I have an unhealthy addiction to Kit Kats and Kentucky Fried Chicken. It’s not something I talk about. I don’t burden people with the ugly things about me. Sometimes my hair will smell like grease and perfectly crispy chicken breast, and sometimes you’ll find a log of chocolate on my bedroom floor. Let’s not talk about those things. I keep them in the shade.
I have different, less realistic dreams about Kit, but horrifying nonetheless. As a consequence, my tongue is stained red from the wine, and my thighs fill with lard. I start my new job with new pants from Express that I had to buy, because … KFC. Luckily everyone sort of started their new jobs at the same time, and social gatherings take a backseat to job acclamation. Kit did not go to college with Neil, Della, and me. He went to community college and graduated a year earlier than us. According to Della, he’s studying for his master’s, while working nights. So when I get a flat one morning on the way to work, and I have to call Triple A, I am surprised when Kit pulls over in his white pickup. He has on silver Ray Bans, and he’s chewing on a toothpick.
“Yo,” he says, walking toward me. “I came to rescue you.”
“Nice flannels. And Triple A is already on their way. Thanks for the chivalry though.”
He grins as he crouches next to my car, inspecting the tire. “Nail,” he says. Traffic whizzes by his back, blowing his shirt up and revealing his tanned skin. I want to tell him to be careful, but it’s such an obvious statement. So I stand off to the side, my arms crossed over my chest, and gripe. When Kit finally stands up and walks around to where I am waiting, I wipe my palms on my plump thighs and try not to make eye contact.
“It’s hot,” I say. “I hate Florida.”
“Florida hates you. You should move somewhere cooler.”
“Like where?” I ask. I chew on the inside of my mouth while I wait for his response, but I already know what he’s going to say. Wa-Wa-
“Washington. It’s perfect there.”
“Oh yeah? Have you been?”
“I’m from Washington,” he says, wiping his hands on a blue bandana he produces from his back pocket. “Port Townsend.”
I throw my head back and look at the sky. I want to stress eat all the friend chicken. All the Kit Kats.
“I think you’ve mentioned that,” I say. Though he hasn’t. Not that I can remember anyway. But, if it was lying in my subconscious somewhere that would explain…
“I haven’t. I don’t like to tell people where I’m from unless they ask.”
I look at him. “Why not?”
“Because then they think they know you, and I don’t want to be known.”
“That’s stupid. Everyone wants to be known.” I crane my head to look for the Triple A rescue truck. Please hurry, please hurry.
“Except those who don’t.”
“Why did you tell me then?”
He looks up at the sky, and I can see the clouds reflected in his sunglasses.
“I don’t know,” he says.
My eyebrows dance around for bit. I’m glad he’s not looking.
“How did you know I was here, anyway?” I ask.
“I have eyes.”
I pull my lips tight when I look at him, so he can really see my displeasure.
“I was driving by, Helena. You’re hard to miss.”
Hard to miss? Hard to miss? Was it because of my thighs? It doesn’t matter because the rescue truck bounces up like an overeager golden retriever.
Everything in my life is bad timing.
Kit waits with me while a guy who looks like Ben Stiller changes my tire.
“How’s my Blue Steel?” he whispers to me, making a face.
“Of all the movies to remember him in,” I sigh. “What is this? A school for ants?”
Ben Stiller’s lookalike dusts his hands and is off to save someone else.
“Thanks for pulling over,” I say. “And keeping me company.”
“No problem; you’re kind of a lonely heart.”
A lonely heart. Am I? I look away.
“I’m not lonely,” I say.
Kit grins. “Really?”
I look back at him, dumbfounded. He looks so smug. All that smirking.
“See ya, Helena.”
It’s the way he says my name and smiles at the same time. No one else smiles like that when they say my name. Do they? It’s never been good enough for me to notice. Certainly not Neil, who hardly smiles at all. Della mostly whines my name, and my parents call me Lena in purring, adoring voices (only child).
By the time I’ve got his name out of my mouth and say goodbye, he’s already in his truck, pulling away. It isn’t true—any of this. My fascination with Kit, my sudden inclination to art. I am having a quarter-life crisis. I read about them online after Googling: What the fuck is wrong with me? The website was a dot-org so I know it is legit. Anyway, it said that sometimes when a person experiences a huge life change, they lose all grip of reality and try to create something new that they’re more comfortable with. That’s what is happening. I think about commenting on the article, validating the author with my story. I picture him checking the article every day waiting for someone like me to share my personal breakdown with the dot-org community. In the end I am too ashamed to admit to any of this.
The South Florida heat has sucked me dry, or rather made me the opposite of dry. I lift my arms and air out my pits. Fuck it. I am calling in to work. Car troubles. I drive in the same direction Kit went. He lives in Wilton Manners. I’ve seen his apartment complex in the recess of his Facebook pictures. That’s what Florida is—not an apartment building—but a whole sprawling apartment village, painted various shades of orangey-pink, with a gym and a pool. I can find that. What if he is at work? Where does he work? He is getting his masters—Della told me that once. And he bartends nights at some place downtown. Facebook tells me where he works. Perfect.
I blast the AC and set off to find Kit Isley. A staged run-in, maybe a little private conversation to turn me off. After all, Della and I have completely opposite taste in men. I can get this shit out of my system once and for all. I’ll be back to normal by Monday, coasting down the highway of my smooth, well planned out life. Neil in the driver’s seat. Neil. Neil.
Neil
Neil
Neil