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

by June Hydra

  We all laugh, even though it’s not particularly funny. It’s the high from our burgeoning lives fueling this car.

  Caddy’s graduated, I’ve graduated. Piranha has a semester left to finish up, and then we’re “adults”.

  Despite my pleas otherwise, Caddy continues the business on the side. You can’t really blame him for raking in the cash when it pays for the electricity, Internet, water, and various other luxuries like new kitchen equipment or a better sofa. It’s easy to take advantage of an unfair advantage. Nobody wants to loose their edge. Even I had qualms about walking away from the money. It’s not a ton, but when you’re hurting, even five dollars looks like gold.

  “I’m going to these places,” Caddy says, “to apply for jobs. I’m really going. During my breaks and stuff.”

  “Have you found anything promising? I can help you.”

  “No help needed, I’ve got it.”

  Caddy’s complacency only grows with the coming months. Horse and water and whatnot. He spends more and more time on the computer, more and more time soliciting students online. I help him when possible, but eventually you realize the limited twenty-four hours in a day doesn’t allow for loads of work. Days become hours and minutes become seconds. Seconds don’t even exist. Everyone’s felt the whiplash of time. Once in motion, nothing stops. Except when, finally, the whiplash comes to a halting crack.

  “I have to comment about this,” Preston says, splaying his fingers across the front desk one day. He points to the portfolio I’d sent him. “You’ve obviously spent a lot of time on your craft. I’m talking it over with the team. Janice might be leaving.”

  Janice, one of the other coworkers I barely see, is the web admin for Jim’s Tax Services. Apparently, she’s moving on out and up to some other big fish company. Preston rambles on about the projects, the kind of tasks I’ll need to do. But I keep saying yes, yes, this is what I’d like to do, it sounds exciting, it sounds “real”, it sounds like a job I can be proud of.

  “You’ve got experience doing more than you let on,” he says. “Why didn’t you put all this down on your resume in the first place?”

  “I thought the other experience wasn’t that relevant to the receptionist job. Had I known, I would’ve totally told you.”

  Except I wouldn’t have, choosing instead to keep my “double life” a secret.

  And the secrets continue to erode my spirit. I travel to Bishop’s house. He asks me how work is. I tell him I’m still with my friends, living in the cramped apartment, outgrowing the situation but held hostage by finances.

  “Your place is nice,” I say. “But it’s not like I’m suggesting moving in with you or anything,” I say, even faster.

  “I’ve been thinking about getting a new place actually. Downsize.”

  “I’d imagine. It’s huge for one person.”

  Bishop eyes me.

  “I’m really not!”

  “If you want to maybe one day we can think about living together. I’d like to.”

  One afternoon, while sitting on the couch, chilling together, he nibbles on the edge of my ear. I lean in closer, trying to angle myself for the best bite. When he does so, a sting zaps the side of my head, and I jolt upright, laughing at his playfulness.

  “What do you think of me?” Bishop says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “As in, well, what are we?”

  “We’ve never had this discussion before.”

  “Nope. Not one bit.”

  Bishop rolls onto his butt. He wears sweats that outline the curvature of his thigh muscles. His lean calves bulge against his pants. The sweatshirt he has on contains his chest’s real estate poorly—the shirt pops outwardly.

  “Hello?”

  I wake up from ogling. “Right.”

  “What do you think about us, in seriousness, my lady?”

  “Honestly? I’ve thought about you really warmly for some time now. You’re not a friend, but a close, close man I’ve grown really accustomed to.”

  “So.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “That sounds nice. What more?”

  “I like you a whole lot. You’re sweet and gentle. You’ve never judged me. That’s the thing about you. You’ve never been condescending or felt like you were better or superior. You let me be me and you be you and everything stand as is.”

  “I love that about you too.”

  “You love that about me.”

  “I love a lot of things about you.”

  The question I want to ask is, do you love me? But I bite my lip in an effort to constrain my more romantic thoughts. Slow, steady, not rushed. Relationships are new territory—it’s like sailing across the Atlantic in a rickety boat, except I know what’s on the other side.

  In the New World, there is love and hope. In the New World, there is hurt and pain. In the New World, there is trust and compassion.

  I just don’t know if I’ll survive the journey. But I have to make an effort. Leaving someone you’ve invested time and effort in is like jumping off in the middle an ocean.

  “I love a lot of thing about you too.”

  “You’re seriously a great gal.”

  “And you’re a great guy.”

  “You want to be my girl?”

  I can’t stop the smile from forming. It bursts so freely, two directions, two wings, happy and happier, left and right, that I think it becomes a permanent feature on my face.

  “I would love to be your girlfriend.”

  “Then I’m your boyfriend.”

  It’s in the aftermath of spring that Piranha graduates. American History. Cap and gown. She’s as ecstatic as Caddy was, but slightly more demure, as if someone in her life died.

  “I’ll just miss the studying,” she says. “The books I have are insightful to the nth degree. I need to know more.”

  "You'll be fine," I say.

  But it's me who's not. With the advent of her degree, she buries herself even more into Educate Inc. She spends nights slamming the keyboard, skin to plastic contact, every night, all nights. This is in addition to the horrible renditions of the Star Spangled Banner—the neighbors complain of noise. They break the record number of complaints for one month: six.

