By Jason Sharp.
On the Sea Lion Press Forums, we run a monthly Vignette Challenge. Contributors are invited to write short stories on a specific theme (changed monthly).
The theme for the 47th contest was LGBT Romance.
*****
“It seems early to be drinking,” said the old lady in the lobby, eyeing the eight-pack of Tres Mustangos tucked under Felipe’s arm.
“The outlet was open and I was passing by, Senora,” Felipe explained as he slipped around her.
“Do you live here? I don’t remember seeing you before,” she continued, giving him a once-over and then a twice-over. “You must be military. Too many men your age let their hair grow long. It isn’t right.”
“I am, Senora,” Felipe said, pausing at the base of the stairwell. “On an eight-hour pass from the base and heading up to visit my pal and watch some lucha.”
“Oh,” she said, “lucha. It’s all fake, you know. They aren’t really fighting.”
“It’s telenovela for men, Senora. No more fake than the gunfights in Commandos del Amazonas.”
She grimaced. “That is such a terrible show, young man. So much gunfire, even if they never hit anything.”
“I didn’t say it was a good show, Senora,” Felipe grinned, and gave her an informal salute with his free hand. “You have a nice day.”
She reached out with a wizened hand to pat his forearm. “Thank you for protecting us from those godless Internationale filth, soldier.”
He nodded, letting the error go. No point in wasting time explaining the difference between a soldier and an airman when he had somewhere to be and someone to see.
He could’ve taken the steps two at a time, and while he did want to put some space between the busybody and himself, he didn’t want to agitate the beer. As it was, he reached the first landing, turned to continue up, and saw she’d either gone outside or stepped into the elevator. His nerves throttled back to the usual mild uneasiness he always felt in this building until he exited the stairwell, slunk down the hall, and tapped on Jacinto’s door.
The bolt clicked and the door opened. “Hey, man,” Jacinto greeted him. “Come on in.”
“Sure. I miss anything?” Felipe asked as he stepped inside.
Jacinto closed the door and slide the deadbolt back into place. “Still a couple of minutes to go.” Only then did he turn to place a hand on the back of Felipe’s head and pull him in for a kiss. “You’re late. I was getting worried,” he murmured.
There was nowhere for Felipe to set down the beer, so he settled for wrapping his free arm behind Jacinto’s back and held him for a few moments, savouring his warmth and the smell of his sweat and aftershave. “Long flight, more paper than usual afterward. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Jacinto said, adding a second, quick peck before disengaging and reaching for the beer. “Come on, grab a seat. Hungry?”
“Absolutely,” Felipe agreed.
The television was just rolling the intro for Capital Carnage as he moved into the little sitting room and flopped down on Jacinto’s ratty couch. The United Kingdom’s primary cultural export – so far as he was concerned – was two hours of pre-taped, undubbed wrestling from a dingy arena in London. It’d be followed by two hours of live Lucha de Elite de Gran Colombia – broadcasting from Quito, today, if he remembered correctly. Four quality hours of beer, snacks, catching up, and maybe a little fooling around before he had to get back to the base.
“What happened on your flight?” Jacinto called from the kitchenette behind him.
He twisted his head around. “We got diverted from our usual pattern to look for a fishing boat in distress.”
“Everybody okay?”
“Last I heard, they were. Their motor had crapped out and they were drifting westward. We got a rough fix on their position and flew a pattern until we spotted them, then orbited for…shit, five hours until an Armada corvette arrived.”
“They send the Armada out for that sort of thing?” Jacinto asked, coming in to set plates of store-bought empanadas and stuffed arepas on the table and then disappearing again.
“Normally you’d expect the Guardacosta, but I guess they were closer this time,” Felipe said. “The Pacific’s a big place, you take the help you can get.”
“Makes sense.” Jacinto returned with two cans of Tres Mustangos, handed him one, and cracked the tab on the other before joining him on the couch. “They tow it back?”
“I’m not sure,” Felipe shrugged, opening the can. “We were getting low on fuel and turned back once the corvette reported being eyes-on. It might’ve been as simple as sending over somebody to repair the engine.” He slid over and draped his arm across Jacinto’s shoulder. “How about you? Exciting times at the bank?”
“Eh. There was a hold-up on Tuesday. Just the usual threatening note. The teller followed protocol, hand him a few notes, and he left. No biggie.”
“Better than having a knife or gun pulled, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” Jacinto said. “Also, I’ve been invited to compete for the vacant assistant manager position.”
“Oh. Nice. Are you going for it?”
“Well…I don’t know. There’s a background check involved, and I need to find out more about that. Oh, hey, it’s the Bolton Butcher curtain-jerking tonight.”
“Great, yet another squash to start the show,” Felipe said. “What about the background check is worrying you? Us?”
“Yeah. Us,” Jacinto confirmed.
“Nothing wrong with friends drinking beer and watching lucha,” Felipe said.
“We aren’t just friends.”
Felipe lifted his arm up over Jacinto and reached for an arepa. “The bank doesn’t need to know that. None of their business.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Jacinto said, “And maybe to a point they don’t care. But if they’re looking for ways I could be criminally compromised, they’re going to be asking about hooks for blackmail. Debts, political beliefs, sexuality, and more. I can lie, of course, but what if there’s a polygraph involved?”
“Is there?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t asked. Thought that might seem funny.”
“There anybody you can ask?” Felipe inquired as the crowd on the television popped for the entrance of a nice-looking young guy in black shorts. That kid was so going to die.
“I don’t know. Not at my branch, anyway,” Jacinto sighed. “Honestly, I always thought this would be a problem for you before it was a problem for me.”
“I’ve heard that the security screening is tighter for fighter jocks and bomber crews, but I’m just a guy flying a twenty-year-old maritime patrol plane,” Felipe said. “Don’t think they’re worried about the Internationale trying to honey-trap me for state secrets. Not like I know the details of the stinger or the sonobuoy.”
“This wouldn’t even be an issue if we weren’t illegal.”
“Nothing illegal about watching a fat Englishman in an apron pretending to beat the hell out of a guy half his size,” Felipe observed.
“Stop. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do. Just…I don’t know. Do you actually want this job? Is this even worth worrying about?”
“Pays more. Better benefits. Those are good things, right?” Jacinto asked.
“Sure, of course they are – if the rest of the job is okay. Is it? There anybody in the community you could reach out to? Or find some innocuous way of asking about the screening process?”
Jacinto chugged the last of his beer and belched. “I don’t know. There’s probably somebody.”
“I can ask my sister,” Felipe offered. “She knows people who work in the banks back home. She’s a good bullshitter. She could dig something up, perhaps."
“Your sister knows?”
“Only one in the family who does.”
Jacinto scratched the stubble under his chin. “If you trust her, sure. Competition closes on the fourteenth, so I’ve got a bit of time to decide.”
“I’ll give her a call," Felipe nodded, and reached for the empanadas.
Jason Sharp is an author who, among other works, has written a story in the Sea Lion Press anthology Allo Americana.
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