Mikasa
Eren has a routine. It starts with him blatantly flouting our rule about wearing a shirt in all public spaces. He's learned that this is a tried-and-tested tactic for snaring my attention. It doesn't matter if I round on him, calling out, "Jar!" to charge him a dollar. He just throws a couple of coins in, and he goes back to what he's doing—reviewing his notes, watching TV, or flipping through his phone. It's like he's putting on a show, and the way the corner of his lips curve upwards, just slightly, tells me that he's well-aware that he's being observed. He enjoys the attention. He soaks in the forbidden glances in his direction.
When he's bored of dragging on these stretches of wordless torment, he gives me an impish smile. As always, eye-contact lights the match. And we relapse.
But this time, he crosses his legs across the coffee table, leaning back on the couch with his arms above his head. "Levi cleaning a toilet," he says. And I'm whisked back to my suburban Jersey home, mortified by the sight of my uncle dunking a toilet seat into our kitchen sink.
Normal human beings clean a toilet in four steps. First, we dribble some disinfectant into the bowl, and with a toilet brush, we scrub in circles until all stains have been removed. Next is the seat. We give it a good spray-down, following with a rag. For the hard-to-get spots, an old toothbrush will do nicely. With a second rag, we wipe down the body until there's a shine, and we call it a day after flushing.
Levi, on the other hand, first dons his full cleaning regalia: bandana tied around his forehead, handkerchief secured over his mouth, dishwashing gloves pulled over his fingers, and the pockets of his Bed Bath & Beyond apron stuffed full with sponges, dusters, extra gloves, and a whole arsenal of supplies that would send mold and mildew running for the hills. He insists on fully removing the toilet seat and lid, washing them separately in the sink. He wants to hose down all surfaces with a full blast of water, and he applies three layers of disinfectant washes, which consist of two store-bought brands and a third of his own creation (it's a ghastly cocktail of vodka, Clorox, lemon juice, and a secret ingredient he won't tell me). I constantly remind him that we also wash dishes in that sink. Levi just tells me not to worry about it, and he attacks the toilet seat with a squirt of his moonshine cleaning agent.
Strangely enough, this vivid imagery is greatly effective in dismantling my sex drive.
Eren starts cracking up. "You should see your face," he snickers. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"I'm so turned off," I remark in awe, putting down my book and highlighter. "Let me try: Zeke. Poison ivy. Dripping, bulging pustules. Rashes all up in there."
It's Eren's turn to grimace. "Chill out, will ya? You didn't need to go all 'writer' on me and include all that gross, descriptive crap."
If we ignore Eren's $1 for failing to put on a shirt, this would mark the very first day in which neither of us fed the Jar once. He goes back to his studying, and I return to annotating my book.
Last week, I was marathoning job interviews, running from one newsroom to the next, rewearing the same blazer and pencil skirt. And finally, I have a steady stream of income flowing in from my teaching assistant job, as well as a position as a contributor at a small magazine. It's by no means the New York Times or the New Yorker, but at least now I have a consistent editor: an older man called Dot Pixis. Pixis lights cigarettes inside his office, cracking open a window to let the smoke out. He calls me "dear," and he thinks that my past articles have been a "joy" to read. I went to a company happy hour, where I talked with Rico Brzenska, one of the other staff writers, and she gave me some pointers on how to pitch stories to Pixis.
Once a week, I lead a discussion section for undergrads in the 20th century American literature class that I'm TA-ing, and after class, I hold "office hours" in a nearby cafe. It's still early in the semester (i.e. no looming deadlines just yet), so few students show up, except for this one freshman named Gabi. Rambling on and on about her reflections on this week's readings, she's clearly trying to score brownie points, an investment that she thinks will pay off when I grade her midterm paper.
I have a graduate seminar for a couple of hours, where we do deep-dives into readings, followed by a weekly meeting with my MFA advisor, Professor Erwin Smith. Erwin is a fickle critic, but he patiently walks me through his reasoning. We end up spending hours dissecting the choices I make in my writing. He asks me about Levi. Apparently, they've crossed paths multiple times in the past, being competitors for the same literary awards.
There's one girl in my seminar who rubs me the wrong way. She mainly wears hoodies, and she only contributes to the discussion when Erwin points out that she hasn't made a single peep. Her name is Annie Leonhart. She never says "thanks" when I hold the door open for her, and she gives me an icy glare whenever I exit my meeting with Erwin, which usually bleeds into the time she has scheduled with him.
She mutters something under her breath one day, when we're filing out of the classroom. As we were packing up our pens and notebooks, Erwin had told me that he "thoroughly enjoyed" the draft of my story and looked forward to discussing it during our meeting.
