The Dating Experiment by Briar Prescott
Jamie
I shake myself like a dog the moment I get inside the front door of my apartment building. It feels like I’ve been wet for about a month. Damn global warming. I could live with this place turning into a tropical paradise. Instead, we’ve gotten a lot of rain. I guess it might be practice for when the sea levels rise and drown us all? Well played, Universe. Well played.
Still, it gets old eventually when the insides of your boots are always wet. My socks squelch as I walk up the stairs.
I’ve just reached the third floor when the door to my left opens, and without a word, a mop is thrust toward me.
I wince but quickly hide it behind a smile.
“Good evening, Magda.” I force my tone to sound pleasant as I face my downstairs neighbor. Magda is eighty, extremely grouchy, and all five foot nothing of her is terrifying as hell. She’s the reason I’m afraid to flush the toilet after ten p.m. Apparently the sound carries.
“I don’t like dimples,” she snaps as she waves the mop in front of my face.
“And you want me to… use the mop to beat the person who has them?” I take a wild guess.
She jams the tip of the mop handle into my cheek, nearly knocking out one of my teeth in the process.
“I meant don’t flash yours at me. They do nothing for me,” she says curtly.
“I’ll try to curb my need to smile,” I promise as I slowly back away.
“Do it. And while you’re at it, wipe up the water you sprayed everywhere.”
I look behind me. Sure enough, my journey upstairs is marked by a wet trail.
“It’s rainwater,” I say as I turn back toward her. “It’ll dry on its own.”
“I’m eighty years old, boy. I’ll slip and fracture my hip if I have to go downstairs with those puddles decorating the staircase,” she snaps.
There’s no use in arguing that the wet footprints hardly constitute puddles.
“Do you have to go downstairs in the next fifteen minutes?” I ask.
“You cannot predict the future. I might have an emergency in the next five minutes. What if there’s a fire?”
“Then the temperature inside the hallway will rise, and the water will evaporate,” I say. “In a way, you should hope it’s a fire. Flood would also work. At least the puddles wouldn’t make a difference anymore, and you could swim to freedom. Really, the only way I can see this working against you is if we suddenly plummet into an ice age in the next few minutes, in which case, I swear I’ll come and carry you downstairs myself.”
She squints her eyes at me and slams the mop against my chest.
“Please. If there’s a disaster, you’ll be the first one to die.”
“How come?” I ask, more than a little bit offended. “I know stuff.”
“From watching that show where naked people are carted off to a jungle?” Magda scoffs.
“I’ll have you know I was a boy scout.”
For some reason, she’s not sufficiently impressed.
“Clean it up.”
I sigh as I drop my bag by her door.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say as I make my way downstairs and start dragging the mop over the fading prints of water I left behind, making the floors even wetter in the process. If an ice age descends in the next thirty minutes, I’ve doomed us all with this future ice rink of a staircase.
Once I’ve cleaned up all the remnants of my arrival, I hand the mop back to Magda.
“Did you eat dinner?” she asks in that curt tone she always uses with me. She doesn’t admit it, but I’m like the son she always wished would live in her basement. At least that’s what her exasperated expression implies.
“No, I haven’t eaten.”
“Breakfast?” she continues.
“I had a banana. I overslept.”
She rolls her eyes. I’m pretty sure she can hear me storming around my apartment and cursing loudly every other morning.
“What about lunch?” She continues her interrogation.
“Food of champions: crackers and water.”
It was one of Connor’s crazier days where he forgot people need sustenance. I’d say an employee and boss who starve together stay together, but that sounds a bit like a nightmare scenario if I’m honest, so I prefer not to think too hard about that possibility.
“That’s very unhealthy,” Magda says while she squints her eyes at me as if she’s trying to weigh me with her gaze to determine my BMI.
“Very,” I agree with an appropriately somber nod. I try to make myself look as pathetic as possible.
It seems to be working because Magda gives a loud sigh, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head like a disappointed parent. My stomach rumbles because of the mouthwatering scent coming from her apartment. She grumbles something under her breath before scowling at me again.
“Wait here.”
She’s gone for two minutes, and then she’s thrusting a plate my way. It smells delicious, and my mouth starts to water immediately. There are two large, golden-brown baked potatoes, a heaping pile of vegetable salad, and some kind of sausages that I’m sure are homemade just like everything else on the plate. It’s all covered in sauce that smells so good that my stomach starts to rumble.
