A Dance Party in the Park

The park is the picture of early October: lively warmly wrapped folk amongst rustling frozen fire. The weather is almost the same as yesterday; the air is light instead of calm. There are occupied picnic benches near pairs of swaying swings. The main carousel ride was repurposed long ago into a gazebo with the horses mounted on springs as playground equipment. The gazebo is decorated with warm string lights and the floor is taken up by a pianist, a guitarist, and a fiddler. The lot are wearing Stetsons and playing a two-beat rhythm with a crisp backseat. The steel guitar and the fiddle are the dominant instruments, but I appreciate the tack piano that’s acting almost like a percussion instrument.

Link eyes it curiously, brow furrowed, leaning closer to examine it. “Why’s it sound like that? Something about the tonal quality seems modified.”

“Thumbtacks,” I answer as we take a seat nearby.

“Thumbtacks? I thought pianos have hammers by design. The mechanical interference creates quite a different vibration pattern…”

“They do. But his hammers are likely felt-padded with tacks or nails attached at where they hit his strings, giving him that more percussive tinny sound.”

They frown at me, confused, as I note each source and bottle of alcohol. “Why’re you gendering the piano?”

“Spanish. Pianos are male, violins and fiddles are male, guitars are female, and so on.”

“Don’t you play guitar?”

I nod. Haven’t for the year I’ve been in Britain though. All my instruments are back in Spain. Their eyebrows furrow in cheeky thought and a small mischievous smile appears. “There’s a lesbian fingering joke in there somewhere.”

I chuckle. “Let me know if you find it.”

Fitting the music, the fashion is very country-esque. Naturally, with it being Chichi’s scene as an all American rootin’ tootin’ spit in a bucket country Southerner, she matches with the other bawdy patrons in well-worn mildly distressed jeans, button-up flannels, graphic T-shirts under denim jackets, and large decorative belts. Hers even matches her chunky gold jewellery. Bridget fits in pretty well too. Her white shorts have a cute little pink heart on one of her butt pockets. I’m surprised; thought she’d wear a flowy floral dress with her ankle boots, but I’d guess that’d be harder to dance in than her knotted blue-and-blue flannel shirt. I try to ignore how the top button looks ready to shoot and imbed itself in whatever it hits. It’s because she’s wearing that stupid bra again! Rides up her back, digs into her shoulders, squishes her tits to make her cleavage more prominent. Heat fills my face. I turn away.

“Cass, you know men?” Chichi asks, tying her hair up with one of Link’s spare bandanas – purple, of course. “’Cause of yo’ whole military rah rah rah oorah sailor hurpedur. You get ‘em, yeah?”

I frown, confused. “You’re asking me how to flirt with them?”

She grins like a sly cat. “If you know how.”

From our table, I lock onto a group of friends by a cool box of beers. I nod at one. “Front-facing cap lad, third in command.” The women and Link follow my gaze. I feel like I’m giving a mission briefing again. “He’s cute and will be shyer than those above. Go for him, hold his hand, smile at him – bare minimum. He’ll just be bewildered you brushed off first in command. Makes top guy antsy, causes dissent in the ranks, undermines their whole power structure. Then, you and your amigas can swoop in and pick off those who remain as they start to scatter in the wind, having lost all sense of self. Boom. Free drinks for the rest of the night, and whatever else you want.”

Bridget smiles simply. “I don’t know why I’m surprised you broke that down like a mission.”

“She can do all that, yet doesn’t know how to talk to women,” Chichi snickers.

“Chichi, be nice. Cassidy can talk to women!” Bridget says before returning to her flower crown of daises and adding, She just can’t tell when they’re flirting with her.”

I look back, frowning. “Women don’t flirt with me.”

After a moment of shock, Chichi bursts out laughing. Bridget hides a smile behind her hand, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Link looks more baffled than I’ve ever seen them before, like I’ve said an objectively wrong statement as fact.

“Cass. The sky is neon green, it is currently spring, and women don’t flirt with you. You know what those are examples of? Lies. Complete misalignments with observable reality.”

“I’m not lying! Women just don’t flirt with me!”

Chichi rolls her eyes. “Bitch, they absolutely do! You just too dense to notice.”

“I am not!”

“Yeah, you are.”

“She’s correct, Cass,” Link agrees. “You are as dense as a neutron star- Nay, denser! I’ve been collecting evidence. The data is rather compelling on this matter.”

“Name one time.”

“I’ll name three, like any good problem-solver. When a woman asked you about pet names, you replied ‘Well, you have to call them something’. Another time, a woman directly said she was into you and you glanced at the gap between you two and said ‘No, you’re pretty separate from me’. Oh! And another woman once sat on your lap, wrote her number on your arm in her lipstick, and lit your cigarettes for you when your hands were too shaky.”

“In my defence, these are all valid concerns and responses! And that last one doesn’t count because she was playing along with my scam to save up money for my motorcycle! I bet her fifteen quid.”

