Unexpected Oasis (4 page)

Rick shrugs. "We're out of beer."

"Ugh." I make another face and then turn back to my pool comrades. "You might as well be fighting over whose kickball team the kid with the broken ankle gets to play on," I continue. "Lucky shot. Trust me. And since Double D claimed me, he's stuck with me."

"Fine with me."

Unfortunately, for all my claims of mediocrity, I manage to play really well. I blame the bottle of antifreeze we're chugging. I'm about to sink the eight-ball when Rick shoots up out of the chair.

"Liquor's here," he says, slipping a cell-phone back into his pocket.

"Great." The guys simultaneously set down their pool cues.

"Hold that thought," D tells me as he retrieves a gun from a pile of guns sitting on a table. I hadn't noticed them earlier. The other men follow his lead, picking up various weapons and stuffing them into holsters scattered on their bodies—hips, boots, thighs…

"You guys look like you're getting ready for battle, not picking up a bottle of liquor."

"You never know," Two Bit says with a shrug.

"Stay here," D instructs and they file from the room.

Confused, I sit in the armchair recently occupied by Rick. Why would they need guns to retrieve a bottle unless it was coming from outside the compound?

Oh hell. It's coming from outside the compound.

I go to the window and peer through the cheap plastic blinds. Even from here, I can clearly see the open gate. A beat-up Toyota Camry is pulling in.

The gate closes as the car slows to a stop and a figure climbs out. He (I assume because the lack of burka) immediately gets a pat-down and then a handshake from each of the security team. The car is briefly searched before the visitor opens the trunk and pulls out a couple bottles. There's an exchange of bottles and money—again, I assume. It could be love notes for all I know. They then turn and head straight for me.

Feeling like I've been busted spying—which I probably have—I release the blinds and step away from the window. The plastic slat snaps back into place with a "whap" and the feeling of being caught doing something wrong intensifies.

I'm tempted to return to my room, but there's no way to get there without being spotted. My desire to be social really doesn't include hanging with the locals, at least not tonight, and I decide a trip to the bathroom is in order. I'm heading that way when the door opens and the visitor and security team step through it. They're all laughing.

One of the bottles (filled with brown liquid this time) is already open and about a third emptied. How they were able to drink that much in the five minutes it took them to get from the gate to the rec room is beyond me.

Two Bit offers me the bottle and I'm about to decline, but just as his hand shoots out with the liquor offering, the
local
says, "So, who's winning?" and I realize he isn't a local at all. 

Based on appearance alone, it's impossible to tell. With his full dark beard, Turkish hat, traditional tunic and pajama pants, and sandals protecting feet that look like they haven't seen shoes in decades, he
looks
like a local. But he's definitely from the States. Somewhere on the east coast based on his accent.

"Hermit Crab here has been running the table."

The visitor stops short when he sees me. Though I'm completely caught off guard by Double D's sudden announcement, I thrust my hand forward. Forced confidence has always been one of my skills. "H.C. to my comrades here. My mother calls me Andrea."

The stranger takes my hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Andrea. Your buddies call me K.Y., but
my
mother calls me Jon."

"Why K.Y.?"

"Cause he's the slipperiest devil we know," D chimes in. "Somehow he's able to smuggle liquor from Pakistan, drive around Afghanistan drunk as balls delivering it to various compounds, and still manages to evade the police."

"Wow. Isn't that dangerous?"

"Not when you're as slick as K.Y." Two Bit throws an arm around the man's shoulder. He takes a giant swig of the bottle and then passes it over. I swear K.Y. empties a quarter before handing it back.

I feel myself make a face and then silently reprimand myself for doing so. It's none of my business. Driving around a hostile country wasted may seem like a horrible idea to me, but I really have no room to talk. I'm here, after all. And every single person I know thought that was a horrible idea as well.

I move back to take my final pool shot, pretending I don't see the bottle offered to me. Pointing at the far corner pocket, I take aim, shoot, sink the eight-ball, and then promptly scratch. Double D groans behind me and I laugh, turning to him. "Told you."

He feeds money into Junior's outstretched hand. "Man, I thought you had it."

"I tried to warn you."

Two Bit presents the bottle to me. I grimace.

"No, you have to," Double D tells me. "It's the rule. Scratch and it's down the hatch."

"You're so full of shit." I still take the bottle, holding it out to examine the label. It reads, "Wisky". Not my favorite liquor, but Jack Daniels and I are friendly. I take a delicate sip. Ugh, that is not whiskey. I think it's more Everclear—this time with food coloring. 

I start to hand it back and Two Bit puts his hand out to block. "A real shot."

"That was a real shot."

He cocks his head and eyebrows at the same time.

"Fine." I take another, healthier drink. I almost spit it all back up when I start coughing. The guys laugh as I double over and try not to hurl. "Absolutely disgusting," I say hoarsely, wiping tears from my eyes as I right myself. I'm sure my face is bright red.

The guys only laugh harder. It really is like having a bunch of little brothers. 

Whatever's in the Pakistani liquor, within five minutes I'm feeling its effect. And shortly after that I can no longer feel my nose.

K.Y. sticks around a little longer, enough to kill half a bottle of the poison he supplied and play a game of darts. I learn he's from Upstate New York and came to Afghanistan on a fluke. One of a group of college kids backpacking through the desert. Only K.Y. stayed—much to his mother's dismay.

Finally, accompanied by Junior and Rick, he stumbles back to his car.

"Let's try this pool thing again," Double D says. He's so drunk he sways as he racks the billiard balls.

Two Bit isn't any more sober. "Great! I'd like to make another fifty bucks. Recoup what I paid for the bottle. Maybe we should rename K.Y., Rip-off."

