by June Hydra
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Bishop says, nodding and smiling. But Piranha flicks her wrist, as if he said something stupid. “No,” she says, “I mean the Anthem. Do you like the National Anthem played this way? I have other versions.”
So throughout the night, Piranha makes dinner, while making the occasional remark about general American society. Bishop’s not even foreign, he doesn’t need an intro to “our world”, but she insists on playing tour guide for the native. That’s her prerogative, I guess.
Caddy comes home later in the evening, somewhere around seven or eight. He avoids looking at me, only bothering to glance briefly as an acknowledgement. When he spots Bishop, he stays in his room, that is until Piranha serves dinner.
“You two are so cute together,” she says, slicing up a piece of breast for us all. “You are like red and white. You could make blue together, you know?”
Sometimes, Piranha, is just too weird.
“Kids are way too early in the discussion,” I say. Bishop agrees with a curt, awkward, “Yeah. I’m not too good with babies anyways.”
“You seem so happy,” Piranha continues, “and if you’re happy, I am. Caddy is too.”
Caddy himself offers a curt, “Yeah,”
The table remains an awkward assemblage of people who don’t want to be here, save for one, the ever cheerful Piranha. She yaps on and on about the discounts she gets at work, and even explains the mechanisms behind our cheating operation. As if Bishop needs to know, but hey, her prerogative and all.
“You can web design?” Bishop says.
“Yeah,” I say, “sort of learned it in college, screwing around after class.”
Caddy glances at me. I read his face: Screwing around after class? She really means screwing guys after class…
“I would love to see some of your designs.”
“After dinner, I can show you.”
“She was supposed to update the website too,” Caddy says, “but she’s been so busy.”
“I’ll do it tonight. Don’t worry.” Caddy chews on his chicken, munching like he’s chewing gum.
Dinner wraps up, and Piranha says, “Did everyone enjoy?”
“Yes,” everyone says, though some more enthusiastic than others. Caddy pushes himself away from the table first and drops his plate clattering into the sink. He moseys on to his bedroom and shuts the door quietly.
“You’re friend seemed angry,” Bishop whispers to me. “Is he all right?”
“He’s dealing with change. Some things going on in his life. I’ll explain later.”
We go to Piranha’s bedroom, and she logs onto her computer. I show Bishop the designs I’d created a long time ago, plus the new logos I’d stopped working on prior to my existential job crisis.
“These are so professional looking,” he says. “You shouldn’t even have to do receptionist work. Forget that. Look at this!”
I tend to be simple with designs. Nothing super souped up, but a minimalist approach. One single repeating pattern, black and white, a single color with gradient shading around. Geometric figures aligned with pleasing text boxes. A logo. A picture. Plain text.
“You should seriously look into graphic designing. Maybe make a portfolio.”
“I know only some code though. And I don’t think that’s what graphic designers do. Do they?”
“I’d think so. But I bet you learn super fast I’m really impressed.” Bishop cups his hand around my head and presses me against his hip. “Receptionist. Nothing wrong with starting out there, but you should keep your mind open.”
“I will. I think I just need the confidence to pursue it.”
“I’m with you every step of the way,” he says.
Not blushing when someone’s complimenting you nonstop—impossible. The compatibility between us is alluring and intense.
Never did I hear my Dad say to the effect, “I support you” or even “I love what you do” or “I love this about you.”
Dad never said anything like that. Neither did Mom.
The bad memories of them begin to fade though. They’re being replaced with true…love. Care. Emotion.
“I love that you’re so kind,” I say. Bishop presses me tighter and cradles me. “And I love that you’re so open,” he says.
If there is a God, I want to thank him now for sending Bishop my way.
CHAPTER 21
Neither of us has asked each other to be exclusive.
So when Mr. Preston does his rounds around the office and I catch him winking, or read into his actions more than I should, I don’t exactly feel bad.
“How’s your day going?”
“Great. I just called back Mr. Warner too. He’s coming in tomorrow at nine.”
“Fantastic.” Mr. Preston glances at his wrist. He wears what I believe is a Rolex, though I’ve never been close enough to examine. Maybe an Omega? “Well,” he says, “lunch is starting soon. Going to join us?”
“I’ll be there. I just have to call back this one Mrs. Fischer.”
“Fantastic. We’ll see you then.”
Mr. Preston doesn’t indulge me in any conversation besides that. The casual, how are you doing, what’s up, let’s eat lunch stuff. It’s all quite boring if you’re wanting more. And I somewhat do.
But then he’s my boss. A flight of fancy, nothing serious. Not like Bishop. Though a part of me thinks it’s odd, I’m considering dating a gambling ring leader over an established business man. Why hedge my odds with the kid over the man?
Because Bishop and I are on the same level. If I dated Mr. Preston, I’d feel a power imbalance—hell, I title him a “mister” in my head even though Preston would do fine.
The lunch table in the back of Jim’s Tax Services stretches as one long sheet of lacquered mahogany. My coworkers, whose names I barely know, busy themselves at the coffee maker or the fridge. Generally, most staff probably wouldn’t eat together buddy-buddy in any capacity. Most would probably prefer to wind down and relax, play some stupid YouTube videos on their phones or Facebook in the interim. But because Mr. Preston offers to eat with everybody, everybody ends up schmoozing.
