by Zen DiPietro
“Oh, fried dough. Mebdarians invented that. I like it.”
Pinky thinks her people invented a lot of things. I just agree with her because it’s easier.
I’m mixing a Mendacious Moocow, and I can’t remember the proportions. “Is it one part rum and two parts coconut milk, or the other way around?”
“Trick question. It can be either. It just depends on how it was ordered.”
I squint at the drink order. “It just says Mendacious Moocow.”
“Two parts coconut milk. But if it’s a Mad Mendacious Moocow, then you flip the proportions, and add four drops of cayenne sauce.”
I shudder at the thought of what that must taste like.
“Have you heard from Greta?” I ask. “She usually shows up around now.”
“She said she’s ordering room service in tonight. She has some emergency voiceover work to do.”
As I mix the Moocow, I wonder at what would constitute an emergency for voiceover work. I come up with nothing, except maybe the person who was supposed to do the job fell through and they were on a deadline or something.
Regardless, if the job went to Greta, it must be a lucky break. That’s the only kind of break she gets.
I was looking forward to seeing her, but I decide I’ll take room service in my cabin, too. It’s been a couple weeks since I watched movies and went to bed early. I’m due for some robot western fun. I’d invite Pinky to watch with me since she’s also a fan of the genre, but she’ll be tending bar most of the night.
Besides, it will give me a chance to write Nana back and let her know that soon, her grandson will be coming for a visit.
We’ve arrived at Summadonna. The Second Chance has connected to the elevator down to the planet, and I’m going to meet Pinky and Greta to check out this amazing laundromat.
I’m left with a dilemma. I only have a few outfits, and I send out my clothes every two days to the cleaning service on the ship. I don’t have much to wash. But who shows up at a laundromat without stuff to launder? With a feeling of desperation, I put my one dirty outfit into my duffle bag, then add all my clean ones, too. Even the swimsuit I bought for the time we went to Mar de la Mar.
On second thought, I remove all of my underwear from the bag. I don’t want Greta looking at them. It’s weird.
But wait. If I don’t have underwear, wouldn’t that be weird? She might think I don’t wear them or something. So which is more gross? Her seeing my underwear and presuming they’re dirty, or her thinking I’m a freeballing, take-my-chances kind of guy?
This is complicated.
I stuff the underwear at the bottom of the bag, then put the other clothes on top. This way, I can delay the final decision until we get there. Maybe there will be some clue to help me decide.
My hand grazes the red shirt and I eye it, like a robot cowboy sizing up the enemy during a duel.
Nope. Today is not the day. I close the door to my storage compartment.
You win this one, red shirt. But there will come a day when we do battle and I win.
Pinky and Greta are at the elevator when I arrive. I feel the situation begin to go sideways when I see how they’re dressed.
Greta’s wearing glittery bright-pink shorts and a neon-green halter top that’s so vivid I feel my pupils dilating. Her pale-green hair is up in two ponytails, and she’s tied pink and green ribbons into them. Her makeup is strangely sparkly, and, combined with the natural gentle luminescence of her skin, she’s so shiny that I keep blinking.
She’s also wearing the green swirled-glass necklace I bought her. Aw.
Pinky’s wearing turquoise pants with a thick black stripe down the outside of each leg. She’s also sporting a tank top that shows off her bulging biceps and her womanly assets in a way that makes me cover my eyes altogether.
“Are you okay, Charlie?”
I peek through my fingers to see Greta peering at me with concern. “I, uh, got something in my eye. Ow.”
I put on a show of rubbing my eyes, then blinking rapidly. “I think I got it.”
They’re both carrying smallish bags. I guess I overpacked on the laundry front.
Pinky asks, “Where are your clothes for the laundromat?”
I pat my duffel bag. “In here.”
She nods. “Gotcha.”
I feel a little better. They must be wearing weird clothes because it’s laundry day and everything else is being washed. Maybe those bags of theirs are bigger on the inside.