Through the cracks in the blinds, the bright red of car taillights catch my eye. I move to the window and peel them open. K.Y.'s car is driving through the open gate and when I realize Rick and Junior are just as drunk as the clowns left behind, I suddenly feel a lot less secure than I did ten minutes ago.

"H.C., you wanna break again?" D asks behind me.

"I think I'll sit this one out." When the room doesn't stop turning when I do, I realize I'm just as intoxicated as the men, maybe even more so. I flop into the chair. "I think I
need
to sit this one out."

Both men laugh. Rick and Junior come crashing back into the room, Two Bit hands them cues, D breaks, and I try to focus on one of the pool table legs to make the room stop spinning.

I'd really like to go back to my room, but at this point I'm not sure I'll make it. "What is in that liquor?" I murmur. Or think I murmur.

"The question of the century," D says, making me wonder how loud I actually spoke. "It's half the fun of Pakistani liquor…you never know what you're going to get. I'm surprised none of us have gone blind."

"That's hardly reassuring." I focus harder on the table leg. I'd really like to get out of here without puking. I'm not sure that's a possibility but I'm determined to do my best.

"What the
fuck
are you guys doing?" Trey's voice shatters the raucous chatter of the other men. I can't see him from where I'm sitting and I'm somewhat thankful. He sounds furious.

"Just shootin' some pool, boss," Junior tells him. "You want to play the winner?"

"No. I do not." Trey's voice sounds like he put it on ice. "What I would like to know is why all four members of my security team are piss-ass drunk."

"Relax," D says. "K came and went. Nothing happened. It's all cool."

"I'm not so worried about breaching security to let the bootlegger in. But you can't all be fucking wasted at the same time! What if—"

He suddenly steps into view and stops short when he sees me. I make myself as small as possible and try to sink into the chair. I close my eyes and immediately realize it's a mistake.

Lurching to my feet, I make a run for the bathroom, practically pulling my shoulder out of its socket as I yank open the door. I haven't puked from drinking too much in years, but there's no preventing it now. Falling to my knees, I grab the toilet and hurl, and hurl, and hurl.

Through the thin walls I can hear the men arguing, which only horrifies me further. After all, if I can hear them, they can hear me. And I'm not retching quietly. In fact, I'm pretty sure the liquor is some sort of terrorist weapon the way it's violently burning its way out of my esophagus.

At least the episode is short-lived. But then, I didn't actually drink that much—maybe three shots total. And I've barely eaten in days. It doesn't take my body long to rid itself of the offending liquor.

I flush the toilet and rise, wiping my mouth with the side of my hand. I don't know how it's possible, but I think I'm even more drunk than I was before I threw up. I stagger to the sink, losing my balance and stumbling into the wall.

The cold water feels great on my face, though I'm careful not to get any in my mouth. The last think I want to do is add water deemed unsafe to drink to the brew of poison churning in my unhappy stomach.

My image is blurry in the mirror. I do my best to wipe my face with a damp paper towel and then realize if my mascara is smeared I really don't care. After violently retching for the last five minutes, the last thing I should be embarassed about is a little raccoon eyes.

Still, I keep my gaze focused on the floor as I emerge from the bathroom. The room immediately goes quiet. "I'm, um, I'm going to head back to my room," I say meekly.

"I'll walk you there," D says.

"No." Trey and I say the word simultaneously, only his "no" is forceful and mine is, well, not.

"I'm fine," I add with a pathetic smile. I still haven't moved my gaze from its spot on the floor. Maybe if I don't look at the guys, they won't remember my shame.

"I'm just gonna…go." I walk with what I'd like to think is forced sobriety. I still stumble.

The doorknob proves troublesome, and I make two failed attempts to turn it before finally succeeding.

The guys start laughing as soon the door closes behind me. 

Once again I feel like a self-conscious teenager. I refuse to acknowledge her. I stand up straight (I think), square my shoulders, and march toward my room with determined purpose.

I make it thirty feet before I trip over an unseen gremlin and face-plant the lush, out of place lawn.

The cool grass feels so damn good, I might just curl up here for the night. Fuck the guys behind me. Fuck sexy-ass, hot Trey. And fuck that Pakistani liquor.

"Hey. Are you all right?"

Speaking of Sexy, or Trey, or whatever his name is…

I haul my torso onto my forearms. Two strong hands on each of my shoulders stabilize me.

"Yeah," I say, pushing the hair out of my face. The hand running through my hair smashes my nose like it's a giant speedbump. "I'm sorry. I don't normally get so…um… God, what's the word I want?"

"Sloshed?" His voice sounds sympathetic and amused at the same time. I get the feeling I'm going to be the butt of many, many jokes for the next six months. Hermit Crab will no longer be my nickname. It'll be something like Puking Crab.

"That's the one. I mean, I drink. Often. I don't puke, especially not from a few shots." And now I'm spewing words. I wish this night would end.

"Yeah, unregulated liquor… Here," I'm abruptly lifted to my feet, "let's get you to bed."

He starts to guide me but my knees are so damn unstable, I'm like a flopping puppet. We make it a few stumbling strides before my feet abruptly leave the ground.

Trey lifts my weight effortlessly, cradling me between his massive arms. I want to protest, but my door is rapidly approaching. And well, he smells really good.

Somehow he manages to twist the doorknob with me in his arms and push the door open. The room is mostly clean given I have a housekeeper, but my suitcase lies open on the dresser, clothing spilling out of it. I hope there isn't a random bra or pair of underwear in plain site. I now wish I'd put the clothes in the dresser where they belong. Putting them in the dresser made the assignment seem more permanent, so I left them in my suitcase.

He doesn't cross the threshold. He does ease me to my feet, keeping a firm grasp on my shoulders as the world swirls around me.

"Thanks for your help."