What the Bungalow Brings
By Harlow
Two: Crash into Me
A semi-dark morning greeted Helga as she walked out of the bathroom, yawning and tasting the spearmint over her newly brushed teeth. Stretching exaggeratedly, Helga sighed loud and long. Sitting down on the futon, which also served as the couch, she looked at the television. It had been left on from the night before. The news blared silently, probably waiting to tell her something she didn't want to hear.
The large window of the studio-apartment showed another red brick building a few feet from her apartment that she shared with
Phoebe and Rhonda, mirrored by another large window covered discreetly with awful flower-print curtains. Up past the building, Helga could barely glimpse a grey sliver of sky.
"Rain," Helga remarked to herself dismissively. Didn't matterto her. She'd planned to stay inside all day anyway.
Feeling more comfortable by the second, Helga stretched out on the futon, pulling an Indian-print blanket over her lithe frame, which
was covered in little more than a blue button-up oxford, compliments of Arnold. Her long blonde hair was a mess and could do with a wash, but with the morning came a lack of initiative. The only thing Helga wanted to do right now was chill out, maybe have a smoke.
Getting up with a groan and discarding the blanket, Helga crossed over to the large window to open it a crack. The wind whistled outside—it couldn't have been more than forty degrees—and it bit into Helga's flesh, eliciting unwanted goose bumps, and causing the oxford to flutter around her thighs. Shivering involuntarily, Helga grabbed her pack of cigarettes off the coffee table and lit one lazily,
inhaling long and easy. She leaned against the wall, staring for a moment into the depths of the dark alleyway below and then returning her gaze to the apartment.
Helga had inhabited the place first. Her inevitable road to the top of the GPA ladder in high school had received at least a little
recognition from her parents. Her older sister, Olga, unfortunately,had done far better in college than Helga would have liked. Always in the limelight, Olga had gained most of the praise and, worse still, most of the money from Helga's parents. Already saving up to get through a mere community college, Helga had wanted nothing more than to move out of her house the moment high school ended. Unfettered at the prospect of paying for college, Helga didn't know how she'd pay for an apartment as well until Olga became her ultimate tool.
Because the dorms at Olga's pricy little private school had run a bit steep in the Pataki check book, Helga had suggested to her impressionable father that sharing an apartment with her dearest sister would prove both cheap and practical—killing two birds with one stone, as Big Bob Pataki liked to say to his daughters at least twice a day.
Keen to the idea, Helga's father had consented, putting six months rent on a studio downtown. Unknown to Bob, Olga was, of course, dating another handsome fraud, determined to sweep her off her feet. Helga, the master at convincing anyone of anything, concluded that Olga was in love and she should get married at once. This sort of thing had happened before, and Helga had stupidly backed out, getting rid of Olga's pseudo-suitor because of what she supposed must have been a guilty conscience. But when faced with the prospect of living on her own, and eliminating Olga from her future entirely, Helga just couldn't pass up that opportunity—not again. With stars in her older sister's eyes, and more naïve that Helga could stomach, Olga had eloped with her deadbeat boyfriend.
Two years later, and all Helga had was one postcard. Apparently, the girl was still happy. Helga wondered if it would last.
Since she couldn't very well live by herself (an irrational fear that Helga admitted to little), especially after the six months was up, Helga decided a roommate would be a good idea. Phoebe, also starting college and, craving a little liberation, moved in less than a month after Helga. She already had a small scholarship for college, and more than enough money in the bank. Also a genius with numbers, the girl still managed their checkbook and expenses, keeping them on top of rent.
Rhonda moved in last, which took a lot of convincing for both Phoebe and Helga. Still living up the rich image, Rhonda Wellington
Lloyd couldn't fathom living away from a place where cricket, caviar, and credit cards were available at the snap of her fingers, but Helga and Phoebe realized that money would be much less tight if they had a third income, and Rhonda was the only likely candidate, making a nice little sum at a boutique on Main Street.
What eventually pushed Rhonda to move out at last was her parents' despicable racism against her boyfriend, the city's young and
upcoming African-American golf player, Gerald Johaansen. Before the summer after high school was out, Rhonda had showed up at the girls' apartment with no less than seven bags, a baggie filled with cut-up credit card chips, and a ransom in caviar.
