Getting Into the Swing of Things

“Hey, bub, it’s time to get out,” he said to me with a somber expression on his pale, aged face.

“No,” I said grinning. “It’s fine.” I wanted to stay on that floor forever, entirely wasted, and not giving a damn. “I mean, who’s here?”

“Exactly.” Then he pointed to the door and said, “Bryan, you do this on an almost weekly basis. Get up and leave, man.”

“Fine, fine, whatever.” So I got up and for some reason, the blue, red, and purple lights of the pub were altogether too bright, like stars. Oh wait, he had turned on the lights of the place and they were the things blinding me. I let out a small disgusted sound. I loved this bar but the woodwork looked dusty and old and there were no people there. Not my type of thing.

“Bye, Welche. See you… tomorrow.” I drunkenly snapped my fingers, pointed, and made a jerky, quick movement at him and he shook his head in disapproval, while wiping a glass with a white cloth.

I pushed open the door and I was made sober by the brutal cold wind. I went to my white BMW outside in the parking lot, stumbling a little, and then I drove home. God, I always missed my apartment after a long day. I had had a bit of a tough day at the firm. I started to reminisce. I retold the event as if I was talking to someone, or presenting a speech, which is what I did occasionally.

“I had walked past my boss on the way to my office. Now, this was in that large building downtown, you know, called Northern Trust. The business firm? Anyway, I walked past him and he said something to me. Now, keep in mind, he doesn’t really like me on account of a little error or two I made a couple days prior. He told me strictly to not be late. I had only come a couple minutes late but the boss is a stickler about attendance. Tanned, grey and bushy mustache, and stern, cold, dead eyes, he doesn’t play. Anyway, I tried to play it off casual but I knew that I was failing. Some of the other guys at the firm were looking and giving that face, you know, that Oh-I-can’t-believe-that’s-happening-to-him-or-he-said-that face. He threatened to lower my paycheck, which I didn’t like, but I took the criticism and went to my office.

“Once I got to my office, I closed the door, sat in my desk chair, kicked my feet up on the desk, and looked out the window. I had my hands behind my head, locked together, comfortable. While I was there, comfortably lounging and trying to ignore what had happened, I wondered if I should leave Chicago, leave Northern Trust. It’s good there and I like it to some extent, but I wondered if there’s something better, something bigger. Where I can be treated as and be seen as King.”

I let out a laugh and said in a fake, announcer-like tone, “That, ladies and gentlemen, is why I have decided to run for President of the United States.” I was joking because I know that a person, at least I, don’t want to be serious ALL the time.

As I was telling my little tale to the open air, I had made significant progress towards my apartment. I finally pulled up in the driveway, got out of my car, and climbed up the steps to my flat on the second floor. My apartment was in a relatively good area: mid-to-far downtown Chicago. Located on a busy street, I heard people talking all the time. I enjoyed hearing the sounds of life but sometimes I wished it would all stop.

I opened the door to my flat, and I, as many times before, emerged into a room lit by pale sunlight, almost white, bleak, and dreary. Almost artificial. Every time I came here, I felt happy. Or at least pleased. Content. For once, I could escape the world and the danger, and leave people instead of people leaving me, leave the tiring life and embrace comfortable death. As poetic as that sounds. If I got sad sometimes, I could come here. If I got bad sometimes, I could come here. This place had always reminded me of me, and was my opportunity for fun, to be myself, and to leave selfish people who only care about themselves.

The next day, I got up, got ready, and went to work. A minute or two early this time. Work let out early so I was still in my work clothes. A dark suit. I looked and sounded like a businessman, which is what I was. So I decided to take a stroll downtown. Walk and observe. Then I would walk back to the parking lot, to my car, and drive home. Maybe go to the bar later. I walked on a sidewalk past a sort of plaza or white arena where some kids skated and I noticed a woman there raising her voice. She wasn’t yelling or anything. It didn’t even seem like she had the voice for that. She was wearing a fitted white shirt and black and gray pants. Her hair was long, brown, and wavy, the roots dyed blonde, and she was darker-skinned. She was wearing flat and generic black shoes. She seemed to be around my age. Mid-to-late twenties. She looked foreign and strange but also kind of beautiful.