“You don’t flirt dat hard, unprompted, just fo’ fifteen pounds,” Chichi argues.

“That scam was so elaborate,” Link mutters.

I kept betting drunks twenty quid I could get a girl’s number in under five minutes before going to the woman, saying I bet a tenner I could get her number, and I’ll give her half if she fake-laughs like I just said a good pick up line and writes a fake number on my hand. The scam might’ve worked a little too well though; I didn’t realise until about halfway to my goal I’d accidentally become a pimp. My fingers twitch at the memory. I got too excited about calculating new angles, new approaches, expanding territory, and spreadsheets. The money was good. The rush was even better. And it let me keep my liver! And really, what’s the harm? It was fine! Not illegal since no one was getting hurt, abandoning the mission halfway would’ve been inefficient, and the women weren’t complaining! They actually developed their own code words, hand signals, and territory assignments. Some even started running smaller operations themselves, cutting me in as “consulting fees”. Idiots lose a little bit money, women make bank, me get my bike. Everyone wins! And it was just until I hit my goal. …Well, a little over it, but only as a precaution. And I gave them all joyrides after as thanks.

Chichi grins. “Bet it wasn’t der ride dey was thinkin’ of!”

“Didn’t you come here to dance? Go flirt with that lad already!”

She shrugs, taking Bridget with her, and plops the hat of the cute third-in-command upon her head with a grin, inviting him to dance. I remember her once mentioning something called the Cowboy Hat rule: “Wear the hat, ride the cowboy!” Meanwhile Bridget ingratiates herself to the rest of the group, like they’re old friends. My gaze slips to the green and brown bottles of beer amidst the ice. I lick my lips. Haven’t drank for almost a week straight since my last binge. There’s an old craving in my gut, but not yet. Still resetting. It’ll take two more days at least before I can do another binge, but I like to err on the side of certainty so nine more days in total.

“Link,” I state. They glance up from their phone, mid-conversation with their half-sister about hindered emergency response times, interrupted public transport, closed schools, and hospital services under strain. “You don’t drink.”

“Can’t. Against my religion.”

“So why’re you here then?”

They smirk. “Could ask you the same thing, Cass.”

“Because,” I shrug. “I want you to teach me how to not drink.”

“Oh! Really?” They ask and I nod, finally looking at them instead of the beer. “Uh… sorry, I’m not like you, Cass. I’ve never liked the taste of any alcohol, so it’s pretty easy for me to abstain from it. The chemical composition alone is rather off-putting. I guess distract yourself?” They suggest, pulling out their GBA. “Perhaps substitute one ritual for another?”

They offer it to me. I glance at it, then at the dance floor. I don’t feel like joining Chichi and Bridget. Too crowded. With a shrug, I take the GBA. Being a passionate gamer, Link used their technical skills to modify it while at Cambridge. Gave it a higher-resolution screen, upgraded the backlighting system, added a headphone jack, and expanded the memory/storage capacity. It’s also covered in stickers of Hindu time units that Link has a fondness for. Useful for their engineering math, apparently. They look at me, expectant. I look back at them, clueless. It clicks for them.

“Ohhh, I forget. You don’t have a lot of experience with video games, yeah?”

The singular exception is Snake. It’s the only game on my satellite phones. I got really really good at it during boring guard watches and paperwork breaks. Like max-out-the-counter good. Otherwise, I’ve never had much patience for sit still activities. Was always more of an outdoorsy kid. Outside was usually where Liliana wasn’t. She wouldn’t be caught dead in the muck. Perfect place to escape her. “Maybe this one…” they mutter, rummaging through their travel bag of cartridges. I don’t know how they manage to fit so much into such a small bag, but they always bring it and their GBA as a piece of comfort into unfamiliar situations. They rummage around a bit more before grinning. “Ooh, how about this one?” They slot the cartridge in. “Barebones fighting game. Super simple. The interface design prioritises accessibility while maintaining depth of strategy.”

“For a Buddhist, your collection is weirdly violent.”

“It’s fiction! Impermanent, cyclical, infinite.” The screen of their GBA lights up with a little tune as rainbow letters elegantly spring into view from below. “I’m allowed to enact imaginary violence. The Buddha taught about the nature of reality, and this is decidedly not reality.”

Usually, we’re the ones dragging Link outdoors and reminding them to sit up straight with a “shrimp check” because of how much they turn into one if they stay seated for too long. I guess it’s my turn to be dragged into something unfamiliar for my own good. The screen lights up with a jaunty intro animation of poised pixels in fighting poses. Link leans in, eager as ever to impart knowledge. They walk me through the basic controls: movement, attacks, blocking. It’s simple enough that even my non-existent gamer skills can manage while they’re content to simply watch and advise. I pick a character and tentatively move them around, getting used to the controls. It’s a bit strange, relying on such small buttons for movement and attacks, but there’s the same satisfaction about landing hits on my opponent. “Not half bad. Try pressing A repeatedly, then B.” I do so. The tapping is nice, like Morse code. A flurry of punches is followed by a fiery explosion. They chuckle at my reaction as the enemy drops dead. “Are you having fun yet?”