My anxiety ebbs. Until I hear a familiar, unwelcome, automated voice.
Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators.
Greta and I groan.
“I thought they fixed this,” I complain.
“Shh! It’ll hear you!” Her eyes widen with panic.
We’ve developed the Chance 3000 to better serve you, our guests. We elevate you because you elevate us. Please enjoy your elevator experience.
We remain silent.
State your desired destination.
“Down,” Greta says.
You said, “Down.” Now going down.
Greta and I exchange a look of relief. The Chance 3000 has given us troubles in the past, but maybe Gus got all of that sorted out.
Stopping for a moment of contemplation.
“Who’s contemplating?” Greta whispers to me. “It or us?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, helpless. “Let’s just quietly contemplate something and see if that does the trick.”
“What do we contemplate?” she whispers.
I don’t know. I look at Pinky and say the first word that comes to mind. “Flamingos.”
Pinky gives me a thumbs-up. She likes flamingos.
Concluding contemplation. Continuing to down.
I hold my breath. Hopefully we can continue unmolested from this point.
Stopping for dance party.
“What?” Greta’s face is a study of confusion that reminds me of the first time I tried to use the water closet in space.
Commence dancing.
A fast bass beat fills the elevator with an oonf oonf oonf oonf sound. And now there are strobe lights. I throw a perplexed look to Greta and Pinky.
Pinky is not one to panic. She shrugs and begins stepping from side to side, pumping her fists in the air.
She’s surprisingly good.
Greta drops low and starts doing some sort of movement that makes her behind bounce around like a bowling ball in a paint shaker.
I didn’t know a booty could do that.
The space-time continuum seems to shatter around me. Everything goes white.
Then Pinky’s heavy hand on my shoulder reminds me that I’m supposed to be dancing. I shuffle awkwardly to the left, then to the right, and raise my hands, willing them to do something cool. Something manly that says, Hey, ladies, I’m a man of the universe.
They flap like dead chicken feet.
Fuck. I don’t know how to dance.
But the Chance 3000 seems to be satisfied. The music shuts off and the lights stop.
Nice moves. Proceeding to destination.
I hold my breath until we get to the bottom.
Arrived at down. Please depart.
Usually, I ascribe to the idea of ladies first, but I get my ass off that elevator faster than I even knew I could move.
Since the elevator is a direct link to our destination, I immediately get a good look at it.
This place doesn’t look like any laundromat I’ve ever seen. We seem to be in a large atrium, like the ones at huge concert halls where people mill about when waiting for the big event to open up. Visitors stream in and out of a huge pair of double-story doors.
Everyone’s dressed in bright colors like Greta and Pinky. I see glitter, fringe, and—in one case—a guy wearing chaps.
Popular misconception: there’s no such thing as assless chaps. All chaps are, by design, assless. Chaps with an ass in them would be regular old pants. But it’s entirely accurate to say tha
t the fellow wearing them did not have pants on under his chaps, and my day was turning out to feature a lot more ass than I’d anticipated.
This couldn’t be coincidence. All these people couldn’t be so bizarrely dressed because all their other clothes were dirty.
I ask, “What is this place?”
Greta looks at me, puzzled. “The laundromat.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“It is,” she assures me. “This is the best laundromat in the galaxy.”
“Okay, so define ‘laundromat.’”
A little frown forms between her eyebrows. “You know, a place where people dress up, and dance, and there’s lots of nakedness and drugs and stuff. A regular laundromat.”
“That’s not what a laundromat is on Earth.”
“Oh.” Greta looks all cute and serious. “So what is it on your planet?”
“It’s a place where you go to wash dirty clothes. And get them clean. And dry. You know. Laundry.”
“Ohhhhhhhh.” Greta now understands my confusion. “No, this is different than that.”
“Right.” Here I am, at a nightclub with the woman I love, carrying a bag full of my supposedly dirty underwear.