“Someone help me,” she said. The woman spoke loud as she looked around desperately at the passersby that were ignoring her. It didn’t look like she was physically hurt or anything. She must have looked either desperate or crazy to them. It was understandable why they weren’t responding.

“I need help,” she said with a clear accent.

“Excuse me, miss, what do you need help with?” I asked hesitantly but also confidently. I wasn’t scared of people but I didn’t know how she’d react to me.

The woman then spoke another language angrily and then she spoke something incomprehensible in English. It seemed like she had ignored me, not that she didn’t hear me. I spoke again.

“What’s your name?” I asked casually.

Then she turned around and stopped looking and reaching for other passersby. She faced me directly, rolled her eyes and said dismissively, “It doesn’t matter to you.”

I rolled my eyes and smiled. “Well, it does since I’m asking you.”

She got up in my face real quick, with a slight sneer on her face, and said, “You couldn’t pronounce it.”

I smiled back, not moving an inch. “Try me.”

Then she moved back, with an almost uncertainty absorbing her body and looked to the side. As if she was embarrassed or something. “It’s Goalia Zamib,” she said quickly and quietly.

I paused and widened my eyes. “Wait, what?” Entirely unexpected, the name. She didn’t say anything in response to that. After a few failed attempts of trying to pronounce her name, I pronounced it correctly, like I knew I could. Surprisingly, she slapped my arm when I couldn’t pronounce it right. This woman was not afraid to do what she wanted to do. I noticed that she spoke with an almost Hispanic accent.

“Well, that sounds like the strangest name I’ve never heard before,” I said as I laughed out loud, trying to make her laugh, and she slapped my arm again, lighter this time.

“You’re a real jerk, you know that?” she said, while laughing.

“Well, I am the best jerk. The best and the brightest,” I said uncaringly, and perhaps arrogantly. “Darling.” I added as I caressed her face.

“Ew, don’t touch me. You’re not foreign enough,” she shrugged my hand off, disgusted.

“Wait, what?” I said, surprised but still trying to keep it nonchalant.

“You’re too... New York. Chicago. Big-city type.” She flipped her long hair and turned aside. Embarrassed but flippant. I liked it.

“Well, maybe you’re too foreign. What kind of accent is that anyhow?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said coldly, and then walked away. I followed her, ready and wanting to hear more.

“Hey, anyway, my name’s Bryan. Bryan Kennedling.” She didn’t say anything in response to that. I took another deep breath and spoke. “Now I know your name. But where are you from?” I asked her.

“I am an immigrant. From Jamaica. New here,” she answered without stopping looking ahead. That surprised me.

“So, what did you need help with?” I asked her after a short pause.

“I have to show you,” she said.

“You sure you’re not going to kill me or something?” I asked unsurely.

She rolled her eyes and said nothing else but “Follow me.”

We went through a park with many winding gray paths and green fields. There was a mini marketplace in the park where a bunch of carts and vendors were each selling their own merchandise. I noticed a woman wearing garments and looking like a prophetess. She was standing in front of a shaded cart with multicolored curtains all over the top. She had a sign labelled “FORTUNES” out in front. “Fortunes told, fortunes told. Come meet your destiny before you get old,” she repeated in an almost monotone manner.

Goalia’s stomach growled as we walked past a hot dog cart.

“You hungry?” I asked.

She nodded slowly. “But I don’t have any money on me.”

I took out my wallet. “Go ahead and get yourself one.” I nodded in approval and then gave her more than enough money to get herself some food. She gave me an uncertain, questioning look but then smiled and went to the cart. I stood and waited for her to come back.

As I was watching Goalia buy her hot dog, I was smiling. It was a very beautiful day and very windy.

Then the woman in the red, purple, blue, and yellow garments came up to me, gave me a smile with aged lips, grasped my arm with her wrinkled hand, and said, “You’re going to end up marrying her.”

Then Goalia walked away from the cart. I looked at the lady and said, in not too mean of a way, “Hey, lady, you’re crazy.” Then I removed my arm from her grasp and walked away as well.

Goalia and I walked until we went to a building I had only glanced at before. It was a dilapidated building, run-down, dark, and old. This was located in the more abandoned areas of Chicago, but not too far from where we were. The outside was covered with caution, warning yellow tape, the kind they put up before they demolish a building.

