by June Hydra
“It’ll make us all feel better. Real careers.”
“We could be pioneers. And then it could be a real career.”
“What’re we pioneering? Intellectual dishonesty.”
Piranha primps my hair and combs out dust on my dress with a static brush. “Students would be better learning data aggregation. Learning how to critically think in a world exploding with information. Picking out the important details.”
“We’ll just have to disagree.”
“You’re still going to be friends with me, even if you give all this up?”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Until the end,” I say, hugging her. “Thanks for being my Sam.”
“Your dreams are important to me.” Piranha puts down the brush. We grab our things from the living room, then make our way down to the parking lot. She owns a pre-90’s Mustang, an old shell of a machine, but despite its age, it wakes without a wheeze.
She backs out the driveway in a wild arc. “You need to be awake for the interview. I’ll ask you lots of questions!”
And she floors out of the lot with me faceplanted to the passenger window.
Piranha manages to arrive ten minutes early, thanks to her interesting driving abilities. Her mouth runs like Mustang’s motor: fast and unyielding.
“What is your worst flaw?”
“They don’t ask things like that.”
“Mine did. It was phrased differently, but it’s the concept that matters.”
“My worst flaw? I’m too available and work so hard that I feel tired a lot.”
“That’s secret flattery not a real flaw,” Piranha says. “You want to be sympathetic but not fake. It’s different than asking ‘how are you?’. They really want to know about you.”
“I’m perfectly fine with the interview part. Don’t worry about that.”
Piranha looks at me. “Do you want me to ask you other questions?”
“I’m good.”
“Great. Now we can listen to some relaxing music.”
Cue ten minutes of, yes, the fucking Star Spangled Banner. Again. I should’ve let her ask questions instead.
When the ten minutes end, I finally escape the car and Piranha’s embarrassing head bobbing. She likes to pretend she’s at concerts inside her vehicle, and since there aren’t any tints on the windows, every passerby can see that my friend is crazy.
I walk into Jim’s Tax Services. As I pass the doors, a breathless man at the receptionist’s desk titters on the phone. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit and glances at me. He offers a curt nod and a smile. He has dimples that collect attractive shadows on each side of his face.
“You’re welcome,” the man says, hanging up the phone. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for an interview. I spoke with a man named Preston yesterday.”
The man’s hand juts out at me. I shake it, feeling the warmth of his clammy palm. It’s a nice, soothing palm, soft without any calluses. Gentle. “That’s me,” he says, still shaking. He holds his gaze for a moment too long, and we both look away nervously. “Will you follow me?”
The phone rings at the front, though Preston’s not in any worry to answer. He takes me past three rooms painted white, our heels clopping against the tile floors. Overhead, glittering lights shine down on us.
He stops at a black door, then presses onward into a room with tables and desks resting adjacent to one another. Papers clutter the tables. If only Piranha were here: there’s an American flag sticking out of a mug on one of the desks.
Preston sits down in a swivel chair. His pants rise a little, showing off cute black socks with argyle print.
“How’re you doing today?”
“Wonderful,” I say. “Yourself?”
“Fantastic,” Preston says. He holds a really long gaze again, and I have to break away from looking. Not only does he have dimples, but a square jaw with a bladelike edge.
“So, you’re interviewing for the receptionist position. If you couldn’t tell, we don’t exactly have one here. My colleagues and I just relocated here and lots of shifting about means things are still in a flux.”
“That’s okay.”
“So, to begin…I want to ask you, what exactly do you know about Jim’s Tax Services?”
“I saw online that you’re a small company focusing on state and federal tax preparation.” I try not to butcher the more technical sounding talk—there’s a lot to know about taxes in the United States. “I know that you’re looking for a receptionist to answer calls, file papers, run the occasional errand.”
“Thank God someone actually read the ad. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to tell you the amount of times people will waltz in here without knowing what we’re expecting. Beautiful.” Preston scribbles on a paper attached to a clipboard. “It says here on your resume that you’ve had cashier experience as well as several part-time jobs involving customer service. Can you tell me more?”
“I answered phones. I ran a lot of errands. Dealt with a ton of people in retail. I think my skills in those areas would help you guys out immensely because of my ability to deal with people, angry, happy, sad. I can handle all. Even people screaming at me.”
Preston scribbles again, though I’m not exactly sure what you could be possibly writing down for an entry receptionist position.
“Your availability is only part-time?”
“I can do fulltime. It’s possible.”
“I won’t lie,” Preston says, “you probably won’t have a ton to do all the time, at least not for the meanwhile. We’re still configuring everything and getting started back up.”
“That’s fine.”
He launches another barrage of questions and I answer them without hesitation, simply due to their basic requirements. Once, he asks me if I’ve ever showed up to work late, and who would reply in the affirmative? The interview winds down. Preston’s focus wanes and he seems more intent on blasting through the little details in favor of getting someone on board already.
Preston adjusts his silk tie. My cheeks flush. Men in suits are my weakness, no lie, and it’s increasingly difficult to resist not staring at his more intimate body parts. His trousers fit spectacularly around his legs and his arms are sheathed in a fine navy blue cotton.