Like this one guy in across the table from me. Imagine a five foot seven guy in a suit that’s a little too big for him. He’s maybe lower-middle class, trying to rise up the ranks. He’s balding but the hair he has left sits attractively on his scalp, in a wavy gelled swoosh swept over his forehead. His name is Mark or Clark or Aardvark, and he steals Preston’s attention the entire time. Constantly talking to him. You couldn’t even get in a word if you’re name was Bill Gates—he would interrupt and continue forevermore his vision for the company.
“Fantastic,” Mr. Preston says, “that’s a fantastic idea.”
“And you know,” Mark Clark the Aardvark says, “you know that the customers—and this is just a personal opinion—the customers really seem to enjoy the simple amenities we offer. If we could just improve on them…”
Thankfully, Mark Clark loves working so much, he spirits himself away before the lunch break is totally over. Of course, he has to tell boss about it.
Schmoozing, I tell you, is annoying as hell.
“What do you like to do in your spare time, Violet?”
“Hang out. I like taking walks at the park. I’m kind of lame. Not much going out these days. I did that a lot in college but lack the time and effort for that stuff.”
“I see. I’m in the same position. Fun when you’re younger, but harder to keep up as you get older.”
“Yeah.”
“So, tell me, what do you think about Jim’s Tax Service? You getting used to everything and everyone?”
“Totally. Being a receptionist here is more exciting than I thought.”
And see, now I have to schmooze too, because what person would gripe about their job to their superior. Fastest way to become a hated person at work.
“Is it really?”
“Some days are slow. Some days are more challenging.”
“
Be honest though. If you could have a different line of work, would you?”
I glance at my lunchbox. I brought crackers and cream cheese dip, which allows me to focus on the needling task of scooping the cracker just right into the cream cheese. You don’t want too much after all…
“Honestly,” I say, “it’s not bad. Though I do have other skills I think you might be interested in.”
“Name them. Shoot.”
“Web design. I’ve designed entire web sites before. And while yours isn’t ugly, I do think it could be updated. I happen to know basic code.”
“Do you have any design samples I might be able to look at?”
“I can bring them in next time.”
“Do so. I’m very interested in extra skills. The team could definitely use an on-board designer.”
I arrive home, ecstatic and energized.
Mr. Preston could put to use my design skills. They could use me for other than just a glorified phone operator.
“That’s great,” Piranha says. “That’s—I’m just so happy for you!” She gives me a hug and a kiss and a pat on the back and fixes up a bowl of American macaroni and cheese.
“You deserve so much,” she says, “you’re really getting out there and killing it.”
“Caddy won’t—”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s just being babyish. You’re better.”
“Where is he?”
“His room. Working on clients.”
“You think I should bother him?”
“He actually want me to tell you to go see him.”
“Oh.”
Piranha’s purses her lips and steps aside. I trudge along through our bedroom hallway and knock at his door.
“Come in.”
“Piranha said to see you.” I walk around a pile of clothes—Caddy keeps both clean and dirty clothes on the floor thanks to his laziness—and set myself on his grungy bed. Caddy’s unchanged self wears on me. He was the most stable man in my life throughout college and till now, yet he’s too stable, too safe.
“You have to get talking with the Chinese and Angolans. They’re back for more. More English assignments. You’re due to speak with them tomorrow. When are you free?”
“After work, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Yeah, I’m free then.” I edge myself off his bed and hover over his shoulder. He’s facing his own laptop, the one which keeps track of our online bookkeeping. He looks behind, then swivels around to face me.
“We’ve got a lot of work,” he says. “They keep coming.”
“The won’t ever stop though.”
“And that’s a good thing. I don’t want them to. We need to pay the bills, girl, like the water, electricity, gas.”
Having our cheating ring has kept us afloat far longer than I thought it would. I figured it would fizzle out years ago, after the first semester or two of starting. But now it’s grown, and Caddy shows me the statements. We’re raking in ten times what I make as a receptionist, especially from the online component. At least half of our business now makes money off students in other universities far flung from my alma mater.
“Are you going to pay all these bills now with your new job?”
I frown. “Why are you being so passive aggressive? It’s like suddenly we’re in different worlds. I haven’t changed a thing about myself but you’re acting like a child again, really.”
Caddy rises from his seat. He checks my shoulder and closes the door. Fear sprouts in the center of my being, blossoming like an ugly flower. I try plucking the flower before it fully bloom, but the growth rockets, brushes past my hands.
Stopping fear is like grasping water. You can only contain so much.
“If you don’t pick up your slack, you’ll be screwing us over,” Caddy says.
“I’m not going anywhere though.”
“But you will. But you will. You can’t just stay a receptionist forever. You’ll want more. This setup didn’t just start up out of nothing. Your ambition, girl, your love of the game did this. You made this. Why’re you throwing it all out? It’s crazy.”
