, yeah.

  Charlie Kenny has arrived.

  My heart is bursting.

  Over Greta’s shoulder, I see Waldorf arrive. And then arrive again.

  Do I still have sand in my eyes? I pull back to rub them. But yeah. Two Waldorfs.

  What the ever-loving hell?

  Greta notices too, and pulls away. I keep my arm around her. Because, you know.

  The Waldorfs approach the bar. Pinky wears her normal, chewing-bullets expression.