Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane)

by June Hydra

  “Two hands, beast, two hands, road.”

  Bishop leaves the vanity light on. We pull into a driveway and he says, “You don’t seem like a girl who casts bloodcurdling spells. Worrying when we’re home already.”

  I wave his comment aside. “Are we going to go in now or are we going to warm car seats?”

  Recessed lights blast white onto a sprawling carpet. He has portraits set alongside a mantle, presumably his family members. As Bishop introduces me to the various rooms—hello comfy couch for cuddling, hello plush master bed for fucking—he takes the time to detail the history of the place.

  “The dead buried under here fought in wars. Some Native American conflict in the past. Huge battle. Can’t remember the name, but it was pretty sad when I read about it. All the dead under our feet."

  "We're always trudging on dead people though. All those human beings before us right between our toes. Kinda gross."

  Bishop hesitates as we pass a dark room. I peek in and see various tarps covering boxes.

  "I moved here only two months ago. Still have stuff laying around for no reason."

  "Maybe I could help one day."

  Bishop tousled my hair. "You could. You might get hurt though."

  "Heavy stuff inside?"

  "Very heavy stuff."

  Bishop stops at the couch again where we collapse. He clicks on the ceiling fan, and it sweeps through its rotations, moderating our temperatures at a low seventy-five degrees.

  "Where did you grow up?" I ask.

  "I spent most of my life in south Colorado. I grew up on a farm, believe it or not. Very rural town, all ranchers. Everybody says y’all all the time. We’re not even Southern."

  "Funny. What's the day-to-day like?"

  "Honestly? Pretty damn boring. There's never any excitement. Everybody knows your business too. No privacy. Constant talk and chatter. You figure one day, waking up or something, that the radios would blast all your personal information. "

  "I always thought it the other way. Comforting and homey and where everybody loves each other."

  "It's not so much the location." Bishop wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. "It's more about the people, and the people I knew were not the best. I really didn't find community there."

  "Are you hoping to here?"

  Bishop squeezes once more. “Possibly.”

  I squeeze him back. “Community is a hard find. Feeling like you belong really, really well."

  “That's something we can work on together then," he says. "If you don't think that's too clingy sounding."

  "Not at all. Just human to human connection sounding. It sounds great."

  I snuggle under him, breathing his minty cologne, tasting the possibilities. I'm flush with excitement.

  Every person you meet is a possibility. Better or worse?

  Bishop, I think, is for the better.

  #

  I can't remember the last time I didn't have to listen to the Star Spangled Banner upon rising. Not even my Dad would play that in our house, and he loves America. Piranha blasts that song every morning without fail at six A.M.

  Instead though, I look up, and he's there. His name is Bishop, clean cut, muscular, good ol' boy. He wrangles animals like in the Westerns and has been on actual farms. He hides the twang, but if you concentrate on the vowels, you can hear his accent: earthy and lonely. Envision the countryside now. A big burly guy and his gal overlooking their harvest.

  The image captivates. It's killer to me. Living in cities and high rises all my life, you'd never see that life unless you're rich and can afford countryside visits. The closest to the country I've been are those tourist farms where you can pick berries and squash and take pictures of cows like they’re exotic animals.

  "Mm?" he says. "Awake?"

  "I am."

  "You fell asleep.”

  "I did. You're really comfy."

  "It's the chair."

  I pat his chest and pinch his muscles. "I think it's your body."

  “You're going to need a ride back, won't you?"

  "If you could."

  A loud rapping on the door grabs our attention. We jolt out of the couch. Bishop swings to answer, while I trail behind, nosy girl that I am.

  They talk at the front in hushed tones. Parsing their sentences becomes an exercise in masochism: you have to stretch your ear and crank your neck around this tight tiny hallway to even skim the basics.

  Bishop covers the entryway. I can't see who he speaks with.

  I duck out of the hallway. This is something Piranha would do: stick her nose someplace it's not wanted at all.