"Is there something you'd like to say to me?" I ask in an even tone, keeping pace with Annie as we walk out of the academic building and onto the university campus.
She stops under the shade of a tree. She has her hands shoved into the pocket of her hoodie, staring me down coolly. "Screw it, I'll bite," she says. "I do have something I'd like to say, actually."
"Then, say it."
"Wouldn't it be nice if we all had the last name, 'Ackerman'?" she remarks.
"Are you implying that I get special treatment?"
"I'm not implying," Annie says. "I'm stating that as a fact."
"I put in the hours," I reply. "And I guess they're being recognized."
"The same goes for your uncle," she says dismissively, "when he gave Erwin a couple nudges here and there."
"Levi never schmoozed around to get me accepted here, if that's what you're saying."
Annie has a response locked and loaded, but we're interrupted by footsteps shuffling towards us.
It's Bertholdt Hoover, a guy whose meek personality struggles to hold up his towering figure. He speaks nervously in class, as if he wants to get his contribution over with. "H-hi," he stammers, fidgeting with the strap of his wristwatch. "Annie, I… I'm ready whenever you are! And uh, hey, Mikasa! We're going to, um, get some coffee if you'd like to join."
And then something incredible happens. Annie's standoffish attitude suddenly vaporizes into a puddle. I'm no longer her opponent, but rather, a much-needed ally. Her eyes burn into mine, and she's nodding her head desperately, silently begging me to come along, to not ditch her with Bertholdt, who stands across from us, red as a fire engine, on the verge of pissing himself.
I decide to stick it to Annie. Consider it revenge for the unsolicited accusations. "I'd hate to intrude," I say, letting out a fake laugh.
"Don't worry about it, you won't be!" Annie grits out through clenched teeth.
"I gotta pick up some dry-cleaning. You two have fun," I say, feeling a rush of satisfaction when Annie visibly wilts. I can feel her eyes glaring lasers into the small of my back as I depart for home.
I haven't had a rematch with the subway yet, since work and class are within a thirty minute walk from the apartment. Taking the train would cut my commute time in half, but that would depend largely on navigating the MTA system correctly. Any mishap would likely do the opposite, doubling my commute time, so I've been playing it safe, going everywhere by foot.
And frankly, I don't mind walking. I take note of the street signs, block by block, slowly constructing a mental map of the neighborhood. When I'm in no rush to head home, I wind through parks. I weave in and out of curious little stores, window-shopping. I pause to appreciate a sidewalk performance or decipher the meaning of a piece of graffiti art. I make a detour down Canal Street, where shopkeepers holler Cantonese or Mandarin at me, mistaking me for Chinese.
The big screen gets a lot of things wrong about this city. The movies always depict New Yorkers sipping coffee out of dainty, blue Anthora cups, but I haven't seen a single one of these since arriving. The sitcoms greatly underplay how noisy roads can get with honking cabs, screaming ambulances, and groaning trash trucks. And job opportunities unfortunately don't materialize out of nowhere, served to you on a silver platter. But beneath the inaccuracies and romanticized imagery, these on-screen portrayals do hold a kernel of truth: New York City is certainly relentless, but it's also remarkably colorful.
"Whaaatcha up to?"
I look up from dabbing concealer under my eyes, and Eren is hovering by my doorway, yawning. He looks like he's just woken up from a much-needed afternoon nap. It's fair to say that he's been the main beneficiary from our new sexual tension control strategy, especially this past week.
He had his emergency medicine rotation, and for several days in a row, the paramedics rolled in critical cases within the last thirty minutes of his shifts—which means that he's had to stay overtime working cardiac arrests. After wolfing down his dinners in no time flat, he's been going right into studying, but not before throwing back a cup of coffee. Multiple times, I've gotten up late at night to use the bathroom or grab a glass of water, only to find him passed out on the couch, snoring under his textbooks.
"You've resurrected," I comment.
"It feels weird to be lucid again," he says. "The past four days have been like a fever dream."
"I don't know how you med students do this to yourselves." I test out an old eyeliner against my palm before running the tip along my lash line. "I'm guessing emergency medicine's not for you? Shit—" I mess up the wing at the corner of my eye. "Hey," I say, twisting around. "Can you get me a Q-tip from the bathroom, please?"
"A Q-tip?" Eren blinks at me, dumbfounded. "What's that?"
For some reason, this makes me snort with laughter. I bend over in my chair, bursting into a fit of giggles, while Eren stands there, looking more and more perplexed.
