Once it starts coming clear to her, again, that these people are all twisted freaks, she starts to notice other things about them. For example, the whole time, no one ever looks her in the eye. Especially the men. No sex at all in these guys, they've got it pushed so far down inside of them. She can understand why they don't look at the fat babushkas. But she's a fifteen-year-old American chick, and she is used to getting the occasional look. Not here.
Until she looks up from her big vat of fish one day and finds that she is looking into some guy's chest. And when she follows his chest upward to his neck, and his neck all the way up to his face, she sees dark eyes staring right back at her, right over the top of the counter.
He's got something written on his forehead: POOR IMPULSE CONTROL. Which is kind of scary. Sexy, too. It gives him a certain measure of romance that none of these other people have. She was expecting the Raft to be dark and dangerous, and instead it's just like working where her mother works. This guy is the first person she's seen around this place who really looks like he belongs on the Raft.
And he's got the look down, too. Incredibly rank style. Although he has a long wispy mustache that doesn't do much for his face. Doesn't bring out his features well at all.
Do you take the nasty stuff? One fish head or two?" she says, dangling the ladle picturesquely. She always talks trash to people because none of them can understand what she's saying.
I'll take whatever you're offering," the guy says. In English. Sort of a crisp accent.
I'm not offering anything," she says, "but if you want to stand there and browse, that's cool.
He stands there and browses for a while. Long enough that people farther back in line stand up on tiptoe to see what the problem is. But when they see that the problem is this particular individual, they get down off their toes real fast, hunch down, sort of blend in to the mass of fishy-smelling wool.
What's for dessert today?" the guy asks. "Got anything sweet for me
We don't believe in dessert," Y.T. says. "It's a fucking sin, remember
Depends on your cultural orientation.
Oh, yeah? What culture are you oriented to
I am an Aleut.
Oh. I've never heard of that.
That's because we've been fucked over," the big scary Aleut says, "worse than any other people in history.
Sorry to hear that," Y.T. says. "So, uh, do you want me to serve up some fish, or are you gonna stay hungry
The big Aleut stares at her for a while. Then he jerks his head sideways and says, "Come on. Let's get the fuck out of here.
What, and skip out on this cool job
He grins ridiculously. "I can find you a better job.
In this job, do I get to leave my clothes on
Come on. We're going now," he says, those eyes burning into her. She tries to ignore a sudden warm tense feeling down between her legs.
She starts following him down the cafeteria line, heading for a gap where she can exit into the dining area. The head babushka bitch comes stomping out from in back, hollers at her in some incomprehensible language.
Y.T. turns to look back. She feels a pair of big hands sliding up her sides, coming up into her armpits, and she pulls her arms to her sides, trying to stop it. But it's no good, the hands come all the way up and keep lifting, keep rising into the air, bringing her with them. The big guy hoists her right up over the counter like she's a three-year-old and sets her down next to him. Y.T. turns back around to see the head babushka bitch, but she is frozen in a mixture of surprise, fear, and sexual outrage. But in the end, fear wins out, she averts her eyes, turns away, and goes to replace Y.T. at vat position number nine.
Thanks for the lift," Y.T. says, her voice wowing and fluttering ridiculously.
Uh, didn't you want to eat something
I was thinking of going out anyway," he says.
Going out? Where do you go out on the Raft
Come on, I'll show you.