Helga finished her cigarette, wandering into the kitchen with her stomach gnawing. Pouring herself a bowl of sugary cereal, Helga
noticed the note on the fridge while pulling out the milk:
OUT WITH GERALD. BE BACK LATE TONIGHT. –R
Helga smiled to herself, wondering what the unlikely couple were up to. Maybe at a golf tournament. Everyone in Helga's circle of friends marveled to that day at the relationship somehow formed between prissy Rhonda and laid-back Gerald. In high school, Gerald had exhibited an unforeseen, but amazing talent at golf. Helga always joked that he was the next Tiger Woods, except smoother with the words and the ladies. Soon, Gerald was asked to play at an upscale country club that Rhonda and the Lloyds often frequented. With more alone time between them, Rhonda and Gerald had somehow clicked during their time at the club, and began dating during senior year against the Lloyd's bigoted wishes.
"So it's just me today," Helga said aloud, liking the sound of her voice when only she could hear it. Having worked all week at the
Bungalow, Helga was grateful for a day off. It was Sunday morning, and for some reason Phoebe still wasn't home. She said things were over between her and Lorenzo, but Helga couldn't picture it. Plus, if she wasn't home by now, surely she'd spent the night at his loft down on Fifth Street. Helga smirked in satisfaction. The two of them breaking up was ridiculous, and Helga quickly pushed the idea into the back recesses of her mind.
Finishing her cereal, Helga briefly contemplated taking a quick mid-morning nap and then doing some kickboxing at the gym. She was still a bit tired. After work last night, she'd gone over to the boys' apartment, which was just down the hall from their own, a regular bachelor pad shared by Arnold, Gerald, and Sid—minus the bachelor part. Arnold had actually been at work, which was something of a relief to Helga. Being around him too much was starting to get to her. Part of her wanted to break up, but he wouldn't listen. He never did when it came to matters like that. Instead, Helga had played darts and cards with Gerald and Sid—drinking beer and wasting time, not admitting that she didn't want to go home to an empty, dark apartment.
Finally, Rhonda had shown up and the girls headed home to catch some sleep. Now she was all alone and ready for a well-needed nap.
Yawning at the prospect, Helga was about to retreat to the futon when a knock on the door stopped her short, her face nearly colliding with the wooden floor thanks to the stockings on her feet.
She knew the knock from anywhere.
"Whaddaya want, geek-bait?" Helga called from her side of the door, leaning languidly against its frame. "You almost made me break my lumbago over here."
Arnold said nothing from the other side, just knocked again.
"Oh ho, the silent treatment, eh?" Helga replied to his second knock, smirking. She unlocked the door and started to open it slowly
while saying, "You'll talk eventually. As soon as I get my hands on you, I'll—" but Helga was unable to say exactly what she would do to Arnold because as soon as the door was open, a set of lips were pressed firmly against her own, the door thrown open with careless regard. Two strong arms wrapped around her small waist, and a body pushed robustly against hers. Arnold's.
Well, well. What a surprise.
With as much grace as a bull elephant, but no less effective, Arnold kicked the door closed and continued kissing Helga fervently. Helga, in turn, responded immediately, her lips parting and her tongue darting out in search of his.
Grazing ears with teeth. Feverish sighs. Biting lips. Fumbling hands.
The two seemed to dance in a mad, off-balance fashion with Arnold in the lead, still pressing his body against hers, heat emanating off one another as he pushed Helga towards what she'd guess was the kitchen judging by the cold tile suddenly seeping through the thin material of her patterned thigh-highs. Swiftly, Arnold grabbed Helga by her hips and lifted her onto the countertop, knocking over the box of cereal in the process. Sugarcoated Os scattered all across the tile, sounding to Helga like a short, wild rain shower.
In sporadic bursts, Helga kissed Arnold all over his face, his neck, his chest—running her hands through his silky blonde hair while he undid the pearl snap buttons of his shirt—or rather, his shirt that occupied Helga—exposing her small, pert breasts. He massaged them eagerly with one hand while the other traveled down south spreading Helga's legs, which she wrapped agreeably around Arnold's waist.