"I'm not particularly well-versed in cosmetics and make-up, F.Y.I.," he mutters irritably. He's about to leave when I calm myself down.
"Wait, Eren," I say. "Bathroom cabinet, third shelf, on the right. There's a box of these little sticks with cotton on the ends."
Within a minute, he's back with a Q-tip in hand, and I take it from him, dipping one end into make-up remover to salvage my failed attempt at eyeliner.
"To answer your question, nah," he says, plopping down on my bed. "The emergency room's my calling. Don't get me wrong, it totally kicks my ass, but I fucking love it."
"What about it is so appealing to you?" I ask. The eyeliner cooperates the second time around. Now, the question is whether I can mirror this on the other eye.
"The speed," Eren says, staring up at the revolving ceiling fan. "There's no down time, and it keeps you on your toes. I could never work in any of those specialties where you're holed up in an office all day with your degrees hanging from the wall. The ER's loads more exciting because it's not like your calendar's filled with appointments made months in advance. You walk into work, and you have absolutely no clue what you're gonna get."
"Did you plagiarize that from a Grey's Anatomy episode?"
"Fuck no, this is all the intellectual property of Eren Jaeger, all rights reserved."
"I imagine you'd have to make so many high-stakes decisions."
He shrugs. "Hopefully, it'll become second-nature after four years of med school and too many years of residency."
"Are you gonna go out tonight?" I ask. "To unwind a bit before Monday rolls around again? Also, quick question: does my eyeliner look even on both sides?"
He gapes at me. "How am I supposed to know?"
"Um, by looking? And by using your best judgment? It's not rocket science."
"It looks fine to me."
"No, it's crooked," I grumble, squinting at my reflection in the small stand-up mirror on my desk.
"Why did you even bother asking then?" he huffs. "As for going out, I don't know. I was supposed to get beers with my college buddies, but Connie's feeling under the weather, and Armin got called into the office at the last minute for work. On a Friday night too! Isn't that batshit insane?"
"The ACLU does not kid around," I remark. "Makes sense, since they're doing important work."
"Yeah, so I might be nice to my circadian rhythm and have a night in," Eren says. "My mom misses me, and I'm gonna go see her tomorrow morning, so it's probably not the best idea to get sloshed anyways. Where are you headed?"
"So my old roommate Sasha is a stand-up comedian," I say, reaching for my eyelash curler. "She's got a show, and I'm gonna go for moral support."
"Is she funny?"
"When she's not on stage, absolutely."
Eren tips his head to the side, puzzled. It's a recurring mannerism of his, and he does it when he's figuring out a diagram in his textbooks. It never fails to remind me of a labrador Levi and I once cared for. "But…" he says, trying to process the information. "Wouldn't that work against her favor, since she's a stand-up comedian?"
"She's hilarious off-the-record. She could probably give SNL a run for its money, only she freezes up under the limelight. She's got stage fright," I explain. "Which is why I have to hoot and holler at every single one of her jokes. Actually, Eren," I say, pointing my mascara brush at him, "if you have second thoughts on staying in, you should come with. I'm sure you'll have no problem being an obnoxious audience member."
He scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Why do you sound so offended? All I'm saying is that we can put your boisterous personality to good use tonight."
"I'm exhausted, though," he complains.
But in thirty minutes, we're locking the door behind us before stepping into the evening Manhattan streets. Eren has thrown on a shirt and slacks and spritzed on a bit of cologne—all of which took less than three minutes. I bite back my jealousy towards how effortless it is for him to get ready.
"Where are you going?" he asks. He's stopped in front of a subway station, while I'm ten paces past it.
"I was thinking about walking," I say hurriedly. "It's a nice evening."
"It's humid, overcast, and almost a hundred degrees out," Eren retorts.
"I always walk, though."
"Why? We live right next to the train." And then he cracks a smile. "Wait, don't tell me… Could it be that Mikasa-fucking-Ackerman doesn't know how to—"
"Of course I know how to ride the train!" I say, but I'm stumbling over my words.
"Do you even own a MetroCard?"
"Yes, but I don't have it on me! So we should walk!"
"But you have your bag on you."
"Yeah… so?"
And he starts reeling over, cracking up. "Mikasa, are you fucking with me right now?" he says, sputtering with laughter. "You are a resident of New York City. And you don't carry your MetroCard on you at all times?"
"Okay, fine. You caught me red-handed," I mutter, swinging my crossbody purse at him, but he catches it deftly, grinning.
"I mean, to be fair, it's confusing. Intimidating, even," he concedes. "I've gotten off at wrong stops before. Oh, and there's the classic trap of taking the express train by accident."
