The Game
A Short Story by Dee Scott Erickson
It was six-thirty when her phone rang, and because Paula had a special ring tone set for each of her family members, she already knew it was Sonya on the other end of the line.
“What’s up?” She stood, stretched, and walked to the bed so she could lie down and talk. These calls had a way of going long.
“Ahh… nothin’.” Sonny’s voice sounded light and happy even in that one word. “You’ll never guess where I am right now.”
Paula perked up at that. She’d been looking forward to their almost daily phone call. “Where are you today?”
“Oh, man. I’ve had the best day so far,” Sonny breathed. Paula could imagine her sister’s smile, could hear it even in her tone, “and I’m back at the trailer now having a beer.”
Hearing Sonny was back, Paula smiled to herself. In only a moment, her mind flew to the Have a Nice Day RV Park. Perched on a low bluff above the beach, it was the place they had decided to set up their “home base.” This was the retirement plan they had thought up as kids. Two old ladies living out their carefree and devil-may-care days.
The park was filled with a combination of permanent, park-model trailers (the ones with regular-size toilets and slightly roomier bathtubs, and a direct sewer line connection) and daily passers through which were usually those new, behemoth land yachts with tip-outs and generators. There was a community club, laundromat, and small convenience store in front, where the live-in manager smoked his Player’s cigarettes one after the other. Everything he sold came out smelling like smoke.
Have A Nice Day housed, in the very last row, butting up against the moss-covered pines, two ancient trailers, a Spartan Monor and an Airstream, both from the 1950’s. Instead of being placed parallel to each other like all the other trailers in spaces throughout the park, these were situated end to end, creating an eighty-foot wall at the edge of the world. They were also placed backward, with their doors facing the sunset and the endless Pacific Ocean.
Sonny was always there when she wasn’t pulled away somewhere across the country by her curiosity or men or her natural gypsy heart. She went on frequent but short trips when she had a notion to. Paula stayed out a bit more, spending a good portion of her time in Arizona. She said the dry air suited her hair better. The truth was, she would get to missing the desert with its heat and its stark, geologic beauty. Tonight, though, she was on the opposite coast, breathing fresh air and sampling the chowder wherever she went.
A “home base,” as the women called it. It was becoming their sanctuary. On the left was Sonny’s place, the Airstream, with its sleek and rounded silver hull. It squatted like a beached submarine on the bluff, glinting dully in the fading sunlight. There were soft green painted accents from bow to stern. Sonny’s color. To the right was Paula’s Manor, a beautiful and angular metal beast with wraparound windows in the living room and little curlicue details holding up the pink window awnings. Paula’s hue.
“I’m a little bit jealous,” Paula confided in her sister, “are you drinking a beer, too?”
“An IPA, if you must know,” Sonny drawled. She knew Paula hated the trendy beers, preferring her salty domestic PBR to the bitter microbrews.
“Well, of course it is,” Paula lay back on the pillows of her rented motel bed, muted the television, and relaxed. It had been three years since the two women had found Have a Nice Day, and on a whim inspired more by the cheesy name of the place, driven through. On the last little street of five, there had been the old trailers, both empty and a bit derelict. Neither had worn a for sale sign, but from the moment they stepped out of Paula’s SUV, both swore they knew they would live there.
A quick walkaround showed them all they needed to know: the Airstream and the Spartan were solid and fixable. There had been weeds poking up through the dated landscaping, and both needed some TLC, but they were both structurally sound if a tad neglected. The owner of Have a Nice Day had been ecstatic at their offers to purchase the old relics, and to have two new, full-time renters.
“You just got back?” Sonny startled Paula from her reverie.
“About an hour ago. I found this little seafood place about a mile from here. The clam chowder is to die for.”
“Shit,” Sonny said with a small chuckle, “you should write a book about that.”
Paula entertained the idea for a moment. The Hitchhikers’ Guide to Clam Chowder? She would sell exactly two copies: one to herself and one to her grandson, a chowder hound from the word go.
“I think I’ll stick to chick lit, thanks.” She changed the subject. “This motel room is so retro, I think you’d love it. Shag carpet and velvet bedspreads. Super cool.”
“How’s my house looking?”