“This is what I need help with. This is not good. They just recently put this up,” she explained as she gestured to the tape. “But come inside and see my home.”

We walked up to the door. She budged open the door with her shoulder and I followed her inside. There were holes in the ceiling covered by some sort of clear material and the floor looked quite dusty and old. She had laid various colored sheets and blankets on a portion of the floor. And there were all these things on them. I guess that was the spot she inhabited.

She pointed to one of the holes.“Waterproof tarp up there. There is heat coming from this building.” Then she pointed to each one of the items on the sheets. “Pile of spare clothes over there. Broom, shovel, packaged food, utensils, portable heater, mobile stove, detergent soap, free bottles of water I get at this store, tossed out bins and buckets that I’ve cleaned and scrubbed.” Then she turned around to me with her eyes closed and said, “I’m surviving.” Then she opened her eyes, lifted up a knife, pointed it at me, and said, “I invited you here this ONE time. Never come back here without my permission or I’ll cut you.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Wasn’t even thinking of doing so.”

She slapped my arm. “Well, you’re rude.”

“Says the woman that points a knife at me and threatens to kill me.”

“Hey, watch it.” Then she threw the knife to the side. Being dramatic. And then she crossed her arms. “Now I want to see inside your house.”

“You… you want to see inside my apartment?” I asked uncertainly.

She nodded her head. “You saw my home and now I should see yours. But no funny business,” she said as she pointed her finger right up in my face.

“Okay, okay, I won’t. You want to see inside casa del Bryan. You can come and see my plants, flatscreen, floors, carpet, couch, bed. Then, maybe, I don’t know, we could…,” I said in an uncertain tone as I slid up right next to her. She slapped me. I laughed a small laugh and I held her arm gently. “I was just joking. You take everything so serious.”

“Listen.” She smacked my shoulder and then looked down and grasped one hand tightly with the other. “I AM working a job. I… just don’t have enough yet for the apartment I want,” she said while looking at the ground to the side. “But it’s part-time and it doesn’t pay the best money.” She was still not looking at me but at the floor but she sort of raised the pupils of her eyes in anger or defiance. “We all can’t be lucky like you,” she said with a jealous whisper.

We then exited the building and walked back to the parking lot and to my white BMW. I didn’t mind her insane demand to see my home because I didn’t mind her too much and I was proud of it, to a certain degree. Goalia stared at the outside and looked around the black interior of my car in amazement. She sat in the back for some reason. As I drove to my apartment with her, I felt strangely aware and awake. It felt… different now that I was driving with somebody. Better.

As we entered into my flat, she looked around in shock and amazement. There were obviously all the things I joked about before, but she hadn’t seen my kitchen with the island, my giant window with the shutters, and my comfortable brown chairs, to name a few. She was silent for a few moments and then she turned around to me and smiled. “Not bad, businessman.”

“Call me Bryan, Goals,” I said nonchalantly.

Then she gave me a look but complied. “Okay, Bryan.” Then she pointed her finger up in my face and said, “But you never call me that again.” She then flipped her hair, some of it hitting me in the face, and left the apartment on her own, and I guess, waited in the car for me to drive her home. So opinionated, decisive, and independent.

But all those positive feelings quickly evaporated once I dropped her off back to her house. In comparison, it clearly looked duller. I felt bad. I was leaving her in destitution. So I decided to stay with her a little longer. I parked my car right out front. We both got out of the car and stood in front of the entrance of the place and looked up at the caution, warning yellow tape. “They are trying to take away my home,” Goalia Zamib said, clearly upset. Then she said something in a language I didn’t understand and then she walked away angrily, her body tense.

I followed her along, hurriedly, and looked at her, hands outstretched in a pleading way. “Listen, I’ll help you. That really is unfortunate, Goals.” She gave me a glare. “Okay, not the name, time, or place.” I let out a straight, cool, shallow breath. “But, really, though, I’ll help you.”

“I know I asked for help but how? How could you help this? I have no more home.”

“I can help you get back on your feet.”

She didn’t say anything after that. We were walking in a direction back to the downtown area and city center. I saw a building in the distance. A government building. I think the building that dealt with immigration and those needing refuge from other countries.

After a while of walking and being exhausted, she said, “I am so angry. Tell me a story to distract me. Anything.”