"Really?" I say, feeling a little relieved.
"Yeah, of course. All the time," he says kindly. But then he pulls the punch: "When I was six years old."
Nimbly, he dodges my foot.
"Seriously, though," Eren says, nodding his head towards the subway sign. "It's kinda an important life skill to have. We should get you sorted, especially before it starts snowing. Trust me, you don't wanna be walking in that."
Reluctantly, I follow him down the steps, and Eren starts unpacking the basics. New Yorkers call the subway trains—never the metro, the underground, and God forbid, the tube. He hammers home the difference between express and local trains. "But be careful," he warns, showing me a map on his phone. "Sometimes trains can flip-flop between these two, depending on what part of the line you're at. And if that's not annoying enough, for some trains, it depends on the time of day, also which direction you're headed."
"This is impossible," I say, befuddled by the rainbow spaghetti of MTA lines. "How do you guys do this? There's letters and numbers for trains? My head is spinning right now."
"From my experience, the best way to learn this system is to fuck up and then never repeat what you just did. Kinda like process of elimination," Eren says, strolling through the turnstile. He hands me his MetroCard, and I follow suit—except the turnstile refuses to budge. "Swipe in the other direction," Eren says, trying to stifle a laugh.
The train is packed. Eren and I are pressed up against each other. He's tall enough to comfortably hold onto the bar that runs parallel to the roof of the car, and I grip onto a hanging handle for support. I try hard to ignore how good he smells right now, fixating on a mental image of my uncle squatting next to a bucket, churning his homemade disinfectant. And just like that, the tension is extinguished.
Thanks to Levi's toilet cleaning regimen, Connie's third nipple, and Zeke's hiking mishap, we've gone a whole week without getting physical, and for the first time since arriving here, I've started feeling more in my element in New York. That initial week upon arriving, on the other hand, was a blur. I'd wake up each morning steeped in embarrassment, replaying the previous night in my head. The shame and guilt would eat away at me throughout the day. Has my basic sense of rationality gone out the window? Where's my discipline? I accuse Eren all the time for instigating these relapses, but frankly, I should be the one shouldering the majority of the blame—except I swindle Eren into paying most of the fines.
He starts telling me about a patient he had yesterday (sparing no details, of course). Undoubtedly, I'm attracted to him. Sure, his simple-minded tendencies, clueless candor, and slovenly living habits drive me up a wall, but he's armed with a dangerous combination of alluring qualities that, well, also drive me up a wall—but in a very different way. He's got an athletic build and a witty sense of humor. He's a breezy conversationalist, one hell of a kisser, not to mention stellar in the bedroom.
But we're roommates. We're stuck together for ten months. Our apartment is supposed to be a home base, a getaway from the hurricane of responsibilities that come with living the hardscrabble lives of two twenty-somethings in lower Manhattan. It shouldn't be a ticking time-bomb, ready to detonate at any given moment.
However, I'd like to think that we've taken concrete steps towards defusing this explosive. Our interactions feel less like we're both teetering on a tightrope, tiptoeing the fine line between conversation and flirtation. We talk more like roommates now. It seems we can also hang out now, like normal people.
Sasha almost bulldozes me right over when we step into the comedy club. She grabs me by the arms, wringing me back and forth, blabbering a mile a minute. In spite of her distress, she looks cute tonight, her hair in a half-up, half-down style. She's rocking a black romper with a tiny daisy print, which goes nicely with her wedges. A pair of bold hoops hang from her ears.
"I'm freaking out!" she wails, hugging me tight. "Mikasa, I shouldn't have signed up for this! Have you seen the line-up? The dude slated before me is the real deal, and he's gonna be such a tough act to follow, and I can literally just picture the crowd, all dead-silent, crickets chirping, agh, and have you seen how many people are here?! It's so busy, and I just can't handle it—"
From my six, going on seven, years of friendship with Sasha, I've learned that she has a reboot button, which comes in handy when she unravels into a bundle of nerves. I reach around her head until my hand encloses around a little bun of hair. And I give it two light tugs, like a train conductor going toot, toot with the horn. And she stops blathering, proceeding to hyperventilate over my shoulder.
"Breathe, Sasha. Nice and easy. Have you had your tequila shots yet?" I ask her, rubbing slow, gentle circles against her back. "Those usually calm you down a little."
"Yes! Just a couple of minutes before you showed up!" she mumbles. "I had two."
"They'll kick in any minute now," I reassure her.
"Well, they're taking their damned sweet time!"