  "Have you thought about working at a museum?"

  "That's never going to happen. Not now. Museum work is hard to come by. Finding stable museum work? Not happening now."

  I keep encouraging her though. Keep at it, Piranha, you'll hit your stride. One of those applications has to be a yes. You can be a historian or a caretaker at a museum or anything related. Teacher? She would be better than most I've had.

  Market forces force us together. The economy is bad. Nobody is hiring like they used to. Moreover, rent doesn't get cheaper. It jacks up until you're caught beneath the dollars signs. Can't break the lease, can't leave your friends high and dry, and if you could, it wouldn't be wise moving out on your own, spending more money to be by yourself.

  Piranha types furiously at night. In the end, her and Caddy are the sole arbiters of their lives. To micromanage them, to change them—I'm either being nosy or worried or something else.

  "I actually got an interview," Piranha tells me one day. "Though it's not the best."

  "Better than nothing. What for?"

  "An at-home editor. I'd telecommute. They'd send checks."

  "Try it."

  "What about you? Work? Are you a designer yet?"

  "Almost," I say, confidently. "I'm just an admin for now."

  Preston gave me the job after Janice's departure. She left a rift in Preston's work life. He hovers near me now at every hour of the day, checking in to see how servers are doing and what's up with his website.

  "You're more big girl than me," Piranha says.

  "Don't think like that. I'm not better or worse than you. We're equals."

  "No way. A boyfriend, a post collegiate career in the works. You'll be moving out soon."

  The way her tongue strums t
he word "soon" is like a guitarist snapping a chord. Soon. I'll leave soon.

  "Are you worried about that?"

  "Caddy is," she whispers. "He's always been. After you patched up, it'll he's like that. And I'm your girlfriend, we can speak openly. I feel like that too. You're getting ahead. We're staying put."

  "You can too. Culinary school. Teacher. Keep applying."

  Piranha grumbles. "What else is there to do?" she says.

  Summer brings humidity and eternal showers. Rain, rain, washing away the filthy streets, cleaning the gutters, cars left outside. The rain imprisons me indoors, though I'm not complaining. Bishop invites me over when it rains.

  "I'm definitely moving out. I have a place set up," he says.

  "Where? Is it a good side of town?"

  "East."

  "Not bad."

  "Especially since I'll be closer."

  “Will you?”

  “I checked the map. A twenty minute drive to ten minutes.”

  “That’s definitely an upgrade. Possibly more time together?”

  “Possibly so.”

  We take things super slow, though our gestures make it clear we think higher and higher of one another. Weeks pass, but I always remember the break in my rote routines: Bishop. Seeing him smile, walk, talk. Watching him take off his cardigans or those jeans of his, touching his muscles. Our discussions stay light and nonchalant. Nothing progressive or mind numbing. You can only bitch about your parents for so long before you have to take responsibility for yourself. And after bitching the last thing you want to cover is more interpersonal relationship stuff.

  We curl together on the couch one evening. Popcorn crackles on the stove—we’re making it together. He guides my hand to the burning kettle handle, making sure to keep a towel glued to our palms.

  A younger me wouldn’t have dared to get close to kitchenware. They were the tools of abuse, pots, pans, ladles. That’s why I put up with Piranha’s horrid cooking phase freshman year. Forks and spoons were a trial and tribulation era during sophomore year. I could barely touch a box of Ramen noodles without flinching once, thinking of the punishments incurred in youth.

  Touch the stove, Violet.

  And I would touch.

  And I would burn. And they’d make me touch again, singing the skin.

  But now, in the safety of Bishop’s cradle, I can touch heat. I can touch fire.

  I could do this myself. I won’t even need Bishop in the future. Nor anybody. Strong alone, that is the endgame. Valorous, such that no man or woman could lord anything over my head, especially silly fears like not touching kitchenware.

  “You’re really kind,” I say. “You know how to treat me just right.”

  “It’s because you’re important.”

  “Am I?”

  “You say that like you’re undeserving.”

  “I feel like that sometimes. Like I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Don’t say those words again. If you do, I might just have to kiss you.”

  My innards jumble whenever he speaks sweetly. Intestines tie up. Stomach implodes. Blood pumps. Bishop amplifies the existence I have. What I know of the world.

  Bishop’s birthday comes. He’s past the crazy parties you might have in your youth. He calls me over, and we hang out over a small table holding up a lemon pie we baked together.

  Bishop lost his support network since abandoning the gambling world. Fine and good in my book. Those kinds of friends—

  I cut myself off. I hold back my judgments. Who knows what kind of people they were?

  “I feel bad sometimes. Like we did do this thing together where we would leave behind old, bad behaviors, right? But I still have my friends.” And you don’t, I would say, but Bishop cuts the cake, avoiding my eyes, clearly thinking about the loss in his life.

  “They weren’t what we would need,” he says.

