by Zen DiPietro
“What kind of place is this?” I ask.
“It’s an ice cream bar.” Pinky gives me a weird look, like I should know that ice cream bars are always adjacent to laundromats that are actually discotheques.
I’ll just roll with this one. “Right! Great.”
I hope I can still get some water.
Pinky orders an actual ice cream bar, size extra large. I’ve never seen frozen novelties come in a variety of sizes, so I’m curious to see this. The bartender comes out carrying Pinky’s dessert with both arms. He’s lifting with his knees, but his back is rounded and his shoulders are hunched forward.
That is one big ice cream bar.
With an immense look of happiness, Pinky sits at a high table near the door and begins chomping.
Greta orders a sundae with just about every topping they have. Which is a lot. When the cup comes out, I can’t even see any ice cream under there. I see gobs of candy covered with oozing toppings.
I love her, but her eating habits are gross.
I choose chocolate ice cream with cherry boba. If you’ve never seen boba, they’re little candy bubbles that break when you bite them and release some liquid candy. They’re yummy.
As if it has only just occurred to me, before I turn away with my ice cream, I ask, “Oh, you don’t happen to have water, do you?”
The bartender serves me a large cup of water.
I totally nailed that.
Pleased with my success, I sit down with Pinky and Greta and begin eating my ice cream. After a couple of bites, I notice how big Pinky’s bites are. I mean, they’re huge. If I ate that much ice cream that fast, I’d get a—
“Ooh,” Pinky says, clapping her palm to her forehead.
“Brain freeze?” I ask sympathetically.
“Yeah.” Her face is scrunched up for several seconds before she opens her eyes and gives her head a shake. “Awesome.”
She resumes her rapid ice cream consumption. I guess she likes brain freezes.
Greta is the last to finish her treat. She scoops up the last bite, then sits back and sighs. “That was yummy. Now what?”
“Why don’t you two go back to dancing? This has been fun, but I think I’m going to go back to my cabin.”
Greta brightens. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I’m tired. I’ll come back with you.”
We look at Pinky.
“I’m not leaving. I have a lot of dancing to do. I’ll see you two tomorrow.” With that, she chucks her napkin in the recycling vac and boogies out of the shop. Literally. She’s dancing as she goes.
I admire her confidence so damn much.
As we walk back to the elevator, Greta hooks her arm around mine, like she did before. It’s nice. Fewer people are moving through the atrium, so either the party is as hot as it gets, or people have gone somewhere to sleep. Or whatever they do after visiting the laundromat.
“What do you think the Chance 3000 will have in store for us this time?” I ask.
“I’m not sure how it could top the dance party.”
“What do you think all that elevator nonsense is about?”
“I haven’t wanted to say anything, but…” she glances around quickly, as if worried someone might overhear. “I think Pinky did it. It has her sense of humor all over it.”
“Really? Can she do something that complex?” I wouldn’t have expected programming to be in her wheelhouse.
“I’ve found that there is very little Pinky isn’t capable of. And she loves punking people. I’d have to say she’s the most interesting person I’ve ever met.” Greta smiles.
“I’d say you and she are tied, for me. You’re both pretty amazing. I’m lucky to have found such good company.”
She gives my arm a jiggle. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re the second most interesting person I’ve met.”
“Me? That can’t be true. You’ve met tons of people. I’m just a statistician with statistically unlikely bad luck.”
We’ve arrived at the elevator. It opens and we step on. I hold my breath.
Welcome to the Chance 3000: A new experience in elevators. State your desired destination.
“Up,” I say.
You said, “Up.” Now going up.
I let out the breath I was holding, and Greta goes the same.
She turns to face me. “Really, Charlie. You’re a great guy. The bravest person I know. You’ll try anything, and you’re kind to people. It would be really easy for you to be bitter about what life has handed you, but you’re so nice. You even help Pinky out at the bar. It’s inspiring.”
Wow. I consider myself kind of a sad sack, but she makes me sound really great. And she means it.
Her gaze burns bright with sincerity, and she’s grasped my hands with hers. We’re looking into each others’ eyes and oh my god, we’re having a moment. Not just awkwardness, but an actual moment. I feel like I should confess how fantastic she is, but she moves a little closer and I wait to see what she’s going to do, hoping it’s what I think she’s going to do.
Activating night vision mode.
What? No!
We’ve plunged into darkness, except everything’s gone green. Instead of just having pale green hair, Greta’s now all green. Except for her eyes, which are little black holes in her face.
“Charlie?” Greta’s voice sounds anxious and her hands grasp more tightly to mine.
“It’s okay. Just stand still.” I put one hand on her waist to help steady her.
“Right. Thanks.”
We’re silent until the elevator stops.
Arrived at up. Enjoy your stay on the Second Chance.
If I could punch an elevator in the face, I would.
The doors open and Greta and I gratefully step onto the ship. I’ve lost her hands in the process, and grabbing them again now would be weird.
The moment is lost. But it happened. You saw it.
I walk her to her cabin. She stifles a yawn behind her hand. “Wow, I’m really tired.”
At her door, we pause, and rather than our usual easy camaraderie, there’s a definite awkwardness.