  Their conversation finishes amicably—laughter roars from the front door to the living room couches. I cast Bishop a perplexed expression as he struts back in.

  "Sorry about that," he says. "Just had an old friend come check up on me. We have plans later, or well, soon."

  "Ah! Am I intruding? I shouldn't have overstayed."

  Bishop grabs my shoulders and puts his forehead to mine. "You can overstay your welcome anytime you want."

  "Good," I say, patting his cheek. "I like guys who let their girls whip them."

  "Morning sass?"

  "You should see me in the afternoon."

  I pull away from Bishop, but he reels me in, and we spin around for one last kiss. The heat in his throat commingles with my own, and despite our slumber, neither of us has bad breath. Or at least not much.

  "You're up for meeting again sometime soon?"

  I pinch his nose. "Sure. I'll text you though."

  "You sound emasculating." Caddy hands me a dossier on one of our students. He types furiously on his laptop as I read out the payment info and general stats. "If I was straight—"

  "But you like penis so you're not."

  "I wouldn't enjoy that. If I was straight, I'd tell your ass, girl, get to the damn curb.'"

  “What? Because I'm a girl I can't be a little assertive."

  Caddy bobs his head back and drains the last of his cappuccino. "You sound like a man," he says.

  "Someone has to wear the pants. Piranha's definitely not and you only do it part time."

  "Is that because I'm gay?"

  "Type, damn it.”. To think that we once considered hiring more staff to help us in our daily routine. Who would take our clowning seriously?

  We had to stow ourselves once again in the back of Starbucks. Piranha did play the Star Spangled Banner, and from what Caddy told me, it was the orchestra version today.

  "She could at least pick ones with decent singers. Did you know next week she's thinking about switching to live performances? Are you ready for aaaaaaaaa-nnnddddd theeeeeeeeee rrrrrrrrockkkkkkeeetttrsssss reeeeedddddddddd glar-uuhuhhhHHHHHHH." The teenager couple adjacent to us glares. "Sorry," Caddy says to them. "But fuck do singers like to play off their vocal gymnastics at live shows."

  Besides bitching about Piranha, Caddy takes the time to list out the phone numbers of students I'm supposed to call. There are twenty of them.

  "This is why sometimes Piranha should be on board more," I say. Caddy scoffs. "She's crazy but helpful. Sometimes."

  "Okay, Miss Man. Combined with you nobody will want anything to do with us."

  In grade school other kids would make fun of my so-called mannish tendencies. I did go through a super feminist phase, once, before my freshman year in college. Now I'd like to think I'm balanced out and not a total champion of women's rights but simply a human being pursuing interests. Aggressively.

  "You don't think he'll be turned off, do you?"

  "Guys like girls who are feminine. That's why being a macho lady is a niche fetish."

  "I'm always joking though. It's not like I'm serious about dominating him...unless that's what he likes."

  Caddy rifles through a pile of papers and hands another off to me. “If you’re so forward, why don’t you ask?”

  “Maybe that’ll happen. Next time I see him, I’ll ask.”

  “And when’s t
hat?”

  “I told him I’d text him.”

  “What? That’s totally outside normal protocol. Now he probably thinks you don’t even like him. He’ll be blasting some other pussy out.”

  “Not so.” I grab my phone. “I’ll shoot him a text right now. Better yet, I’ll call.”

  “You have balls, girl. Iron balls. Not even the guys I meet have those kinds of balls.”

  I ditch Caddy, dialing the number. The patio outside gives space to talk without his interference.

  “Hey,” Bishop says.

  “You. Me. Something. This week. Yes?”

  “I don’t speak cave woman, miss.”

  “Suggest a place and I’ll be there then.”

  “You’re still interested?”

  “I didn’t call to say I’m not.”

  Bishop exhales deeply, and I inhale his voice, the pretty, petty sound of him heaving and hawing.

  “Our second date,” he says, “if we can call it that, could be the arcade. Do you like arcade games?”