Slut slut slut. I can imagine my mother shaming me with my thoughts. And actions. I slept around with preppy dudes like Preston all the time back in college.
On one hand, I repress my lust. My mother can’t be right. But at the same time, why deny myself the eye-candy experience? I feel what I feel, and I feel Preston’s one hot man.
“You also have a B.S. in Business Administration. Impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, embarrassed. If only he knew about what I’ve used it for.
“I think that’s it, really. Nothing too major.” We shake hands, and now I linger, I hold my gaze on him. We exchange an energy, sexual, romantic, something, an electric energy which warms my skin. I let go first and press the wrinkles from my skirt, busying myself immediately. He fixes his tie even thought it’s straight and perfect.
“You seem like a hardworking girl who would give her all for us,” Preston says. “Do you have any questions?”
“No,” I say, “not at all. Just that I’m super appreciative of the opportunity you’re offering.”
Preston flashes a white smile. “My pleasure.”
And with that, I bustle out of Jim’s Tax Services. I slam the passenger door behind once inside the Mustang. Piranha gawks at me, bringing herself close.
“Is something wrong?” she says.
“Nothing at all.”
“It’s like you’ve just seen God.”
“I might’ve. But I think I just saw a guy who gave a job.”
CHAPTER 15
Preston and Bishop. The latter I’ve known longer, but the former seems promising as well—except he’d be my boss and that would be a no go. I set aside my flights of fancy and throw mysel
f on my bed, staring at Bishop’s phone number.
He hasn’t texted, and I haven’t called. We’ve been incommunicado now for a day and some.
I break the silence.
“Hey,” Bishop says, like always, “you’re fixing for another date?”
“I’d like to. That depends on you though.”
“You want to come over and cuddle? Last time you told me things, and now I’d like my own turn at it.”
Is he hiding something bad?
I chastise myself for hypocrisy. He was open-minded about me, so should I be about him.
“Give me an hour. Then you can pick me up?”
Bishop arrives exactly an hour later. He wears his khakis and a red cardigan this time, and we ride away into the night.
“Want any food before we go back?” I ask. “You must be starving coming from work and everything.”
“I was thinking on the way here,” he says, “that we could do a cooking date before cuddling. Sound good?”
“Sounds very good. What do you have in mind?”
“Pasta,” he says.
“American?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say.
Bishop has everything laid out everything. The knives sit in their wooden blocks, waiting for us to grab a hold of them. The counters shine with an intense luminosity—his entire kitchen is one white wash of blinding recessed lights. Stainless steel shines in the kitchen sink. We wash our hands together, with him behind me, cradling my arms as we rinse. I pump the soap and he splashes the water up to my wrists. His perches his chin on the lowest part of my nape, and I feel his heavy breathing, the warm breath melting my hardened exterior.
Again, the childhood memories haunt me. I’d not only work, do school, extracurricular. I’d do “chores” as well. Whenever Mom or Dad was too lazy to do screw in a new light bulb or take out the trash or clean the toilets or cook, guess who had to? Me.
“Can you cook?” Bishop asks.
And I nod, shaking off my latent childhood. “Yeah,” I say, “you could say I’m a secret chef. Kinda.”
“Is pasta too Little League for you?”
“Not at all. Pasta can be made so good, so many different ways. It’s versatile, for instance you can—”
Bishop plants a hand on my shoulder. He kisses my bare neck. “Versatility is good, hmm?”
“The best.” I twist around and plant my hands on his shoulders now, looking at him directly. Bishop presses his forehead and sends a sweeping force wracking through my core. His touch incinerates as if I were ice and he the Sun. I prop myself up on the sink’s edge, letting him move muscular hands across my belly. A swelling heat builds in my stomach, and I wrap my legs around his waist—he shivers in time. He shivers and drives closer, sniffing my aroma.
“I love girls who don’t wear too much perfume.”
“I’m not wearing any.”
Bishop thrusts his mouth at me. Our lips envelop one another and become an ocean tide, ebbing, flowing.
“You want the bedroom?” he says, grabbing my ass.
I glance at all the kitchen cutlery. “Cooking date, huh?”
Bishop smiles and swoops me off my feet. I laugh all the way to the bedroom.
CHAPTER 16
It takes an hour to relax, to calm and come down from the euphoric waves coursing through me. Bishop offers to bring hot tea over, but I cling to him, wanting the intimacy so denied in youth.
God, how underrated intimacy is.
He’s combing through my hair with his fingers, massaging the scalp portions below. I snuggle closer to him.
“What was it you wanted to tell me? Over the phone.”
Bishop stops massaging. I look at him. He’s got this odd expression, like he’s trying hard to understand the meaning of life or something. Deep.
“Is something very wrong?”
“Not very. I just don’t know how to exactly word what I want.”
“I can let you think then.”
He blows air, and I feel the hot stream leaving his mouth. I latch myself around his waist.