“It’s for the best. We can all make ourselves better by pursuing other avenues. We don’t have to have a field day with cheaters everyday. Don’t you feel any guilt at all? Shame?”
Caddy grimaces and his temples fill up with wrinkles I’ve never seen before. All the worry comes out now, spills before me. “Why feel shame when we need to survive? This is a good thing. We can make and stash as much money as we possibly can now and get out later.”
“You said it yourself. It’s ambition—you’ll never want to get away from the money we make. Impossible. We’re humans, and we always want more. Greed feeds our egos and egos make us greedy.” I straighten my chest and pin my eyes on Caddy, plucking the petals of fear away fast, fast, fast. I will not fear Caddy.
“You’ll be sinking me and Piranha.”
“Don’t guilt me.”
“You can guilt me but I can’t you? Is it working? No, because you don’t bother to care about us.”
“That’s not true at all. That’s not true!”
“Then you have to promise us: you won’t leave us high and dry. You won’t break the lease and you’ll stay on board with the business we started until then.”
“Fine. I didn’t even intend on moving out. Where would I go?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“He’s not. Not yet.”
Caddy’s grimace morphs into a smirk, the kind mean girls at lunch tables would employ after spreading nasty gossip. “You’re in love.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You were making it so weeks ago. Spilling all these details.”
“You’re the one with the dossiers about everybody. You brought this unto yourself. If you’d never push me to talk to him, this wouldn’t have happened.” I sidle around the foot of his bed, aiming to escape soon. Caddy angles himself so he might capture me. He’s never used force before, but if even tries, I’ll leave for sure.
“Piranha’s always been supportive of us. Of me. Of you. Why can’t you be the same way?”
“Wouldn’t that be boring. Us all like robots, doing the same damned thing.”
I put my hand on the doorknob. He steps aside and lets me pull.
“You clients tomorrow,” he says, “remember that.”
“I didn’t forget.”
As I walk to my room, I can feel Caddy’s eyes on my back, boring a hole straight through my spirit.
He fails to even see me anymore. He doesn’t consider me a human being with my own agency to command.
Maybe that’s the root of his stability. Stability on others. It’s as if he’s leaning on us, Piranha and I, and we’re crushed under his weight, and we want to go, to leave, but can’t as the pressure continues to crank downwards.
See his perspective, his side. What causes his fear and outrage? Losing Educate? Losing me? He got me on hypocrisy, but I’m not out of selfishness, not trying to be.
The city I’m in is stifling though. No graduate plans on staying near their alma mater forever. I dreamed of travelling to a paradise untouched. I dreamed of finding the key to my shackles. Unbuttoning the straightjacket of adulthood’s taxes and pension plans and debt. Of travelling beyond America and out of this small college town, of jumping out the fishbowl.
I need space.
But I want closeness. Friends and family.
Doesn’t have to be either or. Both can occur with strategic planning. Everyone has to come on board though, else the ship will remain in harbor, stewing in a pool of unfulfilled but possible dreams.
I’m on board. Where is everybody else?
CHAPTER 22
Bishop shuffles the deck of cards. He flicks an ace to me and then the rest come arcing onto the pool table. He puts his hands underneath his chin and closes his eyes, thinking.
“If you want to move on,” I say, “then it’s all got to go.”
“All. You’re right. I’m just looking at everything I’ve done is all.” Bishop sweeps the ace back into the deck. He thrums his fingers on a queen of hearts.
“It’s hard at the start.”
“I feel like a drug addict. My dad was a smoker. He never quit. Said it was too hard.”
“This you can.”
“The money.”
“I get you entirely. But it’s for the best. I’m not doing as much work either on my end.”
“Receptionisting keeping you busy?”
“More or less. I took your suggestion actually. I’m going to make a portfolio to show my boss.” I reach over the pool table, plucking the deck out Bishop’s hands. I enlace my fingers with his, strumming my thumbs across the ridges of bone there.
“I still think it’s stupid,” Bishop says. “Have to give everything up because of the law.”
“That’s the way it works. Unless you want to get busted.”
Bishop unlaces his fingers and wobbles off his metal stool. He drags his hand over the table, slowly gathering them up.
He throws them all away.
They go into plastic garbage bins and bags. I help zip the fullest ones while keeping track of shelves. “We have only five more boxes to go,” I say.
Bishop wipes his eyes. It’s not like he’s losing a child, but rather, suffocating his child, choking once, then letting a breather pass, then choking again, harder, until no pulse can be recorded.
Now, see, that’s how Caddy must feel about me. Instead though, I am his sister or mother fading out by choice.
“I’ve found work already,” Bishop says. “There’s this local church actually. I can help on the weekends. And then on the weekdays there’s this other place, a bar.”
“The country boy can bartend? You drank with me before, but are you supposed to?”
“Not really. Not because of religious reasons, but because…well okay, it’s because of religious reasons. You get used to living a certain type of lifestyle in accordance with all the rules. Sometimes I have to break them for pretty girls.”
“That’s understandable. And pretty cute, too.”
“Really?” Red tinges Bishop’s cheeks. “I thought you’d wouldn’t like it.”