“No fork?” I ask.
“I’m already lending you my plate. I’m sure you have a fork in your own place,” she scoffs.
With those words, she steps back into her apartment and slams the door shut.
“Thank you,” I say loudly.
“Do not break my damn plate,” she calls back through the door. “And I expect you to return it promptly. I do not like thieves.”
I carry the food like it’s as precious as a stash of gold coins as I make my way up the stairs.
The apartment is blissfully quiet. Ever since Josh, my roommate, got a girlfriend, I hardly see him anymore. It’s like living alone, only I don’t have to pay all the rent myself. I’m sure this sort of luxury won’t last, but I’m enjoying it while I can.
I head to the kitchen, but I’m stopped on my fork quest by a narrow, rectangular box on the counter. I frown and move closer.
There’s a note on top in Josh’s nearly ineligible scrawl. I can make out the words signed and you. I squint. Or ignite and poo. It really depends on the way you look at the note.
In the end, I give up on trying to figure out what the hell the note says and just assume my first guess is correct, and the you is me.
I scarf down my dinner, even though I try to pace myself, all the while eyeing the box like it’s about to burst into flames at any moment now. I have my suspicions about what it is, and I’m not exactly looking forward to said suspicions being confirmed. Too little time has passed. I’m not ready for the wounds to be torn open again.
I wash the plate and take a shower, but eventually I run out of excuses, so I carry the box to the living room and set it on the coffee table. I grab my phone, take a quick photo, and send it to my mom.
Is that what I think it is?
She doesn’t leave me hanging for long. The reply is short and to the point. Mom isn’t one to hold back when she thinks one of us needs a shove in the right direction.
Open it. I didn’t raise a wimp.
Ah. The loving parental words of encouragement. A moment passes, and another message follows.
Dad says I should add that I love you. I claimed you already knew. Which is it? There’s a bet. Choose wisely. You’ll most likely lose the love of one parent based on your answer.
I laugh, set the phone down again, and eye the box some more before I sigh and pull the tape off.
At first glance, there’s only a piece of paper. I frown as I pick it up, but then I see a phone in the bottom of the box. I take it out and weigh it in my palm.
To buy myself a few more seconds, I grab the charger and plug it in. While I wait for the screen to come alive, I open the note.
Dear Jamie,
This is a letter from beyond the grave. I always wanted to do one of those. Consequently, it was the last item on my bucket list (I debated between this and coming back as a ghost. This won. I’ve roamed this earth long enough already and have no wish to add another couple of hundred years to the tally.) It’s nice to know I can cross it off the list. I do like when all the loose ends get tied off.
I don’t really have anything profound or meaningful to say. You’ve heard my yacking for twenty-five years already, so I doubt I can really teach you anything new in this letter. If you haven’t learned enough from me already… well, you only have yourself to blame, then, don’t you?
Let’s move to the purpose of this letter now. I need you to open my phone and log in to Words With Friends. I suspect I left my game unfinished. The most important part of your mission is to tell Seb I didn’t resign. He needs to know. Otherwise he’ll gloat. Tell him fate intervened. Maybe play a game in my honor.
Also, just because I didn’t choose to come back as a ghost doesn’t mean that I won’t visit if the opportunity arises. Just a heads-up.
See you on the other side,
Gramps
PS! Password is 1234.
PPS! No, I didn’t change it like you told me to.
PPPS! Don’t shake your head at me, boy. Respect your elders.
I stare at the note for a second before a laugh escapes me. This is such a Gramps note to write. I read through the words a couple of more times. A note from beyond the grave. Yeah, Gramps probably got a real kick out of the thought of me reading it.
I power on the phone and tap in the password. The screen comes alive. Only the bare minimum of apps have remained, among them the little icon with a W on it.
It’s been years since I last played Words With Friends. I used to play with Gramps, but he very ungently told me to take a hike when my stats weren’t good enough for him anymore. I mean, I introduced him to that game, but he kicked me to the curb like a rock star who’d finally made it and wanted to get rid of the dead weight of his unpopular hometown friends. I think the words “cramping my style” were actually used. I’ve blocked the memory out. Too painful.
And no, I’m not still bitter.
As the phone catches on, notifications start popping up, one after another. There are quite a few.
Most of them seem to be from somebody named Seb. I squint my eyes. I know that name. I’ve only heard of him in passing, but I do remember Gramps mentioning him on occasion, claiming he’d found the perfect Words With Friends partner. He’s the other man. My replacement.
