Piercings
by Dean Marshall Tuck
The girl in the office who takes your rent money every month has eight visible piercings on her head, and you still find her attractive, but every month you think, "I'm way too lonely; if I were back in Raleigh, I wouldn't be this desperate," but you're not in Raleigh; you're back in Hyde County, which is exactly what you want to do when you see most of the native women—run and "hyde." But you see her on a Friday afternoon shortly after your roommate smugly said, "I'm going to go pay my half of the rent—I suggest you do the same," with a check for two hundred fifty dollars in your hand.
You hand the check over like it doesn't hurt—like there's not a couple dozen CDs you could've bought, DVDs, canvas-bound hardback books, or maybe an iPod, and you try not to look at the stud in her nose or the rings in her eyebrows. She takes out the receipt book and writes down the amount. Just then, the maintenance man, Blue, comes through the door, and his ferocious lap dog darts in, making a beeline for your ankles, all the while barking its high-pitched death-yelp. The manager sees the horror-stricken look you attempt to hide (too late, Pierced-Face Beauty has already seen you, too) and moves to protect you from the diminutive beast."Chopper! Be friendly!" The manager picks up the dog and carries it to her office—the dog still barking at your memory.
You look at Blue and then Pierced-Face, a little ashamed, "I guess I kind of overreacted."
Pierced-Face smiles, and it's a pretty little smile that somehow always catches you off guard and distracts you from her nose, ears, and eyebrows. You take the receipt and try not to look at Blue on your way out. You know how funny people can be when you visibly hate their pets.
That evening when you're eating canned chicken gumbo and cheese toast for dinner, you notice her signature on the receipt: Heather Davis. It's shameful, but you Google her and find her homepage, download her vacation pictures, read her blog from the last 4 months, find out her interests, favorite movies, favorite music, books, color, pizza toppings, her family history, her dating history. . .
Next month, November first, you know more about her than any other stranger you maintain regular contact with (not having been formally introduced, you are still strangers). For a month you've thought about talking to her. Saying something other than, "I'm just here to pay rent," but you know you're probably going to lame out again and say just that. Then you smile and say:
"Hey, Heather." Like you've known her for years.
"Hello," she says.
"Reckon it's that time again."
She doesn't look like she understands.
"Oh." She doesn't.
"Got my rent check."
"Okay."
You think about asking her if she wants to come over to your apartment tonight; you'll order a pizza with pineapple, banana peppers, onions, and mushrooms; you think, we could rent Say Anything or watch Wonder Years re-runs, or we could grab some lattes down at Brenda's Best and talk about Victorian novels, New England states (you've never been, but you've done your research), 80s cartoons and animated movies, beer preferences, bands she's into—
"Did they hurt?"—not her piercings.
"They?"
"Your piercings."—great.
"Not too much."
You keep staring at them.
Silence.
You won't receive the distracting smile this month.
December. You've continued your research; you've played and replayed last month's episode and analyzed your errors. It's the piercings that are throwing you. You keep thinking about bringing her home to your parents—your mom fainting after wondering, "How long before she corrupts my son and takes his seed, claims him for life, and spawns a half dozen Hellraiser pinhead grandbabies?"—your dad sitting sternly through dinner and swallowing hard every time Heather says something contrary to Rush Limbaugh's radio show—across the table, your little sister staring, ever staring—you to Heather, Heather to you, until finally, the whole family sits transfixed by the metallic glint sparkling all over your girl's face.
You abandon November's impromptu "First Name Basis" plan. You're looking good. Confident. Your hair doesn't look like you slept on it all day; your pants look like they've been washed, though not pressed; your shirt collar is turned down over your sweater—new shoes. No visible skin blemishes, or nose hairs, or gumbo on the chin; you are sharp. Confident. Not a lap dog in sight.
This time you bring your checkbook to the office to fill out in front of Heather. This ensures a maximum amount of time that you're in her company. Who knows? Something might come up.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"Just paying rent."
"Okay." She gets out the receipt book.
You pull out your checkbook. "Um. What's the date?" You're stalling.
"December first." She's beautiful. You don't even think about thinking about the piercings.
"Deee. . .cemmm. . .berrr. . .first. All right. There you go." You tear the check out and hand it over. And your receipt. Transaction complete. But then—
"Gonna be around for Christmas?" You're talking.
"Every day but the twenty-fifth."
"Me too."
A jingle bell on the front door rings and then a maniacal yelping sinks its teeth into your new Nikes.
You scream like someone just dipped your head in a vat of acid, and you kick the dog across the office. Blue is not happy. The dog cowers behind the desk.
"What the hay-ull?" Blue says.
"Uh, Merry Christmas," you say and bang your knee on the door as you exit.
December 26th you're not quite so bold.
There's been a longstanding problem with your commode. Before you fill out a maintenance request form, you ask: "Have a good Christmas?"
"Not particularly," she says.
"Me neither." You smile.
She smiles.
You then pretend not to be embarrassed about having to say "commode" in front of the woman you will one day ask to marry you—you look forward to the day when nothing will embarrass you in front of her—when nothing will come between you—not commodes, not lap dogs, nor stud in the nose, nor rings in the ear.
This is the beginning, you think.
Dean Marshall Tuck is a writer of fiction, a singer/songwriter(www.deantuck.com), an advisory editor for Tar River Poetry, and an English instructor at East Carolina University.