Chapter 86c: Half a Base Is Belong To Him (3 September 2003, at the town hall)
'There are so many openings.'
That is my first thought as I look through the big book the municipal workers gave to me. Sure, it is thick, but that could just have been because of the foil the print-outs have been slipped into.
Apparently everybody needs volunteers these days.
I glance up to look at the worker who gave me the book, but they must see people like me all the time. And by that I don't mean criminals, nor do-gooders who are eager for praise, but rather the typical example of disinterested youth being forced into considering it by the adults in their life.
Well, who cares. Had it been the deadbeat who suggested it, I'd have told him to go go fuck himself. Or ignored him, depending on whatever is most convenient at the time.
I slouch down in one of the chairs and start to page through the book, but I catch myself not paying too much attention to what I am looking at.
The reason is pretty obvious, honestly. But learning Japanese from the guy is already disgusting me upto here, and to think of him in anything related to that? Fuck no. I've sworn off that father figure of his looooong ago.
And Tovi's been plain unreasonable during our spars in the last month or two. I've been bowing as he showed me, right? I've been polite, treated him with respect, and more of those boring rituals. While he seemed to warm up and relax a bit initially, as of late he's just been back to being double the hard-ass that intends to ruin my every hour spent with him.
That makes me wonder: would dragging Setsuka along get him to lighten up on his beatings, but if he doesn't, won't I just look like an idiot to her? She's been growing up so quickly, and it has been tearing us apart bit by bit. An argument here, a barbed retort there… what happened to the little sister who would always agree with me? If she sees me getting slapped around by Tovi, would I not be hurrying along the current trend where she's been slipping away from me?
Hmm… Manual labor to assist the less able? That sounds reasona… wait, gardening? No way in hell. Sitting out in the pouring rain to mow a lawn? Baking in the heat to scrape weed out between the cracks of bricks? No thanks.
I fold to the next page while mentally ridiculing the idiots that would do that sort of thing without being paid for it. Idiots. If you are going to give away time and sweat, you at least do it in comfort. That's common sense.
The more I read through these pages of volunteering positions, the more I realize how much we depend on people doing things for no reason but to feel happy.
Going around and begging for people to donate money?
Holding fairs for social outreach?
Maintaining equipment to support whatever neighborhood activity?
Why do people who do so many - apparently important - things, go without any kind of cost-compensation? It's plain baffling if you think about it.
I am tempted to inquire with Zoe when I see her tonight, but I feel she will either laugh at me thinking it a joke, or be very disappointed which will no doubt cause the old goat to bleat in his typical, attention-deprived manner.
She was the one to suggest I look into volunteer work. Leave it to a bobby to notice how much our respective gears began to grind again the moment school started back up. Eagle eyes. Or is it a hounds nose?
Either way, being out of the house more suits me fine. I never wanted to be cooped up with him, but the more reasons to be out of the house and away from him, the better.
It is a pretty sad fact he and I both acclimatized to a more relaxed environment due to all the time Setsuka spent over during the summer, yet even more sad that neither of us is quite ready to exchange the first blow and return to the territory we are familiar with.
Is it the effect a woman has on ones home? To provide a peaceful shelter? Or is it just Setsuka being the natural pacifier that she's always been to the Heel family?
Without realizing, I find that I already reached the end of the book, yet… I don't remember anything I saw beyond that stupid gardening nonsense. I flip it over, and start to leaf through it from the very beginning.
If nothing else, sitting here wasting time is also a way to stay out of the house.
Zoe was never quite the pacifier back when she spent a lot of time over. But despite the breasts and butt, the more I got to know her, the less of a woman she became. She's more like… the third gender. Gender neutral?
Nah. More specifically: a police officer.
A woman her age, you ought to see cleavage at least once, right? Or a dress, or perhaps bra straps. Not her: there is very little skin to see, and no matter how pretty the face and shapely the body, my biology doesn't respond to her. She'll be a copper forever, I think.
But it might just be his type. 'Proper' women. Mom was devout and faithful to a fault, and while Zoe doesn't seem particularly bothered about religious things, she is totally his type.
Or maybe it is because she is his type.
An angry act of flipping the page accompanies my disgruntled exclamation of 'Fucking hell.' which gets me a frown from that worker from earlier. Whatever, not important. What matters is that my mind is in the gutter, thinking so much about that assholes love life.
Do I need to really go there? Do I?
Fine. Fucking fine. I'll admit it: I'm jealous of my fucking old man's skills. Stuck in a fucking wheelchair, and he just hits it off with the women.
And then there's me, the fucking apple that I hope fell really far from the fucking tree.
Well… It did. It definitely did.
Jenny is not that much older. We've got a lot in common.
We both have a younger sister. The same one, in fact.
But we're not related.
She's also got the sort of fashion sense that is everything that the waste-on-wheels dislikes.
And he dislikes me, too. Just one more thing to have in common.
As I lean back and close my eyes, I see her in front of me again. That specific moment in time. Our little drinking game.
That sparkle in her eyes. The way she confidently cocks her head. Playing with her hair to distract me as we talk.
She knows exactly how I feel.
And she wanted to see just how far I would go.
We counted down. And I began to make my move.
I could feel my pulse pounding in my head.
The fight to not give in and run like a sissy just because she was calling my bluff.
The fear of making a fool of myself in front of her.
The breathlessness of flirtation and the thrill of the moment.
There was surprise on her face, but also… interest. Definite interest.
It is what pushed me on. I did my best to keep eye contact, just as Miss Meadows instructed in one of my first lessons.
Eye contact matters. It sells the act.
But even as my shirt was unbuttoned, the time was ticking away.
The plump raspberry at the reception desk was also looking over; it is what stopped me from doing what I wanted to do next.
After all, Jenny might not blush from seeing a pair of abs, but surely she would flush over if my hand began to trail over my hips and growing bulge, right?
But going to jail for sexual harassment? Indecent exposure? The saner voice in me prevailed, and I stopped myself with about thirty seconds left on the clock.
My disappointment must have been clear for her to see.
My sure-to-win move defeated.
And then I screwed up. I should have stopped there, and admitted the loss.
But I wanted to win. I wanted to see her squirm.
So I opened up my wallet, opened it and tossed it to her.
God. That expression on her face.
She's so damn cute.