“Anything? Okay, well, you asked for it.” I took a deep breath. “Once there was a bird and once there was a bee....” She gave me a cold look and glared at me. I threw my hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, let’s see…

Then I told her a story about some girl I met on campus. I thought it might make her laugh and lighten up her mood. Distract her from what was going on. I told her how, at Columbia University, a girl with blonde hair, brown eyes, and who was sort of tall, had flat-out rejected me. I was a sophomore but she had mistook me for a freshman and regarded me as such. She was beautiful and totally my type, much to Goalia’s disgust when I told her this, but she was rude. The building had these glass doors. I remember those the most. Because I was outside them, looking in. She had entered into a building where some fun academic program was happening and left me behind. I told Goalia this also because she kind of reminded me of the girl. And because I couldn’t think of anything else.

We stopped in front of the tall wooden doors of the building. We both stared up at them. The whole building was large and official. A makeshift White House.

“How in the world could I gain confidence from that?” I said as I finished my story, almost whispering.

Then she raised an arm to grasp the handle to open the door.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

She said nothing. But I guessed she was going to file a complaint or something, against the people that were setting up to demolish the building, or make a request to live in a new home.

“Well, I’ll leave you here.”

“Wait.” She paused and looked conflicted. “How were you thinking of helping me?”

“I was thinking that you could stay with me at my apartment. I live by myself. I wouldn’t mind. And trust me, I won’t try anything.”

She slightly turned away and looked at the ground. “I’ll think about it. Just come back here tomorrow and I’ll tell you if I agree with your... proposal, businessman.” Then she entered the building and left me behind. I walked back to my car, feeling slightly confused, bewildered, excited, and hurt all at the same time.

***

Two weeks. She had been living in my apartment for two weeks. She still bought her own things, and did things her own way, but I didn’t mind too much because I was either at work or at the bar. My schedule wasn’t too disrupted. And I guess it worked out for her, since where she had lived wasn’t too far from here. So she could cycle in between both places and move her stuff from there to here. And I could drive her places, if need be. I didn’t need her financial help, though she offered. I just said, “Keep saving up so you can get your apartment.” She laughed at my jokes sometimes. She kept slapping me for my crude ones but I could tell I was growing on her. She put up with me, despite it all. And I did the same with her. I guess she was growing on me too. Life was good.

One day, I opened the door with my keys and I stumbled into the flat. Goalia was sitting on the couch, reading with the mini lamp I had. She was dressed in white. It was night, real dark. She was surprised by my arrival. I thought that she should be.

“Bryan? Bryan?” she asked, as she got up slowly, observing me like I was a wild, deranged animal. I was just laughing and saying nonsense.

“Are you drunk?” she asked. I nodded up and down vigorously.

“How’d you get here? You’re clearly too drunk to have driven here,” she asked.

“Welche… welche. Nice… nice man. It was an act of kindness. It was a miracle. A miracle from God.” I laughed drunkenly. She looked at me astounded and confused. I continued. “I had a bad day. And I’ve been wanting to tell you something. So I got drunk. But I guess I just needed, “ I hiccuped, “the courage to do so. I should have you know that I have a secret or two. I didn’t tell you because I felt…,” I hiccuped, “like you might judge me.” Then I giggled and whispered, “Sometimes I FEEL like a female being around a female.”

“Shush, shush, go to sleep,” she said to me calmly. As she moved me towards my bed, I almost fell over on her. And I was still talking.

“When I see a pleasing girl at the bar, I’m like, damn, she’s fine. And when I see a guy at the bar, granted he’s attractive and whatnot, and,” I hiccuped, “holds himself like a man, I’m like, damn, he’s fine.” I laughed and I hiccuped. “But I guess you didn’t know that about me. You don’t know much about me.” I laughed. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Bryan, stop talking, you’re drunk,” she said as she pushed me forward like a board and propelled me onto my bed.

“Stop talking. STO-p,” I popped the p, “talking. Stop talky. Stop talk-ing. Stop tal-KING. Stop tall-KING. I like it.”

Then I fell asleep and dreamt of nothingness.