I shrug with a knowing smile. “I like how predictable the enemies are.”

Link’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s… not what’s usually is- Whatever. Interpretations are subjective anyway. Impermanent, like everything else. I’m just glad you like the game, Cass.”

“Hm. Alright, hojita, you’ve piqued my interest. You got any more?”

They beam brightly, pulling out a fan of cartridges in their hands. We take turns playing. Link offers tips when I get stuck and occasionally demonstrates how to do particular moves. They also love to go on about the engineering behind each game in the same way they love to talk about infinity: how it’s in between every number, how it doesn’t necessarily contain all possible members on principle (e.g. none of the infinite set of numbers between 1 and 2 are 3 or higher), how every recurring number can continue until infinity and is infinity in itself, how it appears as the constant light reflection between opposing mirrors where it seems boundless repeating space is inside of them until everything is green.

I don’t get it at all. I’m just happy to let them run their mouth.

At some point, I end up fingering the guitarist’s steel for a round. A woman tosses her hat at me too. All I need now is a poncho and a lasso, and I’ll be one of my vaquero cousins. ¡Jaja! As I thank the guitarist, Bridget and Chichi come dancing back to Link and I. Their grinning faces are flushed, and they have empty bottles in their hands. Neither seems to have a care in the world. Chichi looks to be a more socially acceptable level of drunk – happy, relaxed, chatty. Bridget is pushing the boundary a bit. Her hair is also down now. Looks nice, especially with her daisy flower crown.

“Oh, mh so sorry,” she loudly says as she bumps into the table. “Cass! Hi!”

“Hi. You okay there?”

“Mm-hm! Just feeling a little sick from dancin’.”

I pull out the bench for both woman – a childhood habit alongside getting the door for women. “Looked like you two were having fun out there.”

“Oh, yeah!”

Chichi chuckles, sitting down next to Link. The hat she had is gone. “Those shawties got us free drinks. You guys should’a joined us! Would’a been fun tearin’ up der dance with y’all…?”

Link shakes their head. “Not really my kinda scene. Don’t have the stamina for it.” Their smile is small and self-deprecating. “Some of us were designed for cerebral rather than physical exertion.”

I shake my head too but for different reasons. Dancing itself isn’t the issue; Papá had us take lessons as kids. Miguel did flamenco. Adrien, fandango. Me, pasodoble.

Chichi pouts playfully, lightly poking Link in the cheek with a purple-and-white painted nail. “Maybe you would if you moved around more.”

Link lightly swats her hand away. Bridget leans over to swipe my hat. Chichi’s gasp and following smirk does not escape my notice when Bridget pops it on her head with a scrunched-up nose and a cheeky stuck-out tongue at me. I return her expression. Bridget then gasps, grins, and squeals.

“Shots!” She cheers, somehow pulling a rainbow’s worth of shot glasses from her cleavage. I think being drunk gives her the ability to go full Looney Tunes. “We got juice ones for you two! So, y’wouldn’t feel left out!”

Link takes a green one. Chichi takes a purple one. Bridget takes a red one. I move to take a blue one when Bridget swipes it before climbing onto my lap with it and her original red one, which she downs immediately as soon as she’s settled. “Hey. Hey, Cass!” She hisses, sort of bouncing closer. “You wanna do a body shot?”

“Body sh–” She sticks the blue shot glass in her cleavage. I stare. “–oookay…”

Bridget doesn’t notice my shock, too busy making sure the glass won’t fall or slip out via…physics. I still stare. My face is burning.

She grins brightly, leaning forward a little. “Drink up, love!”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. She wiggles her chest again. I nearly choke on my own saliva as I try to look away in a desperate attempt to be respectful. Shit, shit, SHIT SHITSHITSHITSHIT–

“I’ll have one!” Chichi jokes.

“Tough! Cassidy special only!” Bridget yells, then smirks at me and beckons slightly with a finger, gently biting her lower lip. It is? Just for me? “C’monn, Cass, you’re a hot chick who deserves to ’ave a good time. And I’ve got a shot all lined up and ready fer ya.” She very lightly bounces her chest, just enough to tease but not enough to spill. “It’s just beggin’ fer yer lips.”

I have no words. ¿Qué? ¿Qué demonios? The craving in my brain rushes back in, roaring like a tidal wave. It’s not even alcoholic! FUCK! I’m already breathing deeper and harder. I’m drooling. God, this is worse whenever someone says “pussy” and I start salivating like a dog. “‘Ere. I’ll make it easier fer ya.” My eyes widen when she undoes the strained button. Blood immediately rushes to my face – and elsewhere; I’m sorry. I’m blushing so hard; my freckles are probably glowing against the red in my cheeks. I should say something, anything, but I got nothing. I just stare unthinkingly. Then I realise where I’m staring and immediately look up to see Bridget smirking. “That’s a good girl,” she says with a wink. “Now, come on, drink up!”