The slow burn of a stove top on low warms the bottom of the stainless steel six quart pot. The smell and sounds of sizzling warming oil fill the room. A single popcorn kernel is dropped in and it immediately implodes, turning itself inside out revealing its white fluffy insides. A stainless steel measuring cup, filled to the brim, is emptied into the sizzling oil. A lid is placed over top and the metered sounds of popping begin and end within the span of half a minute.
Jamish turns off the stove and scoops out a hefty portion. He ladles clarified butter and shakes some salt over top. Diego, drizzles melted white chocolate and tops it with bitter chocolate shavings. They retreat to the den, each taking a seat in their favorite cushioned chair. Jamish immediately dives into the bowl of hot, buttery, salty treats, taking a handful and sloppily stuffing his face. Diego, contemplatively and meticulously searches the bowl to find the perfect popped kernel to start his snacking.
Shifting his gaze to his friend, currently lost in thought, staring into his bowl, Jamish calls out, “Hey, Diego. Remember that cocoa you got the other day? You said it was a long story.”
Yeah, it is. Gimme a second, I'm trying to find the best first kernel. I don't know why still, but I can't start on a bowl of popcorn without finding that perfect first.
“Have you always done that? I don't think I've ever noticed.”
Yeah. Started as a kid. Maybe because Tabi always gave me and Tomas the shittier versions of whatever treats we were meant to share. I would try to find the best looking one and rub it in her face that I get the better selection, even though she served us the 'seconds.'
“Ha. For real? That was a thing? How competitive were you guys?”
Super. Like, physically super competitive. We'd wrestle over who got to use the remote. We'd fight over who got to sit in the recliner when my dad wasn't home. Who got served food first. Who got to open their presents first.
“God. Who would win?”
She did. Every. Time. It was annoying.
“Was it you all of you? Did you ever beat up Tomas? Why haven't I ever asked you about this?”
Long searching the bowl, gently moving kernels about so as not to disrupt the integrity of the light and fluffy treat. His diligent fingers found nestled snugly at the bottom of the bowl the perfect one. Retrieving it, he gives it a quick toss straight up. Tilting his head back, he expertly catches it neatly on his tongue, pulling it back quickly into his mouth. I dunno. I guess it just didn't come up. Never really took it out on Tomas. He just didn't care. He took whatever scraps we gave him and went about his way. I guess seeing me fight so hard with Tabi, he just didn't want any part of that. Seems I brought it with me to adulthood. I do always try to find the best aspect of the situation I find myself in.
“Yeah, I guess. Can't say I've been keeping tabs.”
Anyway. So about the other day.
“Yeah. Thanks again for coming out. Made it less awkward, though I still don't know if it was meant to be a date or just hanging out or what.”
Ask her. Like, be more clear.
“I dunno, man. I don't know if I am ready to hear her say 'no.'”
Wow, dude, that's really self-aware. Well, anyway, the cocoa. Look, man first thing's first: I'm trusting you. Like, I'm really really trusting you. If you tell anyone about this, I could die or get imprisoned or develop an arch nemesis. This could end very badly for me.
Suspicious, Jamish peers intently into Diego's light brown eyes. Unsure if he is being led along a day dream, a story, a prank or even one of Diego's wild “fantasy possible 'What If's,” he interrupts, “nemesis? Really? Is this a pitch for another one of your stories?”
No! Absolutely not, this is for real. Like, for real for real.
“OK, OK, what is it?”
Pausing for a moment, sifting through all the words and thoughts flooding the forefront of his mind, he struggles to find the best words to describe his plight. His affliction, as he had warmly referred to it when he lay in bed recounting the days.
I can do something I shouldn't be able to do. Like, nobody should be able to do this. Look, I'm not a freak or anything. I can just do something.
“Well, you're really good at stalling. Just get to it man. Say, how about we just play some Street Fighter. That might help you calm your nerves.”
Actually, yeah, that sounds like a great idea. I haven't whooped your ass in a while. It'll be nice to get back to normalcy after the last couple weeks.
“Um, are you on drugs? You never beat me at Street Fighter. Like, never.”
Dude, am I on drugs? Are you mental? What about that “Dorm Fighter's Tourney” from sophomore year? I won that and I beat you in the semis.
“Never happened. I didn't even join that tournament. It wouldn't have been fair.”
Fair?!?! What? No. Don't even. Start it up, dick head. Let's go.
Laughing, “Look man, I was gonna take it easy on you, but if you're gonna be rude, here you go, my dude.”
Whatever, let's get it.
Hours pass. Fight after fight, the growing frustration in Diego's heart rises exponentially with every defeat. Jamish, calculated and deadly pulls no punches, sparing zero of Diego's increasingly damaged ego. The furious tapping and clicking gives way to the swearing, which initially started under the breath, but has now evolved to loud and breathy chanting. “Fuuuuuck, youuuuu” in 100 bpm 4/4 time is the song on the lips of those that fail to bring to justice Jamish and his tyranny.
“Alright man. You see why it wouldn't have been fair?”
When did you get this good? I don't remember ever losing like this.
“We don't play much. You beat me at other games, sure, but never Street Fighter. Dude, I was pro in college. You don't remember? I went to so many tourneys and came back either champ or top 4.”
Oh man. I guess I just blocked all that out. Pain from losing and all that.
“I'm sorry if this hasn't helped. I guess I let my ego take over and I beat you down instead of trying to get you to a place where you could share more comfortably. I'm sorry.”