***

Then about two weeks after that, I got a phone call from my mother that made me immediately stop helping Goalia sort her stuff. We were going through all the refuse and junk that she had brought from the abandoned house and that she had accumulated over the past month or so, for space. I hung up the phone. “Oh… oh my gosh. Well, I have to go.” I started hurriedly reorganizing things, packing up, and rushing.

“What is it?” She asked hesitantly.

“My sister. My sister. She’s back. I haven’t seen her in years. I have to go.”

“Wait, what about me? We’re not done here.”

“Ummm, ummm... you can come along with me. Just don’t say much,” I said panickedly and in a frenzy.

“Where are we going?”

“She’s at my parent’s house. I don’t know how long she’ll stay. It could be only for a quick visit.”

We drove to my parent’s house and we pulled up in my parent’s driveway. I was out of the car first, in a hurry, everything blurry. I needed to find my sister. Goalia came out of the car, uncertainly, and stared up at our semi-big house. She walked with an arm behind her back, gripping the other.

I opened the door with my keys. “Mom, mom?” I said as I hesitantly stepped into the house and doorway. I hadn’t been here in what felt like years.

“Oh, yes, Bryan, dear?” My mom said as she doddered into the hallway leading to the living room, where I stood, with Goalia behind me. My mom was wearing a pink shirt and a long yellow skirt, her hair unpinned. She was wearing makeup and looked like a movie star. She was as blonde and bubbly as ever.

“Bryan, my sweet precious. Hello, dear,” my mom said as she grasped my cheeks with one hand and kissed me on both.

“Mom,” I said, embarrassed.

“And, oh, who is this?” she asked, my mom releasing a slowly increasing smile.

“See, I always told Bryan he should get married and look…”

“Mother!” I said, with embarrassment. Goalia seemed to be as embarrassed, indignant, and angry as I was to the idea.

“Mom, where is Susan?” I asked as I desperately tried to look around my mother.

“Hold on, hold on, where’s my hello? Your sister’s in the kitchen. Relax, dear. Why are you so worked up?”

I shut my mouth for a few seconds. I knew that Susan would come and visit them in secret when I wasn’t around. I wasn’t going to say that I missed my sister right here and right now. Especially in front of Goalia. Finally, I said, “I just want to see her.”

“Well, go ahead, dear,” my mom harrumphed.

Then I stopped in my walk towards the kitchen, turned back and embraced her. “You know, Mom, I love you. My one and only.”

Then my mom shrugged out of my hug with a smile. “Well, you always did have a way with words. And a way of getting out of trouble too.”

Then she eyed Goalia and I. Observing both our embarrassed body language. Then she spoke.

“Has this,” she slapped my arm, “dog been hitting on you?”

“Mom,” I said exasperatedly with my lips pursed.

“Bryan, dear, I love you but sometimes you can act like a dog in your… overt affection.”

Then we moved on to the living room. Since it was obvious I couldn’t rush anymore or else I was going to displease my mother, we dawdled. My mom turned her back around to Goalia after attempting to tie up her hair for the umpteenth time and outstretched a hand holding a rubber band to her. “Dear, would you help me do this? I just can’t today. My hands.” She laughed a small, breathless laugh and threw up her hands helplessly after Goalia took the rubber band and wrapped it around her own wrist. She threw up her hands in a helpless way, as she always did, always deflecting blame or fault for her actions or inactions. Goalia brought my mom’s hair up in a way that looked unprofessional and gave an overwhelmed, frightened look. Her hair was always out so maybe she never had practice doing it. But she managed to do this successfully. As Goalia was doing this, my mom said to me, “Bryan, honey, write down on the notepad on the desk for me to get more rubber bands.” I did and she was happy. Then I noticed something on the table near the entrance of the living room.

“Oh, no way! You have Johnny!” I exclaimed.

I ran up to and looked at this electronic thing-a-majig that was less than a foot tall. Johnny was the figure on a pedestal, a man, a form. If you pressed the button on his hat, he danced in sporadic, eccentric, jerky, movements, flailing his arms like a disco star. A disco-pop song would play as he danced. I used to always dance to it. I loved that little toy. And I still did.

“Yes, we brought him out when we were cleaning the garage. We know you love him. And it’s a superb little thing. And maybe it would be an incentive for you to come back to us.”

She looked at Goalia and said, “Can you believe we found this eighteen years ago, in a junk shop?”

