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“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You’re calling.”
“Yes?” We have this conversation about once a week. Perky is not only all about the new technology, she’s remarkably predictable in her complaints about my habits.
“You only call when something is wrong.” Smacking noises tell me she’s chewing gum. This means it’s another Day One of not smoking. Perky–short for Persephone–is in a constant state of trying not to smoke. Patches, filters, special vaping, drugs, gum, crystals, hypnosis, the medical intuitive who was convinced Perky had a brain tumor–you name it, Perky will try it, if it means she quits her nicotine habit.
Inevitably, though, she ends up back at Day One, trying yet again to abstain.
“I can’t text and drive. So I’m calling.”
“You’re driving? You mean you left your apartment and let sunlight touch your skin? Where are you going? Reese’s Cup emergency?” Smack smack smack.
“No. Better.”
“Better than Reese’s Cups? Wow. That’s a high bar for you. Has to be big. Job interview?” Before I can answer, she adds, “And plug in your phone. How low is the battery?”
I look. “Six percent. I’m fine.” It’s actually at two percent, but whatever.
“Oh. My. God. Plug in the damn phone. You do this all the time, Mal, and no one can reach you.”
“I do not!” My charger plug is hanging in a half-full cup of old drive-thru coffee. I can’t tell her that, of course.
The drive-thru coffee part, I mean. If Perky knew I bought coffee at the National Chain That Shall Not Be Named, she’d kill me.
“Even better. A job!”
“A job job?”
“Yep. A job job.”
“That was fast! When did you get hired?”
“About forty-five minutes ago.”
“And they want you to start now? Right now?”
“Yep.”
“That’s crazy!” Smack smack smack. The chewing sounds increase. I’ve learned to measure her excitement by how annoying the sounds become. Good thing I don’t have misophonia, or I’d have to fire Perky from being my bestie.
“I know. But I can’t be picky.”
“You can totally be picky.”
“We don’t all have trust funds and work fifteen hours a week selling coffee.”
“Hey now. I don’t sell coffee. I brew it, using artisanal methods from training I received in Italy.”
Notice how she’s not offended about the trust fund? Perky’s family spends a small fortune on an on-staff psychologist in her childhood home. Home is a stretch. Palace is more like it. And the palace psychologist is there to normalize and to help the family internalize the fact that winning $177 million from a lottery ticket her mom bought one night on a whim while buying smokes is a blessing.
Never, ever a curse.
“You sell coffee, Perk. Don’t try to make it sound fancier than it is.”
After college, Perky took some of her share of the lottery money and invested it in Bitcoin. Her parents didn’t say much. They were too busy adding a private hangar to their new spread in Wyoming. She made a killing buying Bitcoin at $10 and selling at $20.
