River Hickey was my first bite. That was his name—River Farslayer Hickey. In the app he told me interesting names make for interesting people and I asked if I could be the judge of that. Later that same evening, he pulled up to the old lady’s house whose attic I sleep in with his cherry-red pickup. When I sat in the passenger seat, he stared at me like I polished off a meals-worth of mayonnaise packets.
“What?” I asked. He shook his small head then started driving. We kept flicking our eyes at each other but didn’t say a word. Out the window, I pretended to zip from power line to power line using two interchanging crowbars to give my brain something to do.
***
He opened his front door for me, like a gentleman, but entered first.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said. It was humble. There was a TV on a milk crate, a camp chair facing it with a pillow for a cushion, a coffee table, and one massive hookah. I’ve never tried hookah—it seems exotic. I want my life to be equal parts chaos and exoticism.
River then led me to his bedroom, which was also humble. There was a bed.
“Well…” He pursed his lips. I pursed mine too. We stood there for a moment, our silence filling the empty, dark bedroom, lips kissing the air. It grew so silent I could hear myself breathing, so I stopped breathing.
“We could watch a movie,” he said, finally.
“What a wonderful idea.”
He slid open the closet door where a few shirts hung and a TV stood brazenly on a dresser. There were three movie options, all on VHS: Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, The Temple of Doom, and The Last Crusade.
“Your pick,” said River. I removed Raiders of the Lost Ark. “You like your classics. Classy girl,” he said. I didn’t respond because I didn’t know how. After he slipped in the tape, we sat on opposite sides of his bed. I thought about moving closer, but there was a clear line separating us. He was incredibly invested in the movie—reciting lines verbatim, and spurting facts like, It took over 50 takes for the monkey to do the Nazi salute. River was a huge nerd, and not even a cool one. When Indiana Jones saved Marion’s life a fourth time, River said, “I want to find my Indy.” There was no space for me; he was saving it for a fictitious character.
“Why couldn’t you just be him?” I asked.
“Be him?”
“I could be him.” I thought this would be a good segue into outlandish roleplay, but River snubbed me. We watched the remainder of Raiders of the Lost Ark in silence, and once the credits rolled I assumed this would be our last moment together. But he got up, and shoved The Temple of Doom into the VHS player.
***
Indiana Jones evades death easily; I want his spatial awareness. He has deep admiration for ancient works of art, a keen ability for solving puzzles, and an unmatchable charm his strong jawline only immortalizes. I wonder, did he take classes in whip wielding? Or was this an ability he was born with?
River rose at the end of Temple of Doom and exchanged it with The Last Crusade. Daddy Jones had a major influence on Indiana’s life, which made me reconsider whether I could become him—my family consists of uneducated alcoholics. But by the words of the World History professor that tried