“Mom. I moved out years ago.”

“A year and eight months. I’m counting.”

Then I couldn’t contain myself any longer. “Sorry, but I have to do this.”

Then I pressed the button on Johnny’s hat and he started to dance and I mimicked his motions. It only lasted for less than a minute. But I still got it.

Goalia looked a little embarrassed. So did my Mom, but less because she had gotten used to it. I didn’t care. My mom, seeing the big smile on my face, said with pride, “You were always a little confident thing, you.”

Then my dad entered the living room, I guess because he heard Johnny’s song, and rose up his arms in surprise, joy, and pride.

“Son!”

“Dad!”

We both grunted as we did a man hug. “So, I see you’ve brought a girl home. Again?” he said.

I face palmed. “Dear Lord, can we please just go into the kitchen and talk with and to and ABOUT Susan?”

“Well, we have to know who she is. We can’t invite strangers into the house… all the time,” my dad said in a side whisper to me.

“Her name is Goalia Zamib,” I answered. Both my parents gave a confused look. “You’ll learn later. Just refer to her with general pronouns if you can’t pronounce it.”

Then we entered the kitchen. My sister looked at my parents and smiled. She looked Goalia up and down and then smiled a small, pleased smile and started to talk.

“Hi, Bryan,” my sister said to me then looked away.

I paused. “Hi, Susan.” Then I sat down in a chair. I felt deflated but I sat very upright.

“Call me Lily.” She casually put her arm around the back of her chair. Her hair slightly moved to the side. In a wistful way. “I’d like to think I’m different now. Better than I always have been.”

There was a small pause.

“Okay, Lily,” my mom said with that smile of hers, uncertain but then becoming more wide with every second. Almost to the point it was fake. “Let’s all call her Lily now.”

We all sat at the six-person table. I sat across from Goalia, my sister sat across from my mother, and my dad sat across from the empty chair. I stared at my sister. She was kind of beautiful. She had the golden hair that I… you wish you had. She had this oldness about her I couldn’t quite place though she acted so young and carefree. There was still the piercing in her nose that she got when she was nineteen. She made me swear not to tell Mom but I did. Mom would’ve found out anyway. She hated me after that. She didn’t speak to me. She ran away often and left for months on end, yet she was the favorite. I don’t get it. My mom, to break the ice, launched into a story about her day.

“So, I was at the theater company building, right. They were hosting these free classes there for novices, amateurs, beginners, and the like, to learn how to act. Open to all ages.” I zoned out for the rest of Mom’s boring story. Then Goalia made a movement and I kind of woke up.

“... then we just started flip-flopping roles.” She let out a breathless, small laugh. “It was crazy.”

Then Goalia and my sister looked at each other. They both greeted one another. They already had this friendly vibe or energy like they were going to get along. “What’s your name?” my sister asked casually.

“Hello. My name is Goalia Zamib,” she answered shyly but with a smile.

“Perfect. Nice,” my sister complimented. “You know, Bryan, over there,” my sister pointed at me with a manicured fingernail, “never says hello. Never comes over.”

I humphed but didn’t say anything.

“I think he’s fine. I mean…well, I am his guest.” She paused. “I am staying over with Bryan at his apartment.”

My mom inhaled a sharp breath.

“And no, we are not dating. It is totally platonic. I am a foreigner here and Bryan is helping me to get back on my feet.”

Then my mother and father smiled at me and I felt like I was something. But then my sister scoffed in a superior manner. Always trying to diminish my accomplishments with her arrogance.

My mom sighed and smiled a pleased smile at Goalia. “Oh, you are wonderful, dear. Though I wish Bryan had phoned and told us this before you arrived. So it wasn’t last minute, short notice.” Then my mom eyed her while still smiling that smile of hers. “You sound foreign, dear. Are you an immigrant?” My mom asked.

“Yes,” she responded shyly. Now where did all this shyness come from?

“Well, dear, we want to hear all about it. Tell us your story. How’d you come here?”

Then Goalia proceeded to tell them her whole life story up to that point. She had never told me this before. Then again, I had never bothered to ask. I thought it was her personal business. I was shocked. And with every detail, with every surprise, my parents’ smiles were growing bigger and bigger.