"Let's go sit down," I suggest. "Sasha, we are gonna laugh and yell at the top of our lungs for you."
"Huh? Who's we?" she says, jerking backwards and giving me a quizzical look. Before I can explain, her gaze darts towards Eren, and her jaw drops. "He… That's him!" she stutters, pointing a shaky finger at him. "The bar! The guy! I wing-womaned you!"
"'Sup," Eren says, flashing her a smile. "I'm Eren. You're gonna kill it out there."
"Turns out, he's also my roommate!" I say quickly.
Sasha's eyes look like they're about to pop out of their sockets. "M-Mikasa?! You didn't tell me—"
"Hah, yeah," I laugh uneasily. "It's been a while since I've caught you up on everything, hasn't it?"
"We literally FaceTimed yesterday!"
"I owe you an explanation, don't I?" I herd us towards an empty table about ten feet from the stage. "But let's focus on you. It's your big night, after all!"
"But this is huge news! You guys—wait, didn't you guys, like...? Do it? And you're living together now?"
"It's a long story."
"Which you forgot to tell me when we were catching up over the phone!"
"Jeez, Mikasa. How haven't you told your friends yet?" Eren chimes in unhelpfully. "You can't deny that our living situation is really, fucking weird. All of my friends think we're delusional to stay in that apartment together—"
I kick Eren's foot under the table.
"See?" Sasha gestures wildly at Eren. "Even he gets it!"
"I'm gonna go order drinks. Another tequila shot for you, and a beer for you, Eren?" I ask them.
"You're avoiding the topic, Mikasa! I hate it when you do that!" Sasha protests.
"I could give you the Sparknotes if you want," Eren offers, as I leave the table for the bar. "Basically, your wing-woman stunt worked—thank you for that, by the way. I hope my brother got you sorted with the Uber, and I also hope you didn't Venmo him back or whatever. He was being so annoying. Anyways, Mikasa and I hooked up, and then the next morning, she was gone. Didn't leave a number, a note, nada. Which is like, 'Yeah, I get it. Cool. Nice meeting you too.' But then the doorbell rings, and she's standing there with a bunch of lease forms. So now, we have a Jar…"
At least I'll have less to explain when Sasha corners me for an interrogation. When I get back to our table with our order slip, they're chitchatting, laughing together. Sasha's shoulders are no longer tensed up, assuming their usual slouch once again. Shortly after our drinks come out, the lights in the comedy club get dimmed down, the chatter around us dissipates, and a host walks onto the stage, introducing the program. Sasha's the second of three acts.
The first act is a short guy who goes by the stage name "Cornelius Funk." He's hopelessly mired in hypebeast culture, jogging out in a neon orange Champion hoodie and chunky Nike sneakers, waving ecstatically at the crowd. Around us, people are cheering and stomping their feet.
"That's him!" Sasha shrieks. "He's a scene-stealer! I don't get why he got the first slot—"
"Holy. Fucking. Shit," Eren says. His beer bottle is raised midway to his lips, and he looks stupefied. "That's Cornelius Funk?!"
"What?" Sasha and I both say at the exact same time.
"That's no 'Cornelius'! That's Connie! Connie Springer!" Eren remarks. "That motherfucker. He told me he was 'sick,' so we couldn't hang out! Holy fuck, what is he doing?"
Cornelius Funk/Connie Springer has started breakdancing on stage, and the audience roars with rabid approval. I squint, taking a better look, and sure enough, the performer has the same shaved head and big eyes as the bartender from a couple weekends ago.
"Yo, Con! What the fuck kinda name is Cornelius Funk?!" Eren stands up, cupping his hands over his mouth to shout, but his voice is drowned out by the raving masses. He sits back down, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is batshit insane. I'm not dreaming, am I?"
"You didn't know your friend was a comedian?" I ask, taking a sip from my mojito.
"Never in a thousand years!" Eren says, pulling out his phone to sneak a photo. "Oh my fucking God, Armin's gonna freak when he sees this. Sasha, you said he's famous around these parts, right?"
"Oh, absolutely," Sasha answers. "He made his debut around, like, six years ago? And ever since then, he's been tearing it up. Super in-demand."
"Wait a sec..." Eren counts backwards on his fingers, and then he clutches his forehead when a realization hits him. "That's when we started undergrad! He was always so flakey on the weekends. Friday nights, especially. He kept ditching us, saying he had… 'Astronomy Club.' Well, goddamn. It all makes sense now!"
"Where's his third nipple?" I ask.
"Mikasa?!" Sasha blurts out. "Why would you ask that?!"
