by June Hydra
And in the eye of all this nonsense is my attempt at maintaining some semblance of a running social life to stay sane.
Bishop roves into the apartment complex at around four-thirty. His convertible is no better than Caddy’s station wagon. Better beat than nonexistent.
I hop in, and Bishop kisses me as a greeting. “I’ve been thinking of you,” he says.
“That’s nice. Keeping thinking about me.”
He tugs at my chin and kisses me once more, sending waves of prickling to the back of my throat. He creates a gentle itch on the roof of my mouth, and drags his tongue to the tip of my lips, where he presses down with his teeth, biting enough to create a short-circuiting jolt.
“That was great,” I say. “Thank you for that.”
“You’ve never had that before?”
I slap his chest, but he deflects my hand with a twist of his shoulder.
“I know you haven’t,” he says.
The arcade is positioned near an alleyway. Skaters like to round the corners on longboards. Parents walk alongside their nagging kids. I feel like a teenager coming here, considering the arcade isn’t exactly for adults.
“But this one is,” Bishop says, “it’s a special arcade.”
We get out of the car and walk under neon lights. We pass through a tarp and the first person to greet us greets us with a loud, “Howdy!”
It’s a country arcade, how novel.
The woman running the front desk wears Daisy Dukes and a gallon hat, though in reality her accent sounds more Brooklyn than Southern. Her coworkers all wear plaid—in fact, I’ve never such an ocean’s worth of plaid in my life.
“It’s the most fashionable thing to wear there, out in the country.”
“Plaid?” I say. “Plaid?”
“I told you. You’ve never had that—” he points to his lips “—or that or that or that before.”
All around us are country themed art pieces. The laser tag is a ranch-maze with pistols instead of your typical futuristic laser gun. Men prance around in boots, their heels thicker than my own at home. I whip out my phone to take a snapshot of the general arena, where people congregate around games of billiards and dart boards. Caddy would love this place. So would Piranha.
The vents pump aromatic perfumes and mingle the scents with a dry burnt stench, the kind you’d get after lighting up a bon fire. I wrinkle my nose, but Bishop assures me, “It’s for the atmosphere.”
We sign up to play laser tag, and after a while waiting for the other guests to hang up their pistols, we’re allowed in. There’s a wooden gate that blocks the way into the arena. Bishop lends me his had and I hop over gracefully.
Packed sand covers the ground. It stretches to a fake background of the setting sun. Whitewashed, ramshackle houses line the perimeter, where players duck in and out. The houses slope downwards towards the arcade’s seemingly infinite backside. Each house is longer than it is wide, and they’re aligned in rows with porches and steps to enter and exit.
“It’s pretty deep,” Bishop says, “don’t worry. You’re about to lose.”
You’re supposed to make your own rules, and Bishop and I decide that five hits means a winner.
Before I can hide, Bishop blasts his gun repeatedly. Our pistols vibrate, and the onscreen reads: WINNER! BISHOP!
“Cheater,” I say, running away.
An empty house on my left provides cover. The floorboards creak and there’s an empty, rusty sink. Another woman bends near the cupboards and smirks at me.
“Your friend’s cute,” she whispers to me.
I crawl over to her. “Thanks,” I say.
“He’s the one in the muscle shirt?”
“Yeah. He likes to show off.”
“He should.”
I peek through the windows, spotting sand and kicked up dust.
The woman flattens her bright yellow sundress. She’s a plump woman, though better described as curvy and voluptuous. She’d make an amazing plus sized model.
I don’t have time to continue talking—at the corner of my eye edges close a man in a muscle shirt—Bishop! And he pops inside, aiming his pistol straight at me. We all scream and laugh at the same time, trying hard to stay serious in what would’ve been a deathly situation in Westerns past.
“Got you!” Bishop says. My pistol vibrates. It ticks from zero points to a big fat one. I double around the porch steps at the house’s front and spin immediately, pulling the trigger multiple times. His lights up twice, and the score count is 1-2.
I run underneath the window sill and keep crouching low, pistol clutched to my chest. He’ll want to ambush me—
And he does, blasting twice at my face as I appear around the house’s long end. I shriek, but he keeps firing, upping his score to 4. I sidle around the steps, avoiding further damage.
Bishop has the whitest teeth and the goofiest grin, but he stumbles off the long side. He attempts to retrace my footsteps, chasing me to his own doom.
I pop out and land four shots.
“What!”
“Yes!”
I run up to Bishop and poke his beefy chest. He shakes his head, glaring at the pistol.
“Ah! And I’m the cheater.”
“It was a good ploy. You just didn’t have the skills.”
Bishop growls, then scoops his arms around and lifts me up. I try to stifle laughter, but the happiness escapes.
He’s so firm, cupping his hands right underneath my legs. He runs his fingers along the seams of my jeans and brushes out the tangles in my hair. I shudder at his touch, and he reels me in for another kiss, sharing the energy he’s brought out in me.
“You’re fun,” I say. “It’s nice to have a guy to just chill like this.”
“Well, miss,” Bishop says, clearing his throat, “you’re a wonderful woman.”
He puts me down, and I land, unsteady without him.
