Page 53 of Until the Last Star Fades

“No. Do you feel weird?”

“No.” He toyed with the strings dangling from his hood. “I just don’t want you to think I was letchin’ after your friends.”

“Pip asked you out, Ben. If anyone was letching…” She cleared her throat.

“I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings.”

“As long as you didn’t diss her puppets, she’ll be fine.”

Approaching the intersection of St. Mark’s and Second Avenue, the flashing red ‘Don’t Walk’ hand halted their progress. Riley fiddled with her purse’s strap. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, anything.”

They waited for a few cars to pass then ran across the street, a speeding taxi honking at their heels. Ben raised a protective arm, shielding Riley until she skipped over the curb.

“How can you work here?” She veered right, heading south on Second Avenue. “Do you have a green card?”

“I have an H-2B visa from an indie film I finished in LA two months ago.” His eyes drifted to a homeless man up the street who was brandishing a squeaky-wheeled shopping cart, its metallic whine competing with a thumping synth-pop song emanating from a building up ahead. I know this old song. “The project wrapped early and my visa was still valid, so I stayed for pilot season and picked up an advert for crisps.” Got it! New Order, “Bizarre Love Triangle”. Haven’t heard this in ages.

“Ben Fagan, potato chip pusher—I approve!”

Bobbing his head to the song’s irregular drumbeat, a cocky smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I’m a natural, me! All those prawn cocktail crisp sarnies—”

“Sarnies?” Riley scrunched her eyebrows.

“Sandwiches made with spongy white bread, tons of butter, and prawn cocktail crisps—chips. I lived on those things growing up.”

“Prawn…like shrimp? Fish-flavored potato chips? That’s your go-to?”

“I don’t follow the crowd, Hope.”

“Me neither. I’m a Funyuns fan.”

“Fun-what?”

“Funyuns—onion-flavored rings. When I was tiny, I wore them like bracelets. Not exactly the most sophisticated of snacks, but I like them.” Riley swerved around a half-eaten burrito splattered on the sidewalk.

“I reckon there’s nothing cooler than liking what you like, doing what you want, even if the crowd thinks it’s uncool. Be true to yourself, be your own person.” The song’s verse melted into a shimmering chorus and Ben slipped into a head bopping, close-eyed sway, his lips mouthing, “Say the words that I can’t say”…until a honking taxi popped him back to reality.

Riley smiled. “Think you’ll do more commercials?”

“No, I need a regular gig. That’s a stipulation with this visa. You get it for a specific job for a specific timeframe. They’re pretty strict about what you can do.”

“So, that stripper job—you must’ve been paid under the table.”

“So under I was practically lying on the floor!” He chuckled.

“Needs must, huh?” Riley raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly.”

“How much time do you have?” Riley pulled her phone from her pocket again. “I mean, before the visa expires.”

“Another month, but the diner manager is filling out the forms so I can get an extension. Foreign restaurant workers get this visa all the time. Hopefully, I can stay until mid-November, and if all goes well and the diner wants to keep me, they can request another extension. I still want to find proper acting work, though, and when that happens, the production would file for my next visa. Things are looking up!”

Riley peeked at the screen and tucked it away again.

Why does she keep doing that? It’s like she’s here, but part of her isn’t. “You okay?”