"You didn't include that in your Sparknotes summary?" I say to Eren.
"Nah, we didn't get to that part yet. But if you look down his mid-clavicular line, it's located right around the ninth intercostal space on his anatomical left—"
"Layman's terms."
"At two o'clock from his belly-button. A few inches to the right of where his godawful gold chain is hanging."
Connie's performance runs for about thirty minutes. He calls himself the "discount Eminem," drumming himself a beat and freestyle rapping a parody of "Lose Yourself." We're regaled by another demonstration of his breakdancing moves, and he tells several knee-slappers about the misadventures of a college friend named "Aaron," who happened to be a "raging horndog."
"Jesus, he's not even trying to come up with an alias for me," Eren grumbles, draining his beer. "Aaron? Seriously? It sounds exactly the same as Eren!"
Some people around us are wiping tears from their corners of their eyes by the end of Connie's act. Others are tapping silverware against their glasses, chanting: "Funk. It. Up! Funk. It. Up!" And Connie does a cartwheel before springing off the stage, shooting a peace sign into the air.
"I feel sick to my stomach," Sasha mumbles. "I can't do this. They're gonna think I suck after that."
"You've got this, Sasha," I goad her, squeezing her hand. "You're gonna blow everyone away. Just look over here at me if you get stuck."
"Yeah, and don't forget that the official name on Connie's driver's license is 'Connor,' but for some stupid reason, he thought 'Cornelius' was a good idea for a stage name," Eren adds. "Also, to reiterate: he has a third nipple."
Sucking in a deep breath, Sasha staggers to her feet, and I pat her back as she makes her way to the stage, where her electric guitar is waiting for her. She goes for a Bo Burnham-style of comedy, weaving jokes into her songwriting. The mic screeches just as she's about to introduce herself, and she flinches, her brow furrowed in worry as she hastens to adjust its height.
"Shit, she's freaking out," I whisper to Eren. "Let's go, Sasha!" I yell.
"FUCK YES, SASHA!" Eren hollers after me, pounding the table and clapping his hands. And suddenly, the people around us start cheering as well. A wave of welcoming applause ripples across the room. Up on stage, Sasha clenches her teeth in a forced grin, but she looks a little more at ease.
"Damn, keep up the good work," I say.
"You wanted me to be 'obnoxious' and 'boisterous,' didn't you?" Eren nudges me. "Crowds are like a chain of dominoes. You just gotta be the first one to get super hyped, and they'll follow suit."
Sasha starts plucking a series of lively staccato notes on her guitar, quickly crescendoing into a lilting strumming pattern. Eren and I cheer again, setting off another chain reaction of applause. Sasha smiles at this—a real smile, this time.
"Hey, everyone!" she says. "My name's Sasha, and I'm a broke-ass bitch trying to make it in this town." Her spoken rhythm is slightly off, but she quickly recalibrates, matching pace with her guitar. "Gotta say, adulthood really has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. If it were up to me, legal age should be well past eighteen because lemme tell you, at twenty-four, I still don't know shit about independence and self-sufficiency. Any Costco members in the crowd?"
Even though a Costco membership is nowhere in our budget range, Eren whistles, and I let out a whoop.
"You snobby, put-together motherfuckers," Sasha remarks, shaking her head. "You know how teenagers dream of getting onto VIP lists at nightclubs, so they fuck around with fake ID's? Well, for broke-ass-bitches in their twenties, Costco is the dream. You heard me: Costco. Back when we were in college, whenever my roommate Mikasa and I needed to stock up on toilet paper or granola bars, we'd pull off these Costco heists. In fact, Mikasa decided to be really clutch and show up tonight. She's sitting right there! Let's give it up for her!"
The audience claps and hoots when Sasha points in my direction. I raise my glass to her. She's beaming, erratically strumming her guitar, winking at me. She looks like she's actually enjoying herself up there.
"Now, you might be wondering: What the hell is a 'Costco heist'? Well, unlike in Ocean's Eleven, we're only a two-woman team, made up of a driver and a con-artist. I pull my Chevy into the parking lot, and Mikasa leaps out. She's the brains behind the whole operation, and her master plan boils down to taking advantage of racism—which is shitty, I know, but bear in mind that we do get a three-months' supply of Charmin Ultra for dirt-cheap out of this. So lucky for us, the bouncer who checks for membership cards is this old, white guy, and he just so happens to be utterly incapable of telling minorities apart—I mean, what do you expect? We went to college in New Jersey. Yeah, yeah, boo all you want, Dirty Jersey hates y'all too.