Pinky’s eyes fall on my duffel bag. “So that means that’s not an awesome outfit. It must be…”
“My laundry,” I admit.
Pinky takes it from me. “Don’t worry, Charlie. I’ll put it in a locker for you. Go on in, and I’ll catch up.”
I notice she’s also wearing the necklace I bought for her, and it makes me feel better. If Pinky values something I gave her, I must not be a completely useless sectarian rube. “Okay.”
“We’ll have fun.” Pinky pats my shoulder and disappears.
She is ridiculously stealthy.
Greta grabs my hand and pulls me through the giant doors. I don’t know what to expect, but I’m pretty sure whatever happens won’t be good.
It’s not that I’m a negative person. That’s just statistical probability.
I follow her in, though. Both because it’s Greta and because her luck bends statistical probability the other way. That makes this endeavor a total crapshoot.
The place is as big as a warehouse and full of loud music, gyrating bodies, and a weird smell I decide not to think about too hard.
As I’m looking around, a guy walks up. He’s a tall, good-looking Garbdorian and only has eyes for Greta. “Want to dance?”
She hooks her arm around mine, resting her other hand on the inside of my elbow. “Thanks, but I’m with someone.”
I know she means as a friend, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling a rush of pleasure.
My warm fuzzies dissipate when the guy asks, “Who?”
Like she isn’t standing there with her hands on me. As if I’m invisible.
Greta only smiles. “The best.” With a little tug, she leads me away. Once we get some distance, she asks, “Want to dance?”
I’m about to say no when the fast song playing segues into a slow song. Normally, I’d say no to dancing because, as you already know from my sad performance in the elevator, I can’t dance. But slow dancing is nothing more than standing across from someone with your hands on them and swaying a little.
Even I can do that.
“Sure,” I agree.
She beams at me and leads me into the middle of the crowd. I can’t count how many couples we pass. I don’t care. They’re just scenery to me.
She picks her spot and puts her hands on my shoulders. I put my hands on her waist. Then we sway.
It’s nice.
“I’m glad we came here,” Greta says.
“Me too.”
“Life has been so much more interesting since I met you.”
“I can say, without reservation, that the past several months have been the best in my life.” There’s no comparison. The times I’ve had with Pinky and Greta have been amazing.
We stop talking and enjoying the swaying for a while, but then we have a lot of eye contact and the silence starts to feel awkward. I need to say something.
“How has your work been going?”
“Good. Actually, I just landed a small part in a movie. It’ll only take me a day to do, and I’ll be able to get it out of the way when we drop by Mars on the way to Earth.”
“That sounds exciting.” I’ve never seen a movie set.
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to do a movie. Just for the experience of it. You should come and watch the filming.”
“Think that’d be okay?”
She nods and her hair ribbons flutter. “Yes, I already asked.”
“Great.”
All too soon, the music ends, changing again to a fast, driving beat. I step back, my arms falling to my sides.
She looks uncertain. “You don’t want to dance anymore?”
I look down at my feet. “Well, I just don’t know how to dance to music like this.”
The guy from before butts in, putting his hand on Greta’s arm. “Looks like your friend wants to sit this one out. How about you dance with me?”
I’m not happy about this, and I can tell that Greta isn’t, either. She hesitates. This is where I should step in on her behalf, but I’m just not the kind of guy who steps up and makes a scene.
Fortunately, Pinky is. She appears and her arm slides around the fool. Since I never got his name, I’m going to just call him Guy.
Anyway, she hugs him in tight to her side. “I am dying to dance! Thank goodness someone else here is, too!”
“I never knew you liked dancing so much,” I say.
Pinky lifts her chin. “Oh, yeah. I’m the best. Galaxy class.”
Guy looks frightened. Good.
Pinky takes him by the hand and clears a wide swath. Apparently, her dancing requires a lot of room.