He swerves around, pushing us towards the wooden gate.
“And there’s more,” he says.
But the dart boards are full of partygoers throwing their rounds. The billiards tables cackle. We stop at the bar instead, located opposite of the laser tag ranch. Bishop makes sure to keep us linked via holding hands. His palms become clammy, though I find it insanely cute. I’d like to think he’s nervous, and not just nervous about anything, but nervous about going out with me.
Two empty stools rest against a lacquered bar table, as if waiting for our arrival. Semi-darkness envelopes this side of the arcade, though you can people watch if you squint.
Bishop orders us two beers. “You didn’t ask if I wanted a martini?” I say.
“I know you a little. You’re not that type of girl.”
“That totally depends on who’s asking.”
Our glasses slide against the lacquer gloss and clink together. Before they come to a stop, Bishop snatches them up and hands me my drink. It’s a bitter beer, not sure what he ordered, but it has a zap of citrus lurking beneath the bitterness.
I scoot my seat closer to Bishop. His arm goes right around my shoulder and I nestle into him, feeling for his heartbeat while twangy country songs blare.
Years ago, I’d only enter bars to score easy lays. Feelings? Romance? Dates? Those could never be possibilities. I never let them be.
Now that I am, an insatiable thirst for depth drives me. To know more about Bishop would mean the world. To share my world with him would mean bliss.
“You want to go outside?” he says.
And I say, “Yes,” and as we walk to the patio, a girl eyes him. I clutch Bishop’s hand really tight, claiming my territory, though by the time we’re at the patio door, I relax.
“You’re getting possessive already?”
I blush. “You didn’t see that.”
“I did. I see all.”
I shake my head. “Keep going, sir.”
Bishop finds us a quiet corner of the arcade, on a bleached picnic table. He spreads his legs far apart and has the bench against
his crotch. He’s wearing boot-cut jeans, the kind with the dramatic flair at the bottom. I rub a hand down by his ankles and tug at the cuffs.
“Very interesting choice of attire in the countryside. Plaid, boot-cut jeans, high heel boots.”
Bishop slams the table and points. “You love it!”
“I’ll admit, it’s a flattering look on you.”
“You adore it!”
“Maybe.”
Bishop takes a swig from his mug. He nods up and down, like he’s answered an incredibly difficult differential calculus equation. All-knowing like he is. “You love even the high heels.”
I break down and tackle him, clinging onto his meaty shoulders. He tucks his fingers right under my armpits, and I writhe, unable to help from grinning and laughing altogether. I get my fingers under his armpits, and I feel the warmth there, the musky scent hidden under his cologne. His natural smell invigorates—it would be best described as your favorite color or your favorite food—immediately distinguishable by its quality.
I run my hand down his chest to his abs. They’re tight and you can find six independent muscle heads there. “We should work out sometime together,” I say. “That would be fun.”
“You’re pretty athletic. What do you like doing?”
“I used to do martial arts. Muay Thai. Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Even been to the firing range a couple times.”
“You would do well in the country.”
“Nah, I be useless. I’d just like seeing guys, you know work out a bit.”
Bishop twists me around and seats me in his lap. We’re warm together, buzzing with an alcoholic euphoria rivaling post-coital love. It’s just so nice to be free, sitting with a guy, enjoying a beer, having his physique wrapping me entirely—and moreover, it’s wonderful that’s he’s not intimidated. I’d meet guys in college who’d feel the need to exert their manliness every day all day all the time. Bishop though is himself. He’s both a little of this and a little of that. I find him masculine and feminine and compatible. Superficially, yes, but you need the spark of attraction, the first five percent of a person to gain access to the other nine-five percent.
“There are lots of things I’d love to do with you,” he says. “Tons.”
I pluck my mug from the table and let him sip. “To a better future full of good memories,” I say.
He sips. And then I sip again, enjoying our combined presence.
On the way home, we play a game of I Spy, except the loser has to kiss to the other if they fail to guess correctly.
“Nope,” Bishop says, “not a fire hydrant.”
“Stop sign.”
“Wrong.”
“That red light we just passed.”
“Three strikes! You owe me.”
The seatbelt strains against my movement across the console. My lips are hot and his cheeks are cool and the difference mingles and makes our skin prickle. Goosebumps radiate down his spine, and a chill crawls over my scalp, as if someone were massaging the skin there.
“My turn. I spy something red too. It’s got two parts. And it’s really, really fun.”
“Fire hydrant.”
“Incorrect.”
“Stop sign.”
“No.”
“The red light we passed.”
“You’re not very good at this game.”
Bishop mimics what I did, leaning over the console and firming his lips to my cheek. “Or am I?” He kisses again. The suppleness behind his strength indicates a care, a passion I’ve not felt ever. He doesn’t force his lips there. He gently caresses them as if kissing a young girl, the girl in me who needs to be cared for. The girl who’s always longed for compassion and understanding that my parents could never give. This is what Bishop knows: psychic comforts. How to play and be gentle.
“We both are,” I say.
We didn’t stipulate a rule for answering the questions right. I was scared to suggest a striptease game. But he keeps kissing, and I keep receiving his undying attention.