"Anyways, we don't exactly have membership cards, so technically, we can't get in. But Mikasa is Asian American. To be exact, her mom's side of the family is from Japan, but to the average Joe Schmoe across the Hudson River, Japanese folks are the same thing as Korean and Chinese folks, apparently. So all Mikasa's gotta do is loiter around the front door, minding her own business—until some Asian family rolls up. Mom, Dad, kids in tow. The fuckin' queen of stealth that she is, Mikasa ambles up behind these guys, whipping out her phone to scroll on Instagram or whatever. And so what the bouncer sees is this: Mom, Dad, kids, and an aloof, disinterested teenager who got dragged out on a shopping trip against her will. Game, set, and match, fuckers. We're in. Now, that's what I call camouflage. Mikasa nabs the goods, I pull up next to the curb, we load up the trunk, and it's pedal-to-the-metal, off to a speedy getaway. And ka-ching, it's foolproof!"
Her delivery is on-point tonight, drawing roars, shouts, and guffaws from the audience. Beside me, Eren is dying. "Is this based on a true story?" he asks, an ear-to-ear grin splayed across his features.
"Are Cornelius Funk's tales of his 'horndog' friend based on a true story?"
"Oh, shut up."
Sasha transitions into her musical number, belting out a song about marijuana use, and within moments, the crowd is clapping along. She sticks the landing on some slam poetry that we've been crafting since our senior year, and she knocks the last couple of anecdotes out of the ballpark. She looks wonderstruck when she takes a bow, bending back up to realize, much to her delight, that she's on the receiving end of a standing ovation.
"Yo, that performance fucking slapped!" Eren congratulates her when she scampers back to our table with a bounce in her step.
I almost suffocate her in a hug. "I'm so proud of you," I tell her.
"Guys, I… I don't even know what to say! I just felt so in my element up there, and I don't think that's ever happened in front of a big crowd before—and, like, this is an enormous crowd," she babbles, fizzing with glee. "I really owe it to you two, seriously! You guys were so wonderfully rowdy back here, and that just really got the ball rolling for me!"
I feel bad for the third comedian, whose jokes fall flat in comparison to Connie and Sasha's performances. When the host concludes the show, Sasha is immediately swarmed with compliments and regards from the attendees around us.
"CORNELIUS FUNK! You asshole! Who would've ever thought that you had this Hannah Montana double life?!" Eren bellows, making a beeline towards Connie, who has a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face. They bicker back and forth for a while, but eventually, the four of us gather together, each with a tequila shot in hand.
"Hey, Sasha, right?" Connie asks, nodding towards her.
"Yeah, that's me," she says, glowing. "Cornelius?"
"Yep—"
"Oh, fuck that," Eren interrupts. "Just call him Connie."
We drink to a great evening, and I can't help but temporarily put aside the grudge I've been nursing towards those happy-go-lucky Manhattan sitcoms like Friends and How I Met Your Mother. They got another thing right, it seems. Toasts like these hit differently in New York City.
"Lemme know if you need a lifeline," Eren says as we walk down the steps into the subway station. It's largely empty at this hour, and his voice almost echoes across the platform.
I have Google Maps pulled up, and I know exactly where we need to be going. I double-check to see if we're on the correct platform, glancing in Eren's direction for verification. He shrugs if I'm on the right track, and he twists his face up if I've gone astray. We get on the train, and he sits in an orange seat seat across from me. The exhaustion from this past week seems to be hitting him right about now. The pep in his voice sounds more subdued, and he yawns every couple of minutes.
Sasha had pulled me aside several minutes before we split ways for the night. "You're weird around Eren," she said candidly, poking my forehead.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"Do you remember when we first met in college?"
"How could I not?"
"You hardly talked to me the first two months, even though we were roommates, Mikasa. To be honest, I was really scared and intimidated by you. I thought you despised me!"
I smiled, letting the nostalgia sweep over us. "You tell me that all the time. Our friendship didn't really kick off until that night when I called you at 2AM, right? When I needed you to come rescue me?"
"You poor thing. You were puking your guts out behind a bush. Good times, though," Sasha teased. "But you see, that's my point. It takes you forever to warm up to new people, which, don't get me wrong, that's totally fine! But I dunno, you and Eren have only known each other for what? A couple of weeks? And you're already joking around, talking about Connie's third nipple, elbowing each other. You two are like this—" She raised a hand and crossed her fingers. "Makes me kinda jealous!" she laughed. "I felt like I was third-wheeling Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. Or Jack and Jill. Or Humpty and Dumpty."
"Humpty Dumpty was a singular entity," I reminded her. "He was an egg, Sasha."