Is that good? Does that mean there’s some chemistry going on here? Or does it mean things have gotten screwed up? I have no frame of reference for these things.
She smiles and says, “Do you want to come to my cabin for dinner tomorrow? We said we’d watch a movie together sometime.”
I restrain myself from expressing the rabid enthusiasm that fills me. “Yeah, that would be great.”
Smooth. So freakin’ smooth.
“Good! I’ll see you tomorrow.” She disappears into her cabin and I’m left standing in the corridor, staring at the door, like a dingus.
I don’t care, because I’m a dingus who has a date with Greta Saltz.
I’m going to level with you. You’ve been with me since I left Earth, back when I was expecting to quietly live out my days on a Mebdarian retirement planet. So I feel like I owe you some honesty for sticking with me for so long.
I’ve never been on a date.
Yes, there was that one time I hung out while girls were present, but mostly they were having fun with my classmates while I went home early to avoid being pulled into their youthful hijinks.
Hijinks and redshirts do not go to together, let me assure you.
So dating is new to me, and I just don’t have the experience I’d like to have in this regard. I need advice. Some wise guidance from someone who’s blunt as hell and will tell me what I really need to know.
Pinky is the only possible choice.
When I arrive at the bar that morning, she takes one look at me, comes around the bar, and then closes the place. It’s like she knows.
She sits in a chair in the middle of her sanctum and makes an I’m-gonna-make-you-an-offer-you-can’t-refuse gesture, directing me to the chair next to her. She sprawls comfortably, with one arm on the chair back and the other resting on the table.
“Tell me about it,” she says.
<
br /> I have a very weird sensation, like if I do this right, I’ll be a made man, and if I do it wrong, I’ll wake up with a horse head in my bed. Those are some pretty wide extremes, so naturally, I clam up.
My palms sweat. My heart races. I can’t figure out how to start.
Pinky’s seen me at my worst. That time when I almost choked to death on a tater tot comes to mind. She knows who I am and where I’m from. This shouldn’t be so hard.
She makes a small wave of the hand, a gesture that says she’s got this covered. “Okay. I’ll start, then.”
A tsunami of relief crashes over me. Pinky gets me.
“This may sound strange,” she begins, “but it’s all completely normal.”
Oh, good. Whew. Normal. I like normal. Right smack-dab in the center of a normal distribution, with no outliers, no need for even thinking about standard deviations because here we are, smack-dab in the middle of completely normal.
Pinky nods, wearing a look of sympathy. “When two people are attracted to each other, biological forces come into play.”
That’s a weird way to start, but dating has a lot to do with a person’s natural makeup of attraction and interest, so I’m prepared to ride this out with Pinky. See where she’s going with it. Surely there’s some wisdom once she gets to the point.
“The details depend, of course, on the anatomy of the two people. Or maybe more than two, if you’re Gvertflorians or some of the other species who…”
Her voice becomes an odd sort of buzzing. I think my brain has shorted out. I’m pretty sure this conversation has gone a very wrong way, and I’m afraid to tune back in. But a date with Greta hangs in the balance, so I focus on tuning out the static and listening to Pinky.
“…penis.”
Oh, no, good galaxies, no. I just…I can’t. I can’t listen to the birds and the bees, with Pinky’s very blunt and galactically cosmopolitan twist.
This isn’t what I signed up for.
“…might seem a little weird…”
I’m on my feet, and I don’t remember standing up. “I..uh…” My brain searches wildly for some excuse. Any reason to leave the room. All of the cells in my body are telling me that escape is the only option at this point.
“Combustion!” I yell. I’m not sure where that came from. “Freakin’ bats!” Don’t know where that came from either. I think my brain has reverted to some Neolithic sort of self-preservation.
I run away. There is absolutely zero thought process involved. This is not a conscious choice, so don’t judge me. It’s like when you shield your eyes from bright light. This is pure, inborn instinct.
When I’m capable of processing my surroundings again, I realize I’m in the water closet near my cabin. Why here? I don’t need to pee.
Oh, hell. I run my hands over the front of my pants.
No. No, I’m good.
I lean against the cool wall by the sink and try to make sense of it all. I’m like a person post-blackout-drunk, trying to remember what happened the night before. Trying to pinpoint the moment where it all went wrong.
“Charlie? You okay?” Pinky’s voice echoes off the hard surfaces of the water closet.
“Yeah. Good. Fine.” I try to make my voice sound deep. I don’t really know why.
“Are you sick?”
“No. I just…uh…”
Pinky comes into view, big and strong as ever, but with a soft look of concern. It’s the concern that undoes me.
“I freaked out a little,” I admit. “I wasn’t looking for a sex talk. I just wanted some advice on how to make a date nice. For Greta.”
Pinky frowns. “Well, when I go on a date, I always like—”
I sense this going into a bad territory again, so I cut her off. “Just a date. Like, first date. Innocent. Nice. No penises involved.”
Oh my god, did I actually say that?
But Pinky brightens. “Ohhh, I get it. Right. Sorry about that. I misunderstood.”
My whole body sags with relief.
“You sure you aren’t sick?” she asks.