  “I don’t want to end up the controlling bad guy who tries changing everybody. I just want to be a positive force.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little nudge. If you hadn’t come into my life, I’d still be running with that crowd.” Bishop places a wedge of lemon pie onto a plate, making sure to give me large slice of filling. “You’re one of the better changes in my life,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  Though the words Thank You ring hollow. Is this the right path for him? Is it for me? I have my doubts. Everybody does—you’d have to be lying to yourself or delusional if you don’t question yourself once. The path you take has immense ramifications for the future. One wrong fork means wasted time.

  “There are other people. An entire world,” Bishop says.

  “I just want you to be happy and fulfilled.”

  “I am. Small steps. One moment at a time.”

  Work keeps us all busy though. Finding time to just go out spontaneously isn’t possible post-college. You have to actively schedule and move things around to grab mere minutes on the hour. Piranha, Caddy, and I still see each other, but it’s within the confines of our fishbowl apartment.

  “I like to think about you at work,” Bishop says one day. “You must have this nice, quiet environment where nobody’s yelling at you or glaring. Peace.”

  “You can imagine that. But the corporate world is killer. Totally drywall. I feel like a portrait sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “They hire a woman to man the front desk, look pretty. Then I have to do the website side, all the beauty aspects, all the maintenance.”

  “You don’t enjoy that?”

  “A little. I want more though. Actual meat.”

  “You want to enter finance or something?”

  “I’d like to own a business one day. A legitimate one. In what, I still have to figure that out.”

  By midsummer, I find myself ground to a paste. Work, sleep, eat, marginal chatter with friends and boyfriend, sleep. Go, go, go. Lists, lists, lists. American society, as much as it has its upsides, comes with the horrible busy culture. We’re busy all the time. We have to stay busy and chase paper, morning and night, all to maintain standards of living.

  It’s not even like the three of us live lavishly. It’s the multitude of bills needing to be paid and restraining squander. It’s the inconvenience of market forces acting against you. Bad timing and whatnot.

  “You think we’ll make anything out of ourselves any day?” I ask one night at the dinner table. “You think we’ll actually reach our dreams?”

  “Maybe. But we won’t if we’re late on rent,” Caddy says. “You sure you don’t want to do it anymore?”

  Caddy refers to working for Educate Inc. as “it” now. The same way little kids call sex “it” or adults call undesirable objects and behaviors “it”.

  “I’m swamped at Jim’s.”

  “She’s got plenty,” Piranha says.

  “Can’t Piranha take up more work? If you need muscle, she’s the one to go to. Pumps out those papers like nothing.”

  “The thing is, we’re hitting a cap. We’re not robots. Piranha works so much, I work so much. We’ll need a third soon.”

  “Okay,” I say, reluctantly. “Maybe I can sneak in a few jobs here and there when I’m not busy.”

  Back to being a corruptor. But if I don’t help them, we might sink as a collective. We have to keep working, even if it means dipping into morally gray situations.

  Money is tight. And Piranha’s parents are too American too help—her family has kids out of the house by seventeen. Caddy’s anti-homosexual family disowned him long ago.

  “We’ll make do,” I say. “We just need to focus and plug on. Things just get worse before they get better, right?”

  Piranha and Caddy sigh.

  “Don’t do that.”

  They sigh again.

  “Or maybe things will stay the same. I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader. But it’s better to be positive.”

  “Maybe,” Piranha says. “But it’s getting harder.”

 
; That night, I sleep curled against a cold pillow, counting the stars I can see through my small window. My room has grown cramped with papers and work items like the laptop Preston gave me or the various digital programs I have lying around. I tried not to pirate any products. I figure if shifting to a professional status is to happen, then paying for what I own will be beneficial for my psyche. I’ll slowly shift away from cheating, won’t cheat anymore, will live an honest life with an honest man.

  “I have to try,” I say to myself. “Trying is the only thing I can do now.”

  CHAPTER 27

  I wake rising. I wake falling.

  Bishop’s chest acts as a vessel for my head to travel the dreamy seas on. Wedding bells, death tolls. I dream of everything in between whether asleep or awake. The future could never be more uncertain than in your twenties.

  “Hello, pretty thing.” Bishop plays with the ends of my hair, stroking the scalp when he can break through. I press my head as deep as possible into his chest, soaking in him.

  “You’re more beautiful.”

  “Not at all.” He clears his throat and begins to unravel the blankets entangling our legs. “You and your compliments. I have to say, when I first met you, you were just unbelievable to me. Still are.”

  “It’s nice to hear compliments. It’s even better when they’re real.”

  “Your flattery I’m not really buying.” Bishop wiggles out from under me. His feet hit the floor with a twin thud. He thuds his way to the bathroom. Late afternoon sunshine fills the master bedroom in a wash of orange and yellows. I bask in what rays I can catch through the blinds.

  We’ve grown to like taking naps on the weekends—today is Sunday. It is late July. Bishop is slated to move out soon, so boxes encompass much of the house. Limited furniture adorns the various rooms and everything else except the essentials and the downstairs TV lie out in the open.

  I pad to the kitchen and fix up a box of cereal. Bishop comes in after he’s brushed out the post-nap gunk. We swap places for a moment, and I come back in with fresh breath.

  “So kissable,” Bishop says, “you didn’t even have to go to the bathroom.”