The Pier
The Blisters
“Chinese?”
Pat stared at the red italicized letters, the lights behind the ‘Y’ flickering: Yummi’s Egg Roll. With a raised eyebrow, he turned to Jane, an amused grin stretching her lips.
“You won’t regret it.” She shrugged and quickly stepped out of her beat up foreign car. He clumsily followed, his lankly legs almost tripping over his feet as he struggled to squeeze out of his seat. According to Jane, the passenger seat had been stuck in its tight quarters with the dashboard since she bought it three years ago with birthday and babysitting money. Not even her father, a former college football player, could nudge it out of its place. Her car was old enough to not have cup holders or a CD player; instead, a cord from the tape deck stuck out and plugged into a second generation iPod situated in Pat’s lap. On the way there, he busied himself switching between songs after one minute in, never actually listening to a whole song.
Jane’s muffled laugh and bright, amused eyes made Pat even more embarrassed than when he had first conquered the feat of squeezing his taut thighs into the limited amount of room between the edge of his seat and the dash. A small smile and a quick neck pinch was all he could do to remedy his unique situation of, so far, total physical comedy.
As Pat followed in behind Jane, the scent of fatty cooking oil and meat came from the back. Jane confidently strode up to the counter, Pat timidly walking up beside her.
“What’re you getting?”
“What’s good?” he hopelessly asked as his eyes were bombarded with a large, mostly text menu hanging up behind the aged cashier.
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Let’s see then…”
As Pat’s eyes scanned over the jumbled menu, he could feel through his fingers (but mostly just see through awkward peripheral vision) Jane’s hand very near his. When he finally started scanning through the pork options after the stomach lust-worthy list of beef dishes, he let his pride and nerves go out the window when he let the last couple of fingers on his left hand brush against her knuckles. He let his fingertips graze her hand again, still mindlessly scanning over the few shrimp options, until he felt Jane’s fingers brush back against his.
“I think orange chicken sounds best,” he sighed, grazing his last two fingers against her pinky. “Jane?”
When he peered over at her, Jane’s Gatorade-blue eyes were directed towards the ground and her teeth were festering at her lower lip. A small, almost nonexistent smile tightened the intricate muscles of her face.
“Jane?”
“What?”
“Orange chicken sound okay?” He smiled and lightly tapped her knuckles with a couple of lazy fingers.
“Oh. Sure.” She quickly looked at Pat before acknowledging the cashier. “Two orange chicken specials.”
“Steamed or fried?”
“I’ll have steamed. Pat?”
He sent the slightest smile in her direction before requesting fried rice.
“Fifteen thirty-seven.”
Pat regrettably charged for his wallet in his back pocket, abandoning their festering, flirtatious fingers. Before Jane could utter a single syllable of objection from her lips, or even reach for her own wallet, Pat shook is head and pulled out a twenty. “It’s on me.”
“But—”
“On me, Jane. Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged, handed over the bill, and hastily pocketed the change in his front pocket, crumpled bills and all. “Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the two cups from the cashier and heading for the soda fountain, Jane closely in tow.
They got their soda (“Mountain Dew is disgusting. I don’t even know how you can drink the stuff,” Pat had jokingly chastised) and Jane found a booth as Pat picked up an outdated sports magazine from the small rack next to the numerous packets of soy sauce. He had only just sat down comfortably next to Jane on a table edged by two booth seats when their order was called. Jane barely stifled a chuckle at Pat’s inward groan as he lifted himself from the table to retrieve their tray of food. He quickly returned to his spot next to Jane, sliding the large tray in front of them and slipping off his hoodie, slinging it over the back of their chair.
He settled down close to Jane and straightened out his Suns jersey as she immediately checked to see which Styrofoam box held her plain rice and orange chicken. Pat just reached for the wax paper bag holding their two egg rolls. He opened the stapled top and took one out.
“Are the egg rolls any good?” Pat asked, eyeing the large, greasy roll between his fingers with subdued disgust. He set it back down on the tray and swiped his hand over his jeans.
“It’s not gonna kill you to try, Patrick,” she said, mixing her orange sauce with her rice and popping one of the boiled broccoli stems into her mouth.
“You never know that. I mean… I could choke on it. What would you say then?” His smile could only grow at her response:
“Oh, I’d laugh.” She gave him a cheeky smirk and bumped his knee with hers.
“Well, at least you’d pretend to laugh as some sort of explanation for your tears,” Pat mumbled after mulling for an impressive comeback, and bumped her knee in return.
“Cheeky. I like.” She nodded and approval and elegantly tucked her feet under her knees before eating some gooey rice.
“Just so you know, cheekiness ain’t my thang,” Pat apathetically explained, shrugging off his statement with a smirk.