Huh. Now that I hear myself, I admit, I may be a smidge bitter, still.
I check the messages, starting from the ones that were sent about a week after Gramps died.
Seb: You do know you just resigned a game?
Seb: I don’t think that’s ever happened before.
The messages are spread out over a few weeks, it seems.
Seb: Rematch?
Seb: Arthur?
Seb: I know I won that last game, but it’s not like you to be a sore loser.
Seb: Are you all right?
It goes on, the messages sounding more and more concerned. The last one was sent about two months ago.
Seb: It would be highly appreciated if you’d send a sign of life.
There are no more messages after that.
I tap the phone against my palm. I can’t just leave him hanging like that. He might have moved on already, but it’d still be a decent thing to do to reply to him.
My fingers hover over the screen as I try to come up with the right words to deliver the news.
Arthur: Hello.
I send that before I start on the next message, but before I can do that, a message appears.
Seb: Took you long enough, old man.
I scrunch my nose. I should have probably started with something like Surprise!I’m not Arthur *jazz hands*. Or something to that effect. In my defense, I didn’t exactly expect this Seb person to still be keeping guard after months of no contact. Talk about resilience.
I type out another Hi, but before I can send it, another string of messages follows.
Seb: You haven’t been around. I was starting to get worried.
Seb: I have to say, I’ve never been ghosted before. Feels strange.
Ah, crap. I better get typing.
Arthur: Hi. I’m not Arthur.
Dots appear and reappear for a few moments. Writing from under my dead grandfather’s name feels more than a bit weird, so I quickly change the username to just the first letter of my name.
Hey, J.An echo of Gramps’s voice is now in my head, and it makes me smile. Shit. I’m on a mission, and it isn’t about reminiscing.
J: I’m Arthur’s grandson. I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to say it, but Arthur passed away a few months ago.
Delivering bad news never feels great. Doing it over a chat message feels even worse. I can’t even give a reassuring pat on the back to gentle the blow.
It takes forever for Seb to reply, but eventually he does.
Seb: I’m sorry for your loss.
J: Thank you.
I’m not sure I should continue messaging. I’m not even sure if the fact that my grandfather is gone is that sad for Seb, but on the off chance he does feel something, I have a sudden urge to let him know that he mattered to Gramps.
J: Gramps mentioned your name from time to time. He really enjoyed playing with you.
Again, it takes him a bit to reply, but I’m in no hurry, so I wait patiently.
Seb: It was my pleasure. I’m going to miss our Friday night games. And him calling me ye arsefaced tube when I beat him.
J: He got a lot of mileage out of the Book of Scottish Insults.
Seb: He wasn’t actually Scottish?
J: His father relocated to the states from Brazil, so not even close.
Seb: Then why the Scottish insults?
J: The better question is why not?
Seb: My brain does not function like that. It doesn’t process anything that doesn’t have a logical explanation.
J: We’re more of a go with the flow kind of a family.
Seb: It’s nice when people inform you of their fatal flaws as soon as you meet them. Saves a lot of time.
A smile tugs at my lips. This conversation is turning out to be unexpectedly entertaining.
J: Have you ever heard of opposites attracting?
Seb: Sure. In high school. Granted, it’s been twenty years, but unlike charges attract. Like charges repel.
My lips stretch into an even bigger smile.
J: Well, let’s put our compatibility to the test, then. Want to play a round with me?
Dots appear and disappear for a while. He’s going to say no. I’m strangely disappointed. Before I can think better of it, I’m typing again.
J: I mean, unless you’re scared…
Seb: Scared of what, exactly?
J: Losing, obviously. Don’t feel bad. I suppose it’s obvious from my messages that I’m a great verbalist, so it’s only natural for you to feel apprehensive when faced with a skillful wordsmith such as myself.
I wait out the pause. I’d think he’s doing something else, and I’m just distracting him with my babbling, but throughout the minutes he makes me wait for his reply, the dots appear and reappear, so he doesn’t seem to be doing anything else. He just… thinks his answers through really thoroughly, it seems.
Seb: You know how there are these extremely competitive people who tend to ruin everybody’s fun? That’s me.
J: Ah. You’re trying to make excuses because you’re scared. That’s cute. I dare you to play a game with me.
Seb: Well, now you’ve done it. I’ve never been able to back down from a challenge.
I laugh to myself as I lean forward. Game on.