Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(70)

As we scamper along, Joy looks at me with realization. “I know what we’re doing!” she cries.

And she does, because she’s the first one to reach the great donation funnel carved out of wood. It must be six feet in diameter. We kneel at opposite ends, dump our tee shirt payloads onto the floor, and each hold our first coin in the slide slot.

“On three,” I say.

“One,” says Joy.

“Two,” I say.

“Three.”

We release. The two coins dance around in perfect graceful arcs until they reach the funnel bottom, where they accelerate in gravity-defying horizontal circles of perfect centripetal force. Finally they plink-plink into the treasure abyss below.

“Those two are me and you,” I say.

“You’re so cheesy,” says Joy. But I can tell she loves it.

“More coins,” says Joy.

“Faster,” I say.

We slot in coin after coin, and soon the wooden funnel thunders with a metallic wind. I pause to record a good length of it with my Tascam. It sounds like an endless flock of fighter jets soaring just overhead.


WATCH YOUR COINS SPIN AND SPIN!


It only takes us about ten minutes to get through all the coins. Sometimes the coins reach the bottom without collision; sometimes they clash and cause a big sloppy avalanche. It’s both exhilarating and meditative. We don’t try to engineer either conflict or harmony by fine-tuning a precise rhythm or using matching denominations or anything like that. All we do is keep slotting the coins in as fast as we can.

This is the real metaphor, right here.

Finally the last coins plink-plink away into the void, leaving a philosophically significant silence of remarkable size.

“How cool was that,” says a female voice.

Me and Joy look up. Twenty feet away stand Camille and Oscar, in their ill-fitting security uniforms.

“Never have I witnessed such beauty emerge from everyday objects,” says Oscar.

“How long have you been standing there?” I say.

“For most of it!” says Camille. Camille has a way of talking that sounds like constant whining, even if she’s agreeing with you or wishing you well. “Frank, you know officially those coins were property of Westchester Mall!”

I stand and tap the sign by the funnel.

DONATE FOR SCHOOL SUPPLIES IN OUR DISTRICT

“Think of the children,” I say.

“The Westchester Group thanks you for your generous donation on their behalf,” says Oscar.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Frank?!” says Camille.

“Uh, this is Joy,” I say.

Joy shakes hands with Camille and Oscar, who then share a look of approval.

“Frank,” says Oscar. “Please be aware that all sectors are ours to patrol this evening except parking structure Europa top level, northeast corner, and we will attempt no patrol there. That area remains in perpetual penumbra because of a malfunctioning lamp.”

I smile.

Oscar holsters the walkie. “Go, young lovers.”



* * *



? ? ?

We drive in silence. It takes a while to even find parking structure Europa, given the size of the mall. While I drive, I notice a strange nervousness has fallen between me and Joy. I catch her staring at me. She catches me glancing at her.

We are driving to the top of an empty parking structure.

Why?

I don’t even know. I just feel compelled to go. Joy, too: there she sits, with her fingertips tented upon her knees in eager anticipation.

Oscar was wrong about the malfunctioning lamp. All the lamps up here are off, leaving nothing but pristine moonlight. I park at the farthest, highest corner. The night is sapphire clear, and we can see lights stretching beyond the curved back bay of Playa Mesa all the way to San Marco, Paloma, Karston, and beyond. To our right is the pitch black void of the Pacific dotted by the lazy pinpoint strobes of oil platforms at rest.

“How late is it?” I wonder.

“Pretty late,” says Joy.

“Should we head home soon?”

Joy replies by cracking her window open an inch. So I crack mine, too.

“I feel shy,” says Joy, and laughs.

“You know, humans laugh to each other to break emotional tension,” I say, and laugh too.

Then we fall silent again. The leather seats creak every time I move a millimeter.

“Your shirt’s all stained and shit,” I say.

“So’s yours,” says Joy. She reaches to touch my abdomen.

I lead her in for a kiss that turns into two that turns into a dozen, easy. Joy suddenly hates the passenger seat she’s in. She kicks against the insides of the car and twists her body around to clamber over the idiotically located center console with its infernal parking brake and hindering drive shifter.

Finally she settles, straddling my lap, and straightens her hair: Here I am. Hi.

It’s just a pause, long enough for us to gaze at each other in the moonlit dark. The windows are already fogging right on cue, despite being cracked. She and I are lead stars in a classic romantic film everyone knows and cherishes. We can feel the next part coming up.

We kiss long and slow. We stop for a breath.

“I want you,” says Joy. “Okay?”

She is scared to death saying this. I can see it in her eyes. I can smell it on her skin. Because love is more terrifying than anything. Love is a mighty blue hand coming straight for you out of the sky. All you can do is surrender yourself and pray you don’t fall to your death.