“Fantastic! George got that set of planters put in, and he replaced your steps yesterday or the day before. I’m not sure exactly when, because I…” Sonny paused for effect, “wasn’t…” another pause, “here over the weekend!”
“Send me pics of the stuff George did?” Sonny said she would. Paula stood and walked to the large mirror at the end of the bed. She turned her head this way and that, and asked, “Where were you, pray tell?”
Sonny always had a man on the line. Even in her late thirties, she was fucking adorable. The only common feature between the sisters was their eye color. Both had a stunning shade of dark blue with vivid yellow rings around the pupils. That’s where the similarities ended. Where Sonny was a narrow lane, she was wide curves. Where Sonny was dusky and tanned, she was pale and burned. Where Sonny had cheekbones for days, she had cheeks for weeks.
It was no surprise that the men loved Sonny and rarely looked at Paula. Even now, even after all the years of being who she was, Paula still felt that little stab of jealousy toward her sister. It was a hard thing to shake. All she ever heard since Sonny was born were comments about how beautiful her sister was going to be, and how much trouble their parents were going to have with her because she was pretty. Those things stick with a girl, even after years of working out how to love herself. It’s a harder lesson to learn, to love without comparing.
“Ooh! Was it Patrick?” She asked, running her hands through her hair and smiling at herself.
“Nope, Chuck,” Paula could hear Sonny chugging the rest of her IPA.
“He the one with the dog?”
“Two, Boomer and Badger.”
“Oh. Details?”
“Nice. Decent in bed, too. He cooked me dinner one of the nights, and we went out to Spangler’s for burgers the other.”
“Big?” Paula tried to get a good mental picture of Charlie Benson in her mind but couldn’t. Was he the one with the full head of hair, or the one who was thinning on top but drove a BMW? At their ages, with Sonny about to be forty and Paula squarely in the middle of them, that was how dating criteria was set. As long as a guy didn’t have young children from some dreadful, ill-thought-out second marriage, he was fair game.
Men were approved or vetoed based on relationship status, intelligence, and humor, and identified by the amount of hair they still possessed or the vehicle they drove. They rarely had abs, so physique and looks were really just bonuses.
“Not really,” Sonny cracked another cold one. The hiss of carbonation could be heard through the phone. “But he still knows how to use it. And he can go more than once. If I give him a bit. There, happy? What did you do today, anyway?”
Paula could hear her sister cooing at Vinnie, her little chihuahua, and kissing him while she listened.
“Well, I spent most of the morning out at the beach, walking. It was nice. Not too warm. After that, I got my laptop and went to the library to write. The library here is so pretty. One of those round buildings, with spokes. Looks like a fancy yurt.”
“I went ahead and booked that show next weekend. The Art Faire? You going to be back for that, or should I ask Mary to come with?”
“The people all seem to love your work, Sonny girl,” They talked for a while about the buzz around her amazing hemp work, and then moved on to future plans for the trailers at Have a Nice Day.
Ideas for the renovations had sprung up so organically, and it seemed every time they talked, one of them had stumbled across some amazing idea for the other’s little home. It had become a kind of challenge or contest between them.
In three years, the old Spartan Paula purchased had gone from shack to true Manor status. She had replaced the old metal awning with a covered wood deck, with a pair of padded iron chairs and a little chiminea on it. In the morning, she would sit on the porch with a cup of tea and stare off into the expanse of ocean, head empty of thoughts, and write for half the day. Chilly evenings found the terra cotta chiminea lit up with a crackling little fire, and maybe something stronger than tea in her “I’ve Been to Delaware” mug. Beside the door was a cheesy sign, painted on driftwood, proclaiming the place to be “Margaritaville.” It was her sister’s first gift when they’d embarked on this journey.
Sonny’s Airstream was a bohemian wonderland. The deck was similar to Paula’s, but the roof was supported by four pieces of gnarled driftwood, and Sonny’s macrame plant holders hung from every possible place. She had the other two iron chairs to the set on Paula’s porch, and a small propane firepit that saw blue flames dancing on glass. There were windchimes and whirlygigs as well, also Sonny’s creations, and they fairly danced when the ocean wind came up. She could sit out on that porch for hours, tying knots and beading her hemp work, drink a six pack of Dead Guy Ale, and the campy metal sign proclaiming it to be “BEER:30” meant she wasn’t out of line. Paula has returned the Margaritaville favor with one of her own.
