Ask the Passengers

“Why’d you stop?” someone says. I don’t think she’s talking to me until she tugs on my sleeve and says it again. “Why’d you stop?”

She’s about a foot shorter than me, about fifty—maybe older. Yeah. Older than Mom, for sure.

“Better to leave the dance floor to people who can actually dance, you know?” I say this in the most nervous seventeen-year-old voice I ever heard. I think I’m shaking.

“I thought you were great,” she says.

I say, “Really?” because I have no idea what else to say. There is no doubt this woman has hit on at least three million women in her life. And though she looks a bit leathery and is dressed like the biker from the Village People (leather vest, boot-cut jeans, leather biker cap and engineer boots), there’s something attractive about her because she’s her.

“Really. You looked great.”

I nod and send her love. Biker Lady, I love you for talking to me right now. Time is moving so much faster because you’re talking, and I need that because I just discovered I am a robot.

“You here with someone?”

I look to make sure Kristina and Donna are still far enough away not to overhear. “My girlfriend had to work,” I say, nodding.

She smiles at me. It’s not a creepy smile or a flirtatious smile. I can’t describe it. It’s like a supportive smile. Friendly and happy for me. Happy that I have a girlfriend. Behind her, edging in like he’s about to order a drink, is Frank Socrates. He’s smiling, too, because it’s my brain that put him here. I dressed him in a toga and made his hair extra frizzy because it’s humid outside. He puts me at ease, which is better than how I felt up until now as a robot.

The music morphs into another song, and Biker Lady turns to me and says, “Come on! Show me what you got!” and grabs my wrist and drags me out to the floor. I look over my shoulder, and Frank’s still there, smiling. I’m so glad I brought him. I need the moral support.

So I dance with Biker Lady. It’s an old song, “Boogie Wonderland,” and I start my robot not-dancing dancing again while she dances around me and blows a whistle periodically and claps. She’s got biceps twice the size of Dad’s.

Halfway through the song, I get a little glimpse of what it’s like not to care that people might be looking at me. Not to care what they might say about me. I smile, and the biker lady smiles back and blows her whistle and then starts a victory lap around the bar.

All the people at the bar put out their hands for high fives, and some pat her on the ass or hug her and some duck down and kiss her. It occurs to me, as I stand on the edge of the dance floor out of breath, that people here are nice to each other.

It occurs to me that Atlantis could be the exact opposite of Unity Valley, just like Kristina said it was.

“New friend of yours?” Kristina asks.

I nod.

“You sure this isn’t weird for you?” She points to two women kissing.

I shrug. “I’ve seen you and Donna do that before.” I want to add that I don’t see one straight person here, but I don’t think it’s relevant. Plus, I guess we both know Kristina was lying to get me to do what she wanted me to do. Which is what she does sometimes.

“Who said my name?” Donna says as she dances into our conversation.

“I think we should make this a Saturday night tradition,” Kristina says.

I pull out my phone again and see it’s one o’clock. I realize that I have to leave for work in four short hours.

Kristina points. “Here comes your friend.”

Biker Lady comes up on my right side and puts her strong arm around me. “You coming back to see us next week?”

Kristina and I nod.

“You bringing your girlfriend next time?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

Kristina hears this and has that look on her face, so I wink at her to let her know that this was a lie I had to tell to cover my ass on my first night in a g*y bar. It doesn’t stop her from looking at me in a new way, though. As if maybe I do have a girlfriend.

“I hope to see you then,” Biker Lady says. “And your lucky lady.” Then she walks to the back of the bar and blends in with the regulars who all stand by the DJ booth.

We hold our laughter in until she is completely out of sight. Then we crack up. Kristina says, “Lucky lady! Oh, my God!”

Donna brings us two beers, and we crack up again when I say, “Speaking of lucky ladies!”

You know what this is? It’s fun.

You know the last time I had fun? I can’t remember.

13

ASTRID JONES JUST ISN’T READY YET, OKAY?

MY ALARM GOES OFF AT FIVE. As in five AM. Oh-five-hundred hours. Like, about an hour after I fell asleep. I can still hear the music pumping in my ears. I can still feel the crispy hair at the base of my neck from dancing until I sweated. I manage to brush my teeth, put a bandanna on over my insane hair and get dressed in my catering standard: checked pants and a white men’s T-shirt. The idea of food—eating it or preparing it or touching it—is just so far from what I want to face right now. I feel like during the night, a family of raccoons built a nest in my head and then got diarrhea there. I think this is called a hangover, but I can’t be sure.

Dee is waiting for me in her Buick, and she smiles when she sees me round the corner of the parking lot. I park in the space next to her and put my forehead on my steering wheel to indicate that I am still technically asleep. I hear her car door slam shut, and then there is an aggressive knock on my window.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Come on.”

I pretend to sleep more. I slouch. I slide to my right and lump myself on the passenger’s seat. She opens the door and climbs in on top of me.

She kisses my neck and my cheek and my head, and I instantly get giggly, and then she turns my head and kisses me and time stands still and I don’t care how late I am to punch my stupid time card.

When she moves to put her hand between my legs, I stop her.

“Whoa there. Just where do you think you are?”

“I know where I am,” she says, moving to my fly. “I know where I’m going.”

“Where are you?”

“I am in a big parking lot that only has two cars in it. Yours and mine. And no one can see or hear us.” She kisses my ear. “So why waste it?”

I escape by rolling onto the floor and crab-walking my way toward the open driver’s door. She pouts like this is a joke. It irks me that she thinks this is fine. It’s not fine. It’s pushy. Annoying. Not to mention borderline creepy that I had to escape my own car.

o;Why’d you stop?” someone says. I don’t think she’s talking to me until she tugs on my sleeve and says it again. “Why’d you stop?”