“Glad I could experience it for a moment then,” she said, eating another spoonful of rice. Pat picked his egg roll back up, shrugged, and took a generous bite.
“Wow,” he mumbled behind his mouthful of food, “this is really good.”
“So your taste buds aren’t dead. That’s a good thing to know.”
“Ha, ha,” Pat mocked, bumping her knee again and reaching for a napkin.
“Wait.”
Jane reached out for the new napkin in his hand and plucked it from his fingers, only shortly bringing his large hand into her lap, now only one foot tucked under a knee. She quickly wiped off the dismissible sauce on his palm and trashed the loosely crumpled napkin on the tray.
“So what exactly are these from?” she quietly asked, running a finger over the bulk of the calluses on his hand across the underside of his index finger. She turned in her seat to better face Pat.
“Well, that depends.” She brushed a finger over a fresh blister on his palm under the knuckle of the same finger; Pat bit his lip. “Where do you think they’re from?”
“I’ve got a couple ideas.”
“Shoot.”
“Well…” She ran her fingertips over his middle finger, freshly Christened with a callous under the last knuckle nearest to his fingertip. “You use your hands a lot. Musicians are like that. But there’s also visual artists… carpenters… weight lifters… and construction workers… But you don’t look buff or like you’re outside all day. You don’t even remotely look like you work with tools.” Jane paused. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
She quickly glanced over him, her eyes drifting over his light skin and thin arms. She looked back down and ran a finger over his wedding finger and the two blisters sticking out over his knuckles. “So you’re either an artist or musician.”
“I’m a drummer.” He brushed back a strand of hair from his face. “I’ve been laying down tracks for a few hours straight every few days, so I either change sticks every other take or they break. Either way, I go through a lot of sticks. Like, lots of them. None are worn down on the grip, they’re all, like…” He scrunched up his nose in concentration before animatedly waving his other hand to help him think. “It’s like sandpaper. Unless the wood is worn down and smooth and not all… shiny, hands blister more easily.”
Jane nodded and ran a final finger down his pinky, his skin slightly red but not yet blistered.
“But eventually the blisters burst and I get new calluses. It’s kinda ugly, though.”
“I don’t think it’s ugly.”
Pat opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself, and instead watched her run a finger over his palm. She returned his hand to the table and went back to her rice, and Pat attacked the last of the best egg roll he’d ever tasted.
The meal was delicious, and the conversation flowed more easily than the drops of Pepsi Pat had flicked from his straw onto Jane’s nose. They had finished most of their food and dumped their trash when Pat scampered to the soda fountain for one last refill; Jane followed closely behind. As his cup slowly filled, the drink only moderately bubbly, he felt the slightest touch on the underside of his loosely curled fingers. Turning his head to just peer over his shoulder, all he could see was Jane’s bowed head, her hair acting as a wavy chocolate curtain around any expression she might have worn. He turned back to his cup, taking it from under the soda spout and sipping the nearly overflowing liquid off the top. When Jane’s fingertips brushed over his calluses and blisters, he gently gripped her fingers in a comforting squeeze before scooting over to the lids and straws next to the fountain, letting his fingers uncurl from her hand.
After snapping the lid back onto her cup and taking a sip, Jane wordlessly led the way out of the restaurant and to her car, quickly flipping the doors unlocked before the chilly breeze coming from the nearby coast could make her cheeks even redder than they already were. They sat in her car for a minute, the radio set on the local generic rock station at a whispered volume. Pat’s leg bounced up and down, almost drowning out the sound of the DJ’s less than humorous commentary.
“Where to next?”
Jane flicked her eyes from staring at the car’s logo on her steering wheel to Pat, a humble smile sitting uncomfortably on his face.
“The pier?”
Pat just nodded in agreement.
The drive back to the beach was silent, almost uncomfortable for Pat. His leg never ceased bouncing up and down; his nervousness only managed to multiply by the silent atmosphere. The radio remained on, the songs on the radio ranging from late Blink-182 to Third Eye Blind to Death Cab.
Pat was always a quiet person: He was always shy around people he didn’t know; he was definitely always quiet around girls. Jane’s meek beauty didn’t seem to remedy the situation he was currently in. To help his nerves, he would fidget: Bounce his leg, move his arm, tap drum rudiments on his knees, scratch at his neck, mess with his clothing. At a slow red light at a nearly empty intersection (it was nearing midnight), Pat moved his arm yet again and rested his elbow on the center console. His wrist flopped over its edge and his forearm rested completely against Jane’s.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, adjusting his arm closer to his body.
“No, it’s fine.”
The light finally changed and Jane pressed on the gas. As the car suddenly jerked forward, her hand brushed against Pat’s. Not even giving herself time to think of an excuse, she reached her pinky out and hooked it with his.
Not only did his leg stop bouncing up and down, Pat also squeezed back.