Pants undone, zipper down. Arnold continued kissing Helga ardently as he grabbed her behind firmly and entered her fast and hard. The two rocked against the countertop, shaking the wall behind them, causing the pots and pans in the cupboard below to clink against one another in a violent clamor.
Some minutes later, the two collapsed against each other, absolutely spent and breathing like they'd been under water for far too long.
Chuckling, Arnold zipped up his pants, grabbing Helga's face between his hands and looking into her hazel eyes, his own so blue like cerulean waters under clear skies.
"Good morning to you too, darling," Helga greeted him through gasps of breath, pulling the blue oxford up around her shoulders and blinking rapidly in dazed surprise.
"Sorry, some things just can't wait," Arnold replied with that easy grin of his, eyes half-lidded like two calm fishbowls. Somehow, his breathing wasn't nearly as laborious. He kissed Helga on her brow and pushed off from the counter, standing up straight at an even six foot. Running a careless hand through his shaggy blonde hair, he studied Helga while she hopped off the counter, bits of cereal crunching beneath her stockinged feet. She buttoned the shirt back up, her own blonde hair contrasting brilliantly to the blue of the fabric.
Young adulthood served Arnold well. He'd kept his lanky form, filling out just enough to glimpse a smooth ripple of muscles beneath his jean jacket. The football shape of his head still remained, but wasn't as prominent, giving his face just enough attractive character, just enough sex appeal. The kind that drove Helga crazy.
"Thanks for the energy boost, Football Head," she purred, punching him playfully in the ribs and flouncing off to her room to get dressed. So much for a nap.
"I heard about Lorenzo and Phoebe," Arnold called from the kitchen as Helga pulled a shirt over her head followed by a maroon sweater that read FAIRVIEW COMMUNITY COLLEGE. She could hear him rummaging through the cupboards, then the fridge.
"Oh yeah?" she replied, using the small mirror above her dresser to rack a comb through her unkempt hair and quickly pluck a few stray eyebrow hairs, abolishing any notion of what was once a unibrow.
"Yeah, he told me about it in American Lit. He was really bummed out."
Confused, Helga walked out of her bedroom and stood in the kitchen. "Bummed out? I thought they made up last night."
Arnold shook his head slowly, popping the tab off a diet cola and taking a long swig. "No way. Lorenzo said Phoebe just stopped by his place, ended things in about three words, and then took off. Didn't say where. Wouldn't tell him." Arnold shrugged, taking another drink.
"Dammit," Helga cursed, her voice already edging an octave higher as worry settled thick over mind. "Arnold, Phoebe never came home last night. Where the hell could she be?"
Arnold raised his eyebrows in surprise; this was obviously news to him. "You got me." Seeing the anxiety in Helga's eyes, Arnold stepped closer to her, taking her hand. "Don't worry, Helga. I'm sure Pheebs is fine even though this is a little weird coming from her. She probably went over to Sheena's or something."
Helga nodded, but her thoughts were not thoroughly eased.
Arnold cupped Helga's chin, tipping it up and giving her a soft kiss on the lips. She responded, but not as warmly as usual. Helga was abruptly reminded of her situation with Arnold, of how he'd just come over for a few minutes of heaven, how that's just about all they did these days.
"I suppose this would be a bad time to talk about us?" Helga asked hopefully as she drew away from the kiss. Her cheeks still felt heated and flushed from their countertop rendezvous. She'd tried many tactics to bring this up, to end things somehow. When was the last time he'd caused a flush in her cheeks that wasn't credited to sex? Helga honestly couldn't remember.
With amazing speed and alacrity, Arnold was suddenly at the door, looking down at his watch. "What's there to talk about?" Typical Football Head response. "Look, I've got an afternoon class to catch, but meet me up at Greenwich Park later this evening. Gerald's having a small match, and he swears he'll lynch us all if we don't go. Later, Helga." And with a flash of teeth and a click of the door, he was gone.
Thwarted once again out of her plans to break-up with the supposed love of her life, Helga picked up the phone and began dialing Phoebe's cellphone number, ideas of infidelity and adventure racing back again, back again across her mind.