“Amazing, amazing,” my dad said.

“Certainly,” my mom agreed.

My sister shook her head in cool consensus.

I was cool, solemn, and silently angry. Then I spoke.

“Goalia, may I speak to you in the living room. Alone,” I said straightly, eyeing both my parents. They both looked at each other. My mom nervously smiled and looked down at her lap. My dad remained straight-faced and clueless. My sister kind of curled her lip up in disgust. I got up and left and waited in the living room chair, next to the telephone, notepad, and desk table, for her to come out. Goalia emerged into the living room a minute or two later, with sort of a nervous body posture but looking a little angry.

I looked at her slowly, methodically twirling the rubber band around the pencil. Waiting. “Guess it must be real easy, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” she said with attitude. Oh, now she was trying to pick a fight.

“Getting along with my folks, huh. Getting along with my sister like she’s your best friend and I haven’t seen her in YEARS. I invited you here. Not her, not them, me. You’re my guest. And I expect you to behave as such.” I looked away from her at a wall. “Just leave,” I said.

“Who would’ve expected you to be such an asshole? Oh wait. That’s right. You’re the bad guy. The villain.” She started to cry. “Can’t you see that everyone is happy besides for you?”

“Oh, whatever,” I said bitterly, harshly and angrily. Then I mocked her. “Can’t you see that everyone was miserable before you? The great Goalia. The great Goliath. You just had to come and prove to everyone how amazing you are and make all the rest of us feel inferior. Gleam in the sun, why don’t you?”

“Well, you’re no King David. You’re not even a prince,” she spit.

“Well, you’re not holier-than-thou, either,” I sneered back.

“But at least I’m not a monster.” Then she looked to the side, tears streaming down her face, and I left, not putting up with this stuff any longer.

***

She ended up coming back to my apartment, my sister having dropped her off. I would recognize that car anywhere. Just to get her stuff and leave. After a while, she came back. And I apologized. She apologized. Then I joked.

“Well, …what’s your name, again?”

She smacked me upside the head so hard I saw stars. I tried again.

“Well, Goalia Zamib, would you like to go on a date with me?”

Then she lifted up her head and smiled. “Now you’re starting to ask the right questions.”

***

By seven o’clock p.m., I stood by a street lamp, in the dark, in a dark suit, of course, because I look fabulous but I look even more fabulous in a suit. Thirty minutes later, I looked at my bronze watch. I thought to myself, she must have stood me up. Then a few minutes later the street lamp above me broke and dissolved, the stars falling, and I was left in darkness. What a weird coincidence. Oh, whatever. I guess I didn’t need her anyway. After all, who could love me? Who could love all this?

As I was thinking all these terrible things, Goalia appeared. Seemingly out of nowhere.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

She was wearing a red satin dress and she had her hair pinned up. She looked… really pretty.

We drove to the fancy Italian restaurant. We made small talk but it was a little bit awkward. It wasn’t my first date of course but I wasn’t feeling it. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Our date wasn’t bad but it wasn’t anything extraordinary.

As I drove back home, I thought something. Maybe the prophet lady was wrong.

***

A time later, in the warmer weather, we were at a family picnic. My parents were there flying a kite. My cousins, including the little cousin that once threw up on me, were there running around and having fun. My aunts and uncles were milling about, conversing, drinking their coolers, and laughing. My sister was sitting on a smaller hill in the light. Then for some reason, she got up and went to where I was and crossed her arms. Like she couldn’t contain herself anymore. She had a disgusted look on her face, while still trying to maintain her indifference and casualness. I was sitting up on a hill, alone. In the shade. Watching them all. I sat in the grass, knees hunched, and with my arms folded around my knees like a little kid.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” my sister said as she shrugged and walked away, her blonde hair gleaming in the light as she left the darkness. I didn’t look up at her once.

Then Goalia came to where I was, after talking to my parents and attending to the kids, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “It’s okay. You can breathe.”

“Even if I am a monster?” I said as I shyly looked up at her.

“The best and the brightest.” Then she offered me her hand and I took it and I got up. Then we held hands. “And don’t ever forget it,” she finished.

And then she pushed me down with so much force onto the grass that I groaned. Then she calmly sat and lay in the grass right beside me. And we looked up at the sky until we saw stars.