Then she breaks out the moves, and I realize she wasn’t kidding. She’s incredible. She’s got her hips swaying and footwork going, and her posture is fantastic. She spins Guy out, pulls him back in, and strikes a dramatic pose with one finger pointing straight up. Then she pulls Guy back in and propels him around the entire space she’s cleared.
Most people have stopped to watch at this point. Some are just staring in amazement, others clap to the beat and call out encouragement.
Guy doesn’t look like he’s having fun. He should be. Pinky’s making him look like a total dance pro. She picks him up for a fancy lift move, then swings him back down to his feet. And on they go with more footwork, working the dance floor.
When the song finally ends, the crowd erupts in applause and whistles.
Everyone else is looking at Pinky, so I’m the only one who sees Guy running for his life.
The music starts back up, and people drift away to do their own dancing or mingling or whatever.
“That was awesome, Pinky. You’re a very dynamic dancer.”
She seems pleased. “Thanks. Want me to teach you some moves?”
Do I?
I peek at Greta, who nods.
“I guess? Just something basic I can do in a situation like this. Nothing fancy. I’m not very coordinated.”
“Nonsense,” Pinky argues. “Anyone can dance. It’s just a matter of doing a little practice so you don’t look stupid.”
Encouraging but blunt. I never have to wonder what Pinky really thinks.
She leads me through a sidestep thing, showing me what to do with my arms so they don’t look like dead chicken feet or pinwheels or something. Then she shows me how to step forward and back.
“If you just do that, changing the pattern, no one will notice you can’t really dance. They’ll just see you moving. And after you’ve done this a while and gotten comfortable with it, you can add in some more things.” She moves so easily, she makes even these basic steps look really good.
“Thanks, Pinky. For the dancing and for making that Garbdorian guy buzz off.”
“Buzz off?” She starts looking around. “Did he go? Damn. He was a good dance partner.
Limber. I like that.”
“Kind of a jerk, though,” Greta points out.
“Well, there’s that,” Pinky admits. “But if he was nice, I’d have felt bad about swinging him so hard. So it worked out.”
“I guess it did.” Greta seems pleased even though Pinky looks disappointed to have lost her partner.
We shuffle through a few songs. Well, I shuffle. My friends look great. They’re the best dancers in the place, in my opinion.
“Should we get some punch?” I ask. “Or some food? I saw a refreshment table over there.”
Greta’s eyes widen. “Oh, no. You never eat or drink at a place like this, unless you want to go flying so high you won’t come down for a week. Literally, a whole week.”
“Oh. Well, let’s not do that.”
“Don’t put on any stickers, either,” Pinky warns.
“Okay.” I was unlikely to do that anyway, but it’s good to know.
“Oh, and don’t accept any chewing gum.”
“Right.” I think I’ve got this place figured out. “Don’t put anything in my mouth or let anything touch my skin.”
Pinky looks thoughtful. “Yeah, that should pretty much cover it.”
After a shuffling through a few more songs, I feel thirsty. “So what am I supposed to drink down here? I could use something cold.”
“There’s a bar next door.” Pinky stands up straight. “Want to go?”
“I was thinking about just a water or something, but yeah, if that’s where we need to go.”
“I could use something, too.” Greta somehow looks as fresh as she did when we first arrived.
After an hour of close confines in a warm space, I feel kind of sweaty and smelly. Walking back out through the big double doors is some relief, as the temperature immediately drops a few degrees.
We follow a walkway, then enter a bar. It’s not like other bars I’ve been to.
Pinky’s place, for example, has barstools, plus some tables and chairs. Mostly, it has drinks. It’s a nice enough watering hole, but Pinky hasn’t gone out of her way to give it a decorative ambience. That’s what I think of as a bar.
But the place we’ve entered is different. It’s bright white, with orange, red, and yellow décor. The feeling of the place is super cheerful. I see what looks like a milkshake mixer and some other odd equipment I’ve never seen in a typical bar. Actually, this looks more like a sundae shop.