  “Too many to list. I do.”

  And it’s creepy of me, but when I hear the words ‘I do’ I hear wedding bells.

  I know. Absolutely ridiculous. He doesn’t know me and neither do I him. But how can you not fantasize about these kinds of encounters? Someone like him doesn’t date girls like me often. I know these guys. They like the puritan types.

  “I’ll call you,” he says. “Is that okay?”

  “Taking the lead now?”

  “A little bit of dominance on my part, yeah. You like?”

  “I do. Call me soon, then.”

  “I will.”

  A twenty one year-old shouldn’t be so…sophomoric. I don’t understand. In high school, I’d never fallen for guys left or right. Studies came first, then cheerleading, then maybe a guy for the night to keep me company when my parents were abusive.

  In college, I’d never fallen for any of those guys I slept with. Never. They’d served me. They worked for me. They pleasured me and I gained immensely.

  Now Mr. Muscles Bishop runs in and I’m no better than a brainless belle.

  “You seem shocked,” Caddy says. “Something bad happen?”

  “He asked me out this time.” I grab Caddy’s monitor to still my quivering hands. He watches them vibrate relentlessly, smirking at my sudden inability to control myself.

  “You seem star struck.”

  “I’m not,” I lie. “He’s just something’s funky. I sense it. You remember in college, you could sense the bad guys right out from a crowd. I’m in that mode. He’s too perfect. Something’s lurking and about to get me. T he Universe.”

  “Or you’re paranoid and should just relax.”

  “I’m not paranoid.”

  “You’re definitely on edge.”

  “I’m not. I’m flustered is all.”

  “It’s the same thing.” Caddy smirks and rips my hand away. “You’re finally getting out there though. That’s fucking good for you. Maybe now your productivity will actually increase for once.”

  “I had lots of productivity getting the majority of our answers back in junior year.”

  “If you can call sex work.”

  “Sex work is a thing.” I swing a chair next to Caddy and review his data tables. The Chinese kids need their papers within two weeks. Apparently their syllabus lists the exact date they’re supposed to turn in their assignments. And the Angolan girls will need help this coming week.

  Most of our operations nowadays are run online. But with the internationals we like to meet them in person. An international trusts you more if you bridge the cultural gap in person. Plus, Caddy thinks I need the exposure to other cultures.

  “Don’t do any stupid shit when you meet them,” Caddy says. “Especially with the Chinese guys. They’re old money.”

  “And who’re you going to be meeting while I’m doing them?”

  “Hah. Doing.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I’ll be working with some Saudi Arabian kids. Mixed bunch. They contacted me yesterday night.” Caddy eyes my still shaking hand. “You must really like him.”

  “I do, Caddy. I do.”

  I dream of wedding bells.

  Yes, I’m going into full-blown infatuation mode. Peak height of desire.

  The specifics loom in a dreamy foreground. Who are the brides maids? Who’s family is that at the front row? I don’t know. They’re all blurry faces, centerpieces to compliment my lust and romantic want. The candles change colors every second, red, blue, orange, green, white. Drapes shift and spin and become aquarelle brush strokes, swirling zags decorating the background.

  Most clear in the dream is us. Standing together, we entwine our hands, and cut the cake. The ceremony hasn’t even begun yet, but we’re cutting the cake anyway. This is how we run our wedding regardless of opinions.

  The sole other family I have—Caddy, and yes, Piranha—wave at us from the front row. Both of them cry into each other’s shoulders, even though this might be the most unrealistic ceremonies ever.

  The cake floats away above our heads. I face Bishop, my veil already lifted. His own desire is palpable, hazy in the air. He takes my hands.

  “I love you,” he says.

  An organ chimes and boasts its croaky music across the wedding hall.

  “I love you,” I say.

  And the organ chimes higher, creaking to the highest note.

  There is nothing better than knowing someone loves you. Nothing.

  The dream breaks apart, seam by seam, splitting Bishop’s face in face first, then mine.