"Yeah, but he had a great fall and broke into two halves," Sasha pointed out. "That must've been brutal. Yolk and shell pieces everywhere."
I glance up at Eren. He's nodded off, resting his head against the end of the subway seat. I decide to let him be, scrolling through an article about Cornelius Funk's meteoric rise through the local comedy scene, but suddenly, Eren's phone starts rattling in the seat beside him. However, Eren continues napping, unbothered by the call.
"Eren?" I step across the aisle, patting his shoulder.
"Hmm?" He blinks drowsily. "What's up?"
"Your phone."
"It's all good. It's just Zeke." He stretches his legs and smiles at me. "Sasha killed it tonight. Also, Connie asked me to ask you for her number. He's interested in doing a collab—a.k.a. he thinks she's cute."
"No kidding," I remark. I move into the seat next to him, crossing my legs. "You played a big part in keeping her sane tonight, you know? I doubt I would've been able to get the rest of the crowd as excited over her jokes on my own. So thanks for being ridiculously rambunctious tonight, Eren. I appreciate it."
"Don't sweat it," he says. "I had a lot of fun. Thanks for letting me tag along."
We're both quiet. The train rumbles across the tracks, and the sliding doors hiss and groan as they open and close at a stop. Eren dozes off again, and I study our reflections in the window across from us. Sasha's right. I'm at ease around him. But for some reason, the fact that I'm at ease right now suddenly unnerves me.
"Eren?" I say, swallowing nervously.
"Yeah?" he answers blearily.
"Are we... in Jar territory right now?"
"What?" He's wide awake now, giving me a confused look. "We're just sitting on a train."
"No, that's not what I meant. I mean, I had a lot of fun too, and well…" I struggle to find the words.
"Mikasa, we're allowed to be friends, you know," Eren says flatly. "Isn't that the goal, anyways? Like, friends, full stop. Without the benefits. Which means we're allowed to have fun with each other—just not that kinda fun, if you get my drift."
Sometimes, his direct simplicity is refreshing. I lean my head against the window behind me. "My bad," I say, smiling. "You're completely right."
"Also," he says wearily, rising to his feet, "we just missed our stop."
A/N: For this last little scene, I've had "Mine" by The 1975 playing over and over, and ugh, it really gets me in the feels :')
Jeez, 6,700+ words. Yowch, this is long, but it certainly was fun to crank out. Since this is my second big EM Modern AU undertaking, I've realized that I have recurring headcanons, a.k.a. one where Mikasa simply struggles so much with putting makeup on. On another note, sorry if there are any New Jersey natives reading this fic! I shit on the Garden State too much, hahaha :')
The Sasha reboot button was inspired from this panel I remember seeing. Sasha had dozed off when the squad was on the lookout for something, and Mikasa had yanked her ponytail to wake her up. I just loved that moment so fucking much, HAHAHA. Also, if you guys haven't heard of Bo Burnham, you should check him out, pronto! He's a super abrasive comedian who plays piano/guitar to the rhythm of his jokes, and you should check out "New Math" by him if you want a sense of how I intended Sasha's comedy to be!
Ugh, it feels nice to write something lighter. Thanks so much for the comments and inbox messages, y'all! A challenge question I have: What do you think is Levi's secret ingredient to this homemade cleaning agent? I'm so excited to hear your thoughts and hypotheses!
Update (Jul 22, 2020): I'm sorry if Sasha's stand-up came off as insensitive to anybody. i'd like to do my due diligence in approaching sensitive matters, such as racial issues, in a respectful and heedful manner, and so here's where i'm in sticky wickets. so i'm asian american, as some of you know (half hong konger, half taiwanese), and multiple times in my late adolescence, i've pulled this trick at costco—mostly as a joke with my friends hahaha :') personally, i feel as if it's more than okay for me to joke about these things, like as karsyn, the asian american writer. i'm greatly inspired by how ronny chieng, trevor noah, and hasan minhaj riff on peculiarities in their respective cultural and ethic heritage, but this style of humor comes with a caveat: only x folks should joke about x folks.
so now, the question becomes: is it ok for karsyn, the asian american writer, to joke about these things through sasha, the white comedian? i grappled with this issue as i was writing, and i figured, hey, if mikasa's in the audience, and if the crowd is well-aware that mikasa is A) in on the joke and B) has given sasha the greenlight to tell the story on stage, then it should be okay, right? "okay" certainly doesn't mean perfect, however, and a part of me feels like even though sasha does have the greenlight from mikasa, it's really not her story to tell. idk, thoughts?