Thanks man, that's really enlightened of you. Anyway, I think this helped because I can do something way better than win at a video game, even though losing like I just did is very fucking frustrating. I can teleport.
Caught off guard with the sincerity in Diego's voice, Jamish leans back in his chair. Stuffing a handful of popcorn in his mouth, he says through the chewing, “Go on. What do you mean, 'teleport?'”
I can teleport. Like, I can go anywhere I can see or have been. Well, I don't know if I can just show up some place I haven't been yet. I'm too scare to try.
“I don't believe you, obviously. Prove it.”
Sure. What's something you can't get here or anywhere around here? What do you want me to pick up? I'll even use my card so I can generate a receipt and a bank transaction. You can just Electapay me for it later.
“Um. OK. I guess.”
No, for real. Just tell me what you want, I'll go pick it up.
“Fine. There's a pastrami place in Manhattan that I had when I was a kid. Do you have like $30 in your account? I'll take a hot pastrami sandwich and a fruit pie.”
What, Katz? Easy. I'll be right back. Well, in like 20, 25 minutes.
In the blink of an eye, Diego was gone. Startled and intrigued, Jamish begins searching the apartment, in case it was an illusion. Checking behind the furniture he finds nothing. He then tries to recall any sort of flash or distraction that took him off guard enough for Diego to escape some place. Skeptical at first, he escalates to a frantic and feverish pace. Checking under his bed, again he finds nothing, in his own closet, nothing. The shower, the kitchen, the back porch, Diego's room, also there is nothing. “You got me. Hah hah. Really funny. You can come out now.”
Pulling out his phone, he texts Diego,
alrite fucko. you got me. where'd you go?
Can't talk. In the lines here at Katz and have to pay attention.
real funny. pics or it didn't happen.
Diego responds with a photograph of the iconic deli. There is a smattering of people sitting comfortably in their seats at the closely placed tables. You see paper hats atop busied workers behind the counter. There is an old man standing at the counter in a blue sweater and brown pants paying for his meal. The neon sign for coffee, cappuccino and espresso is brightly lit on the back wall. The circular white signs admonishing you to “Send a salami to your boy in the army” is fastened to the yellowed ceiling tiles. In the bottom right corner is a portion of Diego's face with his eyebrow raised.
“how old is this?”
I dunno, like what, five seconds?
“bullshit. dont lie”
Just wait, man. I'll be home soon. You'll see. I'm like 3 back.
Impatiently waiting, Jamish sets the popcorn aside to stop him from nervously finishing off his portion. Becoming more frustrated with the happenings of the day, he attempts to calm himself by playing Street Fighter online. Distraction belies his abilities and he lets out a guttural shout in ire. Regaining his composure, he calms himself and lets instinct take over, blocking, parrying, counter attacking and comboing his way to a significant win streak. Justified he kicks his feet up and leans back, relaxing. Just as he settles in, he hears a ping on his phone.
There is a new message from Diego. A picture of a receipt showing the day, the time and the last four digits of his credit card number and a listing of one pastrami sandwich.
“WTF that's from today”
Duh. Open up.
“huh?”
There is a knock on the front door. Jamish opens to a triumphant Diego standing with a small paper bag, armed with the scent of hot peppered deli meat, mustard, rye bread and a fruit pie to boot. Mouth agape, Jamish retrieves the bag from Diego's hand.
“How? What the actual fuck, man?”
I don't know, Jota. It was a few days ago I figured this out.
“Wait, 'Hota?'”
Yeah, like J in Spanish. Jota.
“Oh. You've never called me that.”
Yeah, I don't know why I just did. It felt right.
“No. Jamish is already a nickname. I'm not looking for a nickname of a nickname. How did you figure it out?”
I was at the bakery. I was standing behind the counter staring at the front door and I kept repeating “Door” to myself over and over and over and then eventually the room got dark for like an instant and when it was lit again, I said “door” one last time and poof, I was there at the front door. It was amazing. I've been trying to figure it out ever since.
“That actually makes a lot of sense. I can't even tell you how many times I heard something in the apartment but there was nothing there. I thought for sure the place was haunted. I'd call your name, but nothing. Sometimes things would be moved, sometimes I'd smell things and then they'd disappear. Sometimes the toilet would flush out of nowhere.”
Sorry. Yeah, that was probably all me. I can go like, anywhere. I've been to Fiji, France, I made my way to Poland, I was in the Gulf of Mexico, Florida.
“Ooh, Florida. Exotic.”
Shut up. You know what I mean.
“Yeah, you're an adventurer and you've seen the likes of Flow-reed-uh!”
Laughing, Diego plops harshly onto the couch. The weight of his solitude is being lifted. No longer feeling alone and frustrated, he begins to think of ways to explain his adventures. Looking up hopefully at Jamish, who has begun in earnest to delve into the pastrami treat, his lips begin to quiver as his fight against breaking down is lost. He exhales forcefully and tears begin to stream down his face. Covering his face with his hands he weeps aloud.
Jamish with a mouth full of hot pastrami looks on as Diego sheds the weight of the knowledge of his ability and the solitude of its use. He reaches out and places his hand on Diego's shoulder. Through the bite of food he lets out a soft reassurance, “Go ahead man, but you're not alone anymore. I know now. You can talk to me about it. I'll walk with you. Well, I'll walk, you'll just show up places.”
Through the snot and tears Diego lets out a giggle. Wiping away his worries, he looks up, cheerfully saying, thanks.