It was an easy place to leave, and an easy place to come back to. Whenever the two women were tired of life, there was always Have a Nice Day and their dream trailers and their simpler lives. It was mostly just the two of them there, uncomplicated and unfettered by much of anything.
And it felt good to be there, of course it did! This world they’d created was pretty close to perfect. And it was a far cry from the lives they had before.
“I was thinking, Son, couldn’t we put a big barbecue in that area between our porches? Like, a communal one? You can invite Chuck, or Patrick, or whoever over, and we can grill up some steaks. What do you think? Does Chuck have a friend?” Paula asked, laughing.
“He could, if you want him to.” They detoured into a discussion of what it would be like if they both had boyfriends, and how they could invite them both to dinner so there was no third wheel. “You should let a guy into this, Pauly,” Sonny said quietly.
“Nah,” she shook her head as if Sonny could see it on the phone, “it would just mess up this perfect world we’ve created.”
Sonny allowed that was probably true, and their conversation dwindled. Paula didn’t want to go yet, so she just sat, listening to Sonny talk to Vinnie and tell him he was a good doggo, wasn’t he, and Mommy didn’t know what she would do without him, did she? It was probably time to go, before Sonny got too carried away.
“This was the best idea we’ve ever had, Sonny,” she said into the phone.
“I know, right? Usually, our ideas are stupid. But not this one.”
“Whose idea was it, anyway?” Paula was never quite sure who had thought it up. It seemed like something that just happened.
“I think I was the one who started this, but it doesn’t matter. You play the game with me and that’s what’s important,” Sonny told her, pulling on her beer again. She gulped then said, “You know, Pauly, there are some days where this saves my life.”
Now Paula was coming back to herself, feeling reality flood back in, seeing not that kitschy, coastal motel she was supposed to be in, but her own room, where she had gone so she wasn’t bothering Kurt while he watched the Broncos play. It wasn’t like he noticed her much anymore, anyway. There was dinner to cook, and there were things to clean, and there were kids and school to keep track of. She had work tomorrow. Someone had to support the family, didn’t they? Kurt needed his cigarettes and his drugs, and people without jobs couldn’t exactly pay for their own, could they?
“Me too, Sonny,” she said quietly.
“I don’t know what I’d do without this, Paul.”
“Maybe it’s not good for us to do this…” Paula trailed off doubtfully. It was fun, but what good could it possibly do to play a game where they fantasized their real lives away? Have a Nice Day was a dream world they’d somehow created between the two of them. It was a brief escape from the real world. Maybe it had started out as a joke, or maybe as an extension of their natural propensity for storytelling. But it seemed more real all the time, and there was a possibility they were both addicted to that escape. Sometimes, the lines got blurry.
With that thought, Paula was now squarely back where she’d been when the phone had rung. Back in real life. She could imagine Sonya, on her own bed at home, where a few punches in the ribs might come at any moment, and Josh might just forget himself and go for the face, too. But he would buy her a new purse or take her shopping after that, to let her know how sorry he really was and smooth things over until the next time she screwed up and he just couldn’t help himself. But it was what a girl had to do to be taken care of, wasn’t it?
“We’re going to do it though, right?” Sonny sounded desperate. “We’re going to find a place, just you and me, together. Someday? Like at Have a Nice Day?”
“Of course, we are, Sonny girl,” Paula felt tears prick her eyes and she swallowed hard at the lump in her throat. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Okay?”
“Yeah,” Sonny whispered. “We’re really going to do it someday.” She nearly yelled it into the microphone, and it blared into Paula’s ear, making it buzz. Her voice was loud, but she sounded so very lost and utterly unconvinced. Paula realized she was probably as much living for the game as her sister was, but for different reasons. Paula loved where it took them, but Sonny… well, she needed it more.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Sonny,” she said again.
“We can talk about Art Faire?” Sonny asked sweetly.
“We can do whatever we want.”
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DEE SCOTT ERICKSON, author 