“No. I’m just, uhm, you know.”
“Lame,” she concludes sympathetically.
“Yeah.” Fine. I’m lame. Pinky gets it. I’m good with that.
“I think I went at this the wrong way,” she says.
This makes me feel better. “Yeah?”
She nods. “Yeah. Let’s get out of the toilet and go talk in your cabin.”
As far as I’m concerned, those are some pretty golden words. “Yeah. Okay. It’s this way.” I lead her out and to 25J, the place I call home.
It’s only when we’re both standing there that I consider Pinky’s mass versus the maximum capacity of my tiny cabin.
Whatever. Physics be damned.
I go in and fold down a pair of chairs from the multipurpose furniture assembly that’s so cleverly built into the wall.
I sit and gesture to the other chair, which Pinky eyes warily.
“I haven’t sat in something like that since the blagrook incident of ’94,” she says. Then she shrugs. “Whatever. Go with the flow, right?”
“I’ve been trying to,” I agree. “Ever since I came aboard here.”
“Right.” She looks like she’s thinking deep thoughts. “Right.”
I feel like she’s going to come to some kind of point or logic or conclusion or something, so I just sit and wait.
“So here’s the thing,” she says. “Dates are nothing. Not even a thing.”
“How’s that possible?” I ask. “Human culture is practically engineered around the concept of dating.”
“Well that’s stupid,” Pinky says, dismissing my species’ entire way of life. “Dating means people hanging out together, spending time. That’s it. You and I do that all the time.”
“Yeah, but it’s different.”
“Not really,” she argues. “We hang out together because we like it, right?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
“And you’re nice to me and I’m nice to you, because we like each other, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But balls,” she says.
I feel like that must be a phrase where she comes from because she says it so authoritatively.
“That’s all dating is,” Pinky insists. “Two people who like each other, hanging out, and not being assholes to each other. What’s hard about that?”
“When you put it that way, it sounds easy,” I admit. “But when it’s you and me, there’s no wondering if there’s going to be, you know, something more.”
“Like pressing squishy bits together?”
I don’t know if she means kissing or other stuff, but either way, I do not want to pursue the thought further. “Sort of. Just intimacy in general, you know? How do you know if someone’s interested?”
“Ahhh.” Pinky nods in an I-understand-everything-now kind of way. “You don’t know when you should up the ante.”
“Exactly.” Finally, she understands.
“For a guy like you, it’s easy. Just wait. Let her up the ante.”
It can’t be that simple. “Don’t women like a guy who takes charge?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. That’s a highly complex concept, and, frankly, you’re not up to it. So, for you, the best approach is to wait for her.”
“I don’t want to be passive,” I say. “I have feelings. Strong ones. I don’t want her to think I’m just…”
“Lame?”
I didn’t mind when she said it the first time, but now she’s kind of rubbing me the wrong way. “I don’t want her to think I lack interest or passion. I want her to know that my feelings are strong, and that I want to face whatever the galaxy brings, with her.”
Pinky squints at me and purses her mouth, nodding slowly. I wish I knew what this means.
“I get you,” she says. “I get where you’re coming from. Pay close attention to her. Let her make the first move, but when she does, you move in and close the deal. The
last thing you want to do with Greta is leave her hanging. Got it?”
“I think so?” I understand what she’s said, but I’m not sure how to connect this to a real-life situation. “How do I recognize a move?”
Pinky presses her lips together and makes a deep “Hmmm,” sound. She seems to be taking the question seriously. “That might be tricky. Greta is by nature an open, honest, and happy person. There have been times that people assumed an interest when she was only being friendly.”
“Am I doing that?” I ask. “Is she only being friendly?”
“I don’t think so.” Pinky frowns. “She’s different with you. She’s been extremely happy since meeting you, too. I think you’ve given her variety and excitement. I think she’s actually interested.”
I blink at her several times. I suspected that my date with Greta was a real date, but to have it confirmed by someone as realistic as Pinky is something else altogether.
“Wow,” is all I can say.
“Yeah.” Pinky’s tone is all agreement. “So don’t screw this up, pal, or you’ll regret it forever.”
Well, that’s quite a pep talk. Instead of feeling invigorated, I feel the spectre of the grim reaper on my shoulder.
She slaps my knee lightly. “Don’t look so serious. Just be yourself. Natural. Have fun with her. If you two are right, it’ll happen.”
I feel better about that. “Thanks, Pinky.”
“You got it, pal.”
We sit in companionable silence for a moment. It’s just long enough for me to notice how ridiculously outsized Pinky is for my teeny little cabin. She looks like a basketball player sitting on a preschooler’s chair. If she were to yawn and stretch, she’d probably punch out my lightstream.
“What are your quarters like?” I ask.
“Bigger,” she says. “Pinker. And way cooler. Although,” she looks thoughtful for a moment, “your Renard paintings are awesome.”
I look to my pair of robot-western paintings, and I’m proud of them. Not just because Pinky thinks they’re cool, but because I thought they were and I bought them from the artist himself. To me, they are a symbol of my entire adventure in space.
“I’d better go reopen the bar. People get pissy when they want a drink and can’t get one.”
