We start walking without talking about where we’re going.
“What was that called anyway?”
“The Orient Express. And don’t say it’s racist ‘cause it’s not racist.”
“I wasn’t going to say that, geez.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll go on with you.”
“What.”
“The Apocalypse.”
“Ok.”
“You will?”
“Sure,” I say.
“It has no loops,” Clarity says.
“Ok.”
“It’s just an old-school wooden rollercoaster. Is that going to be enough for you?”
“Can we sit in the front car?”
“What is it with you and the front car?”
“We don’t have to ride in the front car.”
“We don’t?”
“No.”
“Will you be able to get all the thrills you are seeking?”
“It’s eight in the fucking morning. I don’t mind starting slow,” I say.
“There’s only one ride I won’t go on,” Clarity says.
“What’s that.”
“The Goliath.”
“Why won’t you go on it?”
“Because it has this insane first drop. It’s like straight but curves around like this and it was the tallest in the world but they just built one in Japan that’s taller.”
“Alright,” I say.
“Alright what,” says Clarity.
“Alright we’ll ride every rollercoaster except Goliath. I’m ok with that.”
“Hahaha. I didn’t say that. All I said is I’ll go on the Apocalypse. If you push your luck I’ll be waiting in the car and you can ride rollercoasters by yourself all day.”
I sigh.
“Where is the Apocalypse?”
“It’s kind of a long way from here.”
“I’ll manage.”
“There’s no people mover. Do you think you can handle it?”
“Lead on, oh charitable one.”
“You are so fucking funny. I bet your workmates think you’re a fucking blast. What do you do, like install computers or something?”
“Is that what Purity told you?”
Clarity nods.
“I write software. For computers. You got your hardware guys and you got your software guys. I’m a software guy. I couldn’t install a printer driver for your mom. It’s a whole different trip. What do you do?”
“I work in a Mexican restaurant. But wait. What’s your trip?”
“My trip is ones and zeroes. Writing human-readable language that gets turned into machine code that tells the computer what to do. So it’s like logic and algorithms and—”
“I get it. Smart people stuff. You’re smart, I get it. You don’t have to tell me twice—”
“I didn’t tell you at all! Most programmers aren’t that smart.”
“Oh, I thought you had to be smart to do that.”
“You do. Most programmers suck ass.”
“Or you have a superiority complex.”
“I don’t, believe me, I hate myself most of the time.”
“But that means you think you’re important,” Clarity says.
“How does it mean that?”
“Even hating yourself means you’re obsessed with the self. You think you’re important enough for you or other people to hate. If you thought less of yourself you wouldn’t even think you were worth hating. It’s all-or-nothing thinking. Haven’t you ever been to an AA meeting?”
“Yes I have. Have you?”
“Yes I have.”
“Well that’s something we have in common.”
“I suppose you’re right, ones-and-zeroes boy. Come on, the Apocalypse is up this way. And I lied.”
“About what.”
“It was an NA meeting I went to,” Clarity says, “not an AA one.”
“So was mine,” I say.
“Get out.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“What drug? No. Don’t tell me. We’ll end up smoking crack in your Nissan SUV all day and forget to pick up Purity.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“What.”
“Not to tell.”
“Deal. No drug talk.”
Clarity stops walking.
“I thought we were going to the Apocalypse.”
“We are. Hold out your hand. There you go. Now shake. You can’t make a deal without a contract or a handshake or something. Now it’s official. No drug talk.”
“Ok.”
“But we can talk about alcohol all we want,” Clarity laughs.
“Tell me about your job?”
“Why? So you can get close to me and get down my pants?”
“No..so we have something meaningless to talk about while we hurl ourselves toward the Apocalypse.”
“You think my job is meaningless ‘cause I’m a waitress while you’re wrangling the ones and zeroes?”
“No I just think all work is meaningless. Jobs anyway. I wish I could work in a restaurant sometimes.”
“Well don’t glorify it if you’ve never done it. It looks easy but it’s not. And you have to work with people you hate, just like in an office job. It’s hard for me to imagine you ever working in a restaurant.”
“I have worked in restaurants,” I say.
“Bullshit.”
“I’ve worked as a dishwasher at Denny’s and two places in Tucson when I was homeless.”
“Yeah, Purity told me you were homeless.”
“That’s how I met Purity. She and Ashley were nice enough to take me in.”
“That must have been rough.”
“Being homeless?”
“No, living with Ashley and Purity. Come on, zero boy, it’s right around here. There’s nothing like the Apocalypse to make you forget your troubles.”