  I wake on a mound of sweaty bed sheets.

  It’s true that what you cannot have you wish for even more. There are no sour grapes in my garden, only acknowledgement of my troubles.

  I wish to be loved.

  I want Bishop.

  My head resting against his body released an enumerable amount of endorphins. A crazy high assaults me every time I think of him.

  Date two. We’re going on date two tomorrow.

  The Star Spangled Banner plays. Another orchestra version, but this time with an operatic twist: two woman joining their voices in screechy unison. I clasp my ears and roll over.

  One benefit to Piranha’s kookiness is her cooking. Scents of rosemary waft through the halls. Fresh cookies sit in the oven. You don’t even have to ask her to do anything of these things, she just does them.

  “America, America,” Piranha sings, “America…”

  Sometimes I wonder if she even really knows the lyrics or just likes the beat.

  “You’re pretty today,” she says. “Not that you’re not on all the other days of the year. But today, you’re exquisite.”

  “Thank you. Can you pass me—”

  Piranha sets a plate of omelets and ketchup and chocolate chip cookies. She pours three glasses of orange juice and makes two more plates of the same stuff.

  Caddy lumbers out from the hallway. He jams food into his mouth and sings along to the tune of God Bless America, Piranha’s other favorite song.

  “Looking like a hooch,” he says.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “I’m kidding. You’re beautiful, darling.”

  “You’re patronizing. Anyway, I know I look good.”

  “Cocky are we?”

  “You need to be if you want to get some.”

  Caddy shakes his head. “And I thought you liked this guy for more than a lay.”

  “I do. But he’s hot too. Besides, there isn’t much to go off a person the first couple times you spend with them. There’s just basic info and how he dresses.”

  “And my dossiers.”

  “You couldn’t have that much about him.”

  “Eh.” Caddy swishes orange juice between his cheeks. “I might. You want to see?”

  “I’d feel like that’s cheating.”

  Piranha looses a wicked laugh from the kitchen. “That’s funny of you to say!”

  “She’s got
a point. You’re not exactly the prime example of not cheating.”

  “Whatever.” I dig into the omelet so I don’t have to speak to them both for a while. Then I finish up the cookie immediately and dust off my hands, grabbing myself a glass of water.

  “She’s not angry. Is she?”

  “Nah. She’s thick.”

  “Violet, I’m sorry,” Piranha says.

  “You didn’t offend,” I say. She’s always aware where to strike, waiting for the right moment to cast her barbs at me. Or perhaps I’ve grown to be too sensitive to the realities of my job. “I can handle myself on the date without your dossiers.”

  “I promise you, you’ll want to see.”

  “No.” I grab my coat. “I don’t. I’ll be back in a couple hours if you want to bug me.”

  They’re still chattering as to whether or not they’ve offended me as I cross the front door threshold.

  CHAPTER 3

  I take pride in the fact that I’ve moved out of my parent’s house. Most people my age struggle to leave. They’d rather save or whatever.

  Helping people cheat in school wasn’t exactly my idea of highbrow business though. I’d planned on venturing forth into finance. Everyday would be a power suit day. I’d storm the office, head upright, neck pole-straight, and I’d rock the male-dominated world with my pumps. Nobody could resist what I would have to say over a deal. Management? I could do that. I’d be fair and just. No queen bee mentality here, though Caddy might say otherwise.

  I’d wanted to pursue something substantial and meaningful. Something that added to society.

  The deeper in you go though, the harder it is to get out. How do you stop your business when it’s on track to grow even more, year by year? What do you do when all this money falls unto your lap, and you can’t even move—amounts so vast, you wouldn’t know how to spend the first dime.

  You make three figures a month, and when you’re young, that’s gold. Then you hit four figures a month, and you’re still clinging onto the poor mentality of saving and not taking risks.

  You could try opening up one of the aforementioned—a “real” business. But you’d bust over and over. The majority fail on their third, fourth, eight go. Capitalism is not kind.