Pat stared at the red italicized letters, the lights behind the ‘Y’ flickering: Yummi’s Egg Roll. With a raised eyebrow, he turned to Jane, an amused grin stretching her lips.
“You won’t regret it.” She shrugged and quickly stepped out of her beat up foreign car. He clumsily followed, his lankly legs almost tripping over his feet as he struggled to squeeze out of his seat. According to Jane, the passenger seat had been stuck in its tight quarters with the dashboard since she bought it three years ago with birthday and babysitting money. Not even her father, a former college football player, could nudge it out of its place. Her car was old enough to not have cup holders or a CD player; instead, a cord from the tape deck stuck out and plugged into a second generation iPod situated in Pat’s lap. On the way there, he busied himself switching between songs after one minute in, never actually listening to a whole song.
Jane’s muffled laugh and bright, amused eyes made Pat even more embarrassed than when he had first conquered the feat of squeezing his taut thighs into the limited amount of room between the edge of his seat and the dash. A small smile and a quick neck pinch was all he could do to remedy his unique situation of, so far, total physical comedy.
As Pat followed in behind Jane, the scent of fatty cooking oil and meat came from the back. Jane confidently strode up to the counter, Pat timidly walking up beside her.
“What’re you getting?”
“What’s good?” he hopelessly asked as his eyes were bombarded with a large, mostly text menu hanging up behind the aged cashier.
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Let’s see then…”
As Pat’s eyes scanned over the jumbled menu, he could feel through his fingers (but mostly just see through awkward peripheral vision) Jane’s hand very near his. When he finally started scanning through the pork options after the stomach lust-worthy list of beef dishes, he let his pride and nerves go out the window when he let the last couple of fingers on his left hand brush against her knuckles. He let his fingertips graze her hand again, still mindlessly scanning over the few shrimp options, until he felt Jane’s fingers brush back against his.
“I think orange chicken sounds best,” he sighed, grazing his last two fingers against her pinky. “Jane?”
When he peered over at her, Jane’s Gatorade-blue eyes were directed towards the ground and her teeth were festering at her lower lip. A small, almost nonexistent smile tightened the intricate muscles of her face.
“Jane?”
“What?”
“Orange chicken sound okay?” He smiled and lightly tapped her knuckles with a couple of lazy fingers.
“Oh. Sure.” She quickly looked at Pat before acknowledging the cashier. “Two orange chicken specials.”
“Steamed or fried?”
“I’ll have steamed. Pat?”
He sent the slightest smile in her direction before requesting fried rice.
“Fifteen thirty-seven.”
Pat regrettably charged for his wallet in his back pocket, abandoning their festering, flirtatious fingers. Before Jane could utter a single syllable of objection from her lips, or even reach for her own wallet, Pat shook is head and pulled out a twenty. “It’s on me.”
“But—”
“On me, Jane. Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged, handed over the bill, and hastily pocketed the change in his front pocket, crumpled bills and all. “Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the two cups from the cashier and heading for the soda fountain, Jane closely in tow.
They got their soda (“Mountain Dew is disgusting. I don’t even know how you can drink the stuff,” Pat had jokingly chastised) and Jane found a booth as Pat picked up an outdated sports magazine from the small rack next to the numerous packets of soy sauce. He had only just sat down comfortably next to Jane on a table edged by two booth seats when their order was called. Jane barely stifled a chuckle at Pat’s inward groan as he lifted himself from the table to retrieve their tray of food. He quickly returned to his spot next to Jane, sliding the large tray in front of them and slipping off his hoodie, slinging it over the back of their chair.
He settled down close to Jane and straightened out his Suns jersey as she immediately checked to see which Styrofoam box held her plain rice and orange chicken. Pat just reached for the wax paper bag holding their two egg rolls. He opened the stapled top and took one out.
“Are the egg rolls any good?” Pat asked, eyeing the large, greasy roll between his fingers with subdued disgust. He set it back down on the tray and swiped his hand over his jeans.
“It’s not gonna kill you to try, Patrick,” she said, mixing her orange sauce with her rice and popping one of the boiled broccoli stems into her mouth.
“You never know that. I mean… I could choke on it. What would you say then?” His smile could only grow at her response:
“Oh, I’d laugh.” She gave him a cheeky smirk and bumped his knee with hers.
“Well, at least you’d pretend to laugh as some sort of explanation for your tears,” Pat mumbled after mulling for an impressive comeback, and bumped her knee in return.
“Cheeky. I like.” She nodded and approval and elegantly tucked her feet under her knees before eating some gooey rice.
“Just so you know, cheekiness ain’t my thang,” Pat apathetically explained, shrugging off his statement with a smirk.