She’s about a foot shorter than me, about fifty—maybe older. Yeah. Older than Mom, for sure.

“Better to leave the dance floor to people who can actually dance, you know?” I say this in the most nervous seventeen-year-old voice I ever heard. I think I’m shaking.

“I thought you were great,” she says.

I say, “Really?” because I have no idea what else to say. There is no doubt this woman has hit on at least three million women in her life. And though she looks a bit leathery and is dressed like the biker from the Village People (leather vest, boot-cut jeans, leather biker cap and engineer boots), there’s something attractive about her because she’s her.

“Really. You looked great.”

I nod and send her love. Biker Lady, I love you for talking to me right now. Time is moving so much faster because you’re talking, and I need that because I just discovered I am a robot.

“You here with someone?”

I look to make sure Kristina and Donna are still far enough away not to overhear. “My girlfriend had to work,” I say, nodding.

She smiles at me. It’s not a creepy smile or a flirtatious smile. I can’t describe it. It’s like a supportive smile. Friendly and happy for me. Happy that I have a girlfriend. Behind her, edging in like he’s about to order a drink, is Frank Socrates. He’s smiling, too, because it’s my brain that put him here. I dressed him in a toga and made his hair extra frizzy because it’s humid outside. He puts me at ease, which is better than how I felt up until now as a robot.

The music morphs into another song, and Biker Lady turns to me and says, “Come on! Show me what you got!” and grabs my wrist and drags me out to the floor. I look over my shoulder, and Frank’s still there, smiling. I’m so glad I brought him. I need the moral support.

So I dance with Biker Lady. It’s an old song, “Boogie Wonderland,” and I start my robot not-dancing dancing again while she dances around me and blows a whistle periodically and claps. She’s got biceps twice the size of Dad’s.

Halfway through the song, I get a little glimpse of what it’s like not to care that people might be looking at me. Not to care what they might say about me. I smile, and the biker lady smiles back and blows her whistle and then starts a victory lap around the bar.

All the people at the bar put out their hands for high fives, and some pat her on the ass or hug her and some duck down and kiss her. It occurs to me, as I stand on the edge of the dance floor out of breath, that people here are nice to each other.

It occurs to me that Atlantis could be the exact opposite of Unity Valley, just like Kristina said it was.

“New friend of yours?” Kristina asks.

I nod.

“You sure this isn’t weird for you?” She points to two women kissing.

I shrug. “I’ve seen you and Donna do that before.” I want to add that I don’t see one straight person here, but I don’t think it’s relevant. Plus, I guess we both know Kristina was lying to get me to do what she wanted me to do. Which is what she does sometimes.

“Who said my name?” Donna says as she dances into our conversation.

“I think we should make this a Saturday night tradition,” Kristina says.

I pull out my phone again and see it’s one o’clock. I realize that I have to leave for work in four short hours.

Kristina points. “Here comes your friend.”

Biker Lady comes up on my right side and puts her strong arm around me. “You coming back to see us next week?”

Kristina and I nod.

“You bringing your girlfriend next time?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

Kristina hears this and has that look on her face, so I wink at her to let her know that this was a lie I had to tell to cover my ass on my first night in a g*y bar. It doesn’t stop her from looking at me in a new way, though. As if maybe I do have a girlfriend.

“I hope to see you then,” Biker Lady says. “And your lucky lady.” Then she walks to the back of the bar and blends in with the regulars who all stand by the DJ booth.

We hold our laughter in until she is completely out of sight. Then we crack up. Kristina says, “Lucky lady! Oh, my God!”

Donna brings us two beers, and we crack up again when I say, “Speaking of lucky ladies!”

You know what this is? It’s fun.

You know the last time I had fun? I can’t remember.

13

ASTRID JONES JUST ISN’T READY YET, OKAY?

MY ALARM GOES OFF AT FIVE. As in five AM. Oh-five-hundred hours. Like, about an hour after I fell asleep. I can still hear the music pumping in my ears. I can still feel the crispy hair at the base of my neck from dancing until I sweated. I manage to brush my teeth, put a bandanna on over my insane hair and get dressed in my catering standard: checked pants and a white men’s T-shirt. The idea of food—eating it or preparing it or touching it—is just so far from what I want to face right now. I feel like during the night, a family of raccoons built a nest in my head and then got diarrhea there. I think this is called a hangover, but I can’t be sure.

Dee is waiting for me in her Buick, and she smiles when she sees me round the corner of the parking lot. I park in the space next to her and put my forehead on my steering wheel to indicate that I am still technically asleep. I hear her car door slam shut, and then there is an aggressive knock on my window.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Come on.”

I pretend to sleep more. I slouch. I slide to my right and lump myself on the passenger’s seat. She opens the door and climbs in on top of me.

She kisses my neck and my cheek and my head, and I instantly get giggly, and then she turns my head and kisses me and time stands still and I don’t care how late I am to punch my stupid time card.

When she moves to put her hand between my legs, I stop her.

“Whoa there. Just where do you think you are?”

“I know where I am,” she says, moving to my fly. “I know where I’m going.”

“Where are you?”

“I am in a big parking lot that only has two cars in it. Yours and mine. And no one can see or hear us.” She kisses my ear. “So why waste it?”

I escape by rolling onto the floor and crab-walking my way toward the open driver’s door. She pouts like this is a joke. It irks me that she thinks this is fine. It’s not fine. It’s pushy. Annoying. Not to mention borderline creepy that I had to escape my own car.