We stay cuddled for a good thirty minutes, a good long thirty minutes in bed, until he says, “Okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s like when we were at that restaurant.” Bishop’s eyes grow wide with fear, and he rolls over. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“You don’t have to hide,” I say. “Please, I’m here for you.”
He rolls over again. His eyes are puffy bags, stuffed with regret.
“What’s wrong?”
“I should show you what I do.”
He swings his legs off the bed, pajamas flowing around his calves. We pass the various rooms of his house. The floorboards creak as if chattering to the walls, and the walls echo back a remnant giggle. It strikes me now how large it is. More than fifteen hundred square feet. And for one man. We pass by rooms I’ve never seen before, and haven’t had the privilege to see—and he stops at a locked door.
A padlock guards the door’s handle. He punches in a string of numbers, then pushes forth, making the door creak.
The lights kick in, and the insides become visible. Brown tarps cover objects, making the room’s landscape nothing more than varied geometric shapes. Bishop throws off a tarp. Underneath is a long billiards table, except there’s no pool equipment.
“So you play pool? Is that the secret?”
“No,” Bishop says, still frowning. “That’s not it at all. Keep watching.”
Another tarp is peeled off the back, revealing a bookshelf housing multiple board games. I spot Monopoly’s presence stacked above Risk. He grabs those two and takes them to the pool table. I lean my hands on the green felt of the table, vainly sopping up the sweat covering my hands.
What secret is this?
So he opens Monopoly, he opens Risk. And the first couple items hidden within aren’t the pieces to play the games, but pieces for another game. Blackjack’s the most noticeable, with all the cards distinctly shuffled together alongside rows of chips, red and black. Bishop feels the tops of the cards and the chips, and then looks to me.
“Gambling. It’s all for gambling.”
“And?”
“And it’s all illegal,” he says.
“Illegal gambling?” I pause. “Why’s it illegal?”
“Laws. It’s sort of the same as you. I straddle this “dark side” that’s more gray than black. It’s made me money. Tons of money.” Bishop walks around the table, and rests his hands near mine. Maybe he’s sopping his sweat up too. “My house is practically a gambling ring. Only certain places in the U.S. can do that, and even then, the areas you can are strict on keeping up with the law.”
“You can get in trouble?”
“There have been gambling police busts.” I raise an eyebrow, but he only nods. “Yeah, exactly. It’s weird, right? Because you’d think that gambling wasn’t that big of a deal—addiction’s an addiction, and it doesn’t matter if it’s gambling or sex. But the state busts people for this. They punish people harshly.”
“But you make a lot.”
“The same as you and your business. Listen,” he says, stepping closer, “I used to work those minimum wage jobs. After leaving home, things got tough. Went to university for religious studies? Horrible choice. I barely found work that was livable, and with my loans, and without my parent’s good graces, I needed more than ten or twelve an hour.”
“You’re not addicted though, are you?”
“Not at all. The money’s just good.” He sits on the pool table’s edge, swinging a leg. “I thought I should tell too, after you did.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
“It’s better now than months down the road, these hurdles.”
“I agree.”
“Do you still like me though?”
“I’d feel a little hypocritical if I wasn’t into you for what you were doing, considering what I’m doing. But I am applying for other
work. I had an interview for a receptionist’s position. A tax office.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’ll pay for now.” I rest myself next to him. The pool table creaks under our weight. “What about you? Are you going to do this gambling thing forever or what?”
“That’s the thing. Are you really going to leave your business?”
I look at the floor. “I want to. Badly, yes. To change. To make my life into something I could be proud of.”
“You’re not proud of what you’ve built?”
The floor falls away, but it’s just me shaking my head, tossing around different excuses. “You’re challenging me, really. I’m conflicted, if I’m going to be honest.”
“See. That right there is what I’m feeling too. How do you leave what you’ve built from the ground up? When everybody said you couldn’t be anything?” Bishop’s legs swing furiously now, making the entire pool table creak, back and forth, creak and stutter. “They said I wouldn’t be anything without their true guidance dictated from God above. I went out and started making money though. I built an empire, a thriving business. To have to leave it because of shitty laws, well, feels shitty.”
I lift myself onto the pool table. The world settles into place. I let my legs swing too, following his rhythm. “You’re right. That’s why I feel conflicted. You build from the ground up but because it’s not exactly ‘proper’ you feel bad. I guess in your situation it’s worse, the ramifications…”
“That’s why I do want to leave.”
I pat his thigh to ease him. He slows his rhythm. “We could do this thing together. Both of us working to better our lives, slowly, piece by piece. We can help each other out.”
Bishop’s legs stop. He turns towards me and wears the an ear-to-ear grin. “Thank you,” he says, hugging me.
“For?”
“I thought you’d be freaked out.”
“I have my apprehensions, but it’s workable. If you stop. If I stop. Slowly. It doesn’t have to be immediately. I have to agree with you that it’s stupid though.” I scan the room for all its contents, the boxes. How this room would host possibly a crowd at nights, an underground crowd just playing a game harmlessly. And they could be “busted” in the end for it.