“Glad I could experience it for a moment then,” she said, eating another spoonful of rice. Pat picked his egg roll back up, shrugged, and took a generous bite.
“Wow,” he mumbled behind his mouthful of food, “this is really good.”
“So your taste buds aren’t dead. That’s a good thing to know.”
“Ha, ha,” Pat mocked, bumping her knee again and reaching for a napkin.
“Wait.”
Jane reached out for the new napkin in his hand and plucked it from his fingers, only shortly bringing his large hand into her lap, now only one foot tucked under a knee. She quickly wiped off the dismissible sauce on his palm and trashed the loosely crumpled napkin on the tray.
“So what exactly are these from?” she quietly asked, running a finger over the bulk of the calluses on his hand across the underside of his index finger. She turned in her seat to better face Pat.
“Well, that depends.” She brushed a finger over a fresh blister on his palm under the knuckle of the same finger; Pat bit his lip. “Where do you think they’re from?”
“I’ve got a couple ideas.”
“Shoot.”
“Well…” She ran her fingertips over his middle finger, freshly Christened with a callous under the last knuckle nearest to his fingertip. “You use your hands a lot. Musicians are like that. But there’s also visual artists… carpenters… weight lifters… and construction workers… But you don’t look buff or like you’re outside all day. You don’t even remotely look like you work with tools.” Jane paused. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
She quickly glanced over him, her eyes drifting over his light skin and thin arms. She looked back down and ran a finger over his wedding finger and the two blisters sticking out over his knuckles. “So you’re either an artist or musician.”
“I’m a drummer.” He brushed back a strand of hair from his face. “I’ve been laying down tracks for a few hours straight every few days, so I either change sticks every other take or they break. Either way, I go through a lot of sticks. Like, lots of them. None are worn down on the grip, they’re all, like…” He scrunched up his nose in concentration before animatedly waving his other hand to help him think. “It’s like sandpaper. Unless the wood is worn down and smooth and not all… shiny, hands blister more easily.”
Jane nodded and ran a final finger down his pinky, his skin slightly red but not yet blistered.
“But eventually the blisters burst and I get new calluses. It’s kinda ugly, though.”
“I don’t think it’s ugly.”
Pat opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself, and instead watched her run a finger over his palm. She returned his hand to the table and went back to her rice, and Pat attacked the last of the best egg roll he’d ever tasted.
The meal was delicious, and the conversation flowed more easily than the drops of Pepsi Pat had flicked from his straw onto Jane’s nose. They had finished most of their food and dumped their trash when Pat scampered to the soda fountain for one last refill; Jane followed closely behind. As his cup slowly filled, the drink only moderately bubbly, he felt the slightest touch on the underside of his loosely curled fingers. Turning his head to just peer over his shoulder, all he could see was Jane’s bowed head, her hair acting as a wavy chocolate curtain around any expression she might have worn. He turned back to his cup, taking it from under the soda spout and sipping the nearly overflowing liquid off the top. When Jane’s fingertips brushed over his calluses and blisters, he gently gripped her fingers in a comforting squeeze before scooting over to the lids and straws next to the fountain, letting his fingers uncurl from her hand.
After snapping the lid back onto her cup and taking a sip, Jane wordlessly led the way out of the restaurant and to her car, quickly flipping the doors unlocked before the chilly breeze coming from the nearby coast could make her cheeks even redder than they already were. They sat in her car for a minute, the radio set on the local generic rock station at a whispered volume. Pat’s leg bounced up and down, almost drowning out the sound of the DJ’s less than humorous commentary.
“Where to next?”
Jane flicked her eyes from staring at the car’s logo on her steering wheel to Pat, a humble smile sitting uncomfortably on his face.
“The pier?”
Pat just nodded in agreement.
The drive back to the beach was silent, almost uncomfortable for Pat. His leg never ceased bouncing up and down; his nervousness only managed to multiply by the silent atmosphere. The radio remained on, the songs on the radio ranging from late Blink-182 to Third Eye Blind to Death Cab.
Pat was always a quiet person: He was always shy around people he didn’t know; he was definitely always quiet around girls. Jane’s meek beauty didn’t seem to remedy the situation he was currently in. To help his nerves, he would fidget: Bounce his leg, move his arm, tap drum rudiments on his knees, scratch at his neck, mess with his clothing. At a slow red light at a nearly empty intersection (it was nearing midnight), Pat moved his arm yet again and rested his elbow on the center console. His wrist flopped over its edge and his forearm rested completely against Jane’s.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, adjusting his arm closer to his body.
“No, it’s fine.”
The light finally changed and Jane pressed on the gas. As the car suddenly jerked forward, her hand brushed against Pat’s. Not even giving herself time to think of an excuse, she reached her pinky out and hooked it with his.
Not only did his leg stop bouncing up and down, Pat also squeezed back.