Why We Fight (At First Sight 4)

“What the hell are you—it’s me. Code Orange Banana. Code Orange Banana.”

I heard him muffle the phone and talk to someone else. “I don’t know. It’s some man screaming something at me about bananas. Jesus, how is it still Monday morning? I swear it feels like we’ve been here for six years already. It’s not even ten yet. Paul. Paul! Are you listening? Pay attention to me! I’m about to save someone’s life. Google stroke symptoms and how to save someone. I can’t because my hands are shaking. No, not because I’m scared. I’ve had six cups of coffee already. I needed them. What? I know that’s too much, but Darren was all up in my bidness last night like you wouldn’t believe. You know, for someone who is so… him, he really doesn’t mind taking it up the—what? What are you talking about? Oh. Right. Stroke symptoms. Okay. What’s the first one?”

I hated them both so much.

&nb

sp; He came back on the line. “Okay, sir, are you still alive? Do you have weakness in your arms and legs? Is your vision blurry? You already are having trouble speaking, but—”

“Code Orange Banana!” I bellowed into the phone.

He sniffed. “No need to shout, sir. I’m trying to be amazing. And I’ll come visit you in the hospital after, and we’ll promise to stay in touch, but most likely we’ll drift apart even though there’s some kind of life debt. You won’t owe me a thing. It’s the least I could—oh, oh my god! Orange banana!”

Finally. “Yes. Yes.”

“Right?” he moaned into the phone. “I can’t even remember the last time I had Orange Julius. They made the best smoothies. Does that store still exist? They were in malls, right? Are there still malls? I can’t remember the last time I was in a mall. Paul. Paul. When was the last time we went to a mall? Was it—oh, that’s right. Christ. That would have been in our early-twenties Hot Topic days when we thought we were the type who went to raves. Remember those JNCO jeans we used to wear? And those beaded bracelets? What the hell were we thinking? How were we not murdered, going out into the middle of the desert to dance to happy hardcore from a pimple-faced DJ who was probably fourteen years old? I mean, that’s the stupidest—Code Orange Banana. Why does that sound—wait. Is this Corey?”

I was going to choke a motherfucker out as soon as we got home. “Yes,” I hissed at him through the phone.

“Why didn’t you just say so?” Sandy demanded. “Why would you let me think that you were dying of a stroke? Do you know how bad I felt? I’m not even wearing the right tie for being interviewed on TV after saving your life!”

“I will burn down everything you hold dear,” I snarled at him.

“Hold please.”

Cheery music began to play. I swear to god it was an easy-listening Muzak version of Rihanna’s “S&M.” It was nice.

It only took a moment for the line to be picked up again, right about the time I was mumbling along that whips and chains excited me. “You still there?”

“Yes. And we need a new code, because apparently you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing with the old one!”

“I’ve had a very rough day,” he said. “Hold on. We’re in an empty office, and I need to figure out how to put you on speaker. If I hang up on you, feel free to continue bitching into the silence. It’ll save us all a good amount of time.”

The phone clicked in my ear before it took on a staticky quality. “There,” Sandy said, sounding louder. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes!”

“Hi, Corey!”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hi, Vince.”

“What the hell is going on?” Paul asked. “Sandy made me look up stroke symptoms, and then we talked about Hot Topic, and now I want a smoothie. Do you know what smoothies do for me? Nothing. They’re pointless.”

“Please,” I said through gritted teeth. “Continue making this about you even though I’m the one who called a Code Orange Banana.”

Vince laughed. “I get the smoothie thing now. That’s fun.”

I couldn’t be mad at him. That was like being angry at the sun for shining or alcohol for existing. He made everything better.

“What’s wrong?” Sandy asked, and for the first time, he actually sounded worried. “Is everything going okay? You haven’t even been there two hours. Were kids mean to you? I swear to god, if some little shit was trying to start something, I’m going to march down there and commit a fucking felony.”

“No,” I moaned into the phone. “It’s not the kids. It’s worse.”

“Worse than teenagers?” Paul asked. “That’s impossible. There’s nothing worse than teenagers. They have memes and an underserved sense of accomplishment. There was a girl at the grocery store talking into her phone, and it sounded like she was speaking in tongues. Wig this and froyo that.”

“It’s my boss,” I said, cutting him off before he really got going. I loved Paul, but if he got going, then Sandy would too, and then neither of them would shut up.

There was a beat of silence. Then, “What about him?” Vince asked. “Is he mean? I don’t like mean bosses. I’m not a mean boss.”