“Green light,” I say, slapping his cheek playfully. “You should be looking at the road, cowboy.”
“Kinda hard to do when you’re the best distraction I’ve ever come across.”
Women might tell you that guys will say anything to get sex. It’s not true. Humans will do anything for anything. If there’s an obstacle, our great brains will tinker upstairs until they produce concrete plans. Results.
A part of me wonders if Bishop’s a bad boy in a good boy disguise. Five percent isn’t much to go off of.
But he makes no mention of sex the rest of the drive. We the play I Spy until we hit my house, keeping our contact cordial.
“You want to come inside?” I say.
“I’d love to but got an early rise tomorrow. Text me tonight though?”
I slide out the passenger’s door with reluctance. I glance back, sensing our magnetism. It’s palpable. If you stood on the corner and threw metal fillings in the air, they’d cling to every line between us, never separating even when I step foot in my house and close the front door, close the mudroom door, close my bedroom door.
God Bless America rings throughout the house. Piranha picked an opera version before her bed time.
CHAPTER 4
“You have to be nice to them. Don’t be your normal bad bitch self. They’re sensitive.”
“Angola has a machete on their flag. They had a civil war. I bet these girls are more bad bitch than even I am.”
Caddy pierces an American omelet with his American fork and drinks from the now brand-new all-organic all-American orange juice pitcher. Caddy hoards the sole pitcher in the apartment, leaving the rest of us to use tiny cups.
“You have to be nice,” Caddy says after a gulp. “You have to coax them a little, sure. But think internationally. Be a friend to these girls. This’ll be one of their few interactions with people from abroad—”
“Americans,” Piranha says.
“Right, Americans. This’ll be an international experience. You want them to come back to us when they’re done. They’re paying us for answers to exams, they’re not exactly the most innocent party here. By the way,” he says, chewing with his mouth open, “we have that website updated pronto. Get on it today or I’ll send you a billion texts throughout the day until you deal.”
An outsider’s analysis of my friendships would probably yield negative conclusions. Why in the world would I stay with such annoyances? A guy who chews, open mouthed, and willingly, without any guilt from the get-go, engages in running a shady business? A girl with an unhealthy American-everything obsession to the point where I questioned where or not she had mental illness?
As I leave our apartment, I wonder why too.
If only you could just up and leave with Prince Charming and live a fabulous existence elsewhere, no judgment, no shame, no obligations or earthly ties. No hurt.
I guess that’s why ultimately I put up with Piranha and Caddy. They’re not perfect people, but they’re my people. They’re predictable every morning, afternoon, and night. You know how they’ll be and what they’ll say. They are the constants in the equation. It’s me who’s the variable.
“Don’t mention the war either.” Caddy turns into the university’s parking lot. I pick out the black girls from the crowd and hone in on which might be the Angolan duo. Caddy kills the engine and swings his backpack on his shoulder. He points at the window shield, hovering his finger over two white girls.
“Them?”
“They’re Portuguese-Angolan. Fled before the country’s civil war, came back, family still had leftover wealth in Portugal, took advantage of bad economy in their ‘old country’, now they’re rich again sending their kids abroad. Likely story for the Chinese you’ll meet later this week.” He unlocks our doors and we step out onto the pavement. As we approach the girls, Caddy hands me their dossiers, and I sift through the general histories of who they are, goals, and transaction deals.
“Play nice,” Caddy says, “I�
�ve got to meet with this dude from South Africa and then head to my intern class.”
“Just don’t send me a billion texts. Please.”
Caddy shrugs and marches off, but not before introducing me to the girls. We exchange pleasantries, though the only thing I can focus on is the fact that this is what I’m doing as a post-graduate. Acting on behalf of those who are lazy or dishonest.
But then it’s not true. They could have their gray reasons as well.
Perhaps they have…clinical depression and can’t do their work properly and are too shy to go to their professors?
“There’s a nice table we can sit at,” I say as we walk. “Can you repeat your names again? They’re really beautiful the way you say them.”
“Carmella,” the girl in beige pumps says. “Maria,” the other in a blue blouse adds.
“Carmella and Maria. Are you sisters?”
They nod, heels clicking.
“How do you like the States so far?”
“Excuse me?” Carmella says.
“How do you like the United States so far?”
“Lovely,” she says, “very lovely. Friendly people everywhere, the streets very clean. I’m enjoying stay here so far.”
“Yeah,” Maria says, “nothing bad here.”
How Piranha would adore these two, if only to torture them over how to correctly speak American English.. Sometimes I think I should bring her along for business deals, considering internationals probably won’t slander the U.S. in public.
We sit down at a concrete table near the school’s library. I lie all the necessary papers out in front of us, making sure they understand what’s requested of them up front. A deposit worth fifty bucks each.
“These papers are too difficult,” Carmella says. “I would do but no time with my physics classes. I want to do physics not English, you know?”
“Yeah,” Maria says, “this I don’t get either.”
They slouch in their chairs, exchanging glances between themselves occasionally. I ignore them for the most part, but Carmella in particular stares at my face.
“Accident,” I say. “How do you say that in Portuguese?”
“Acidente,” they say together. I lift my head up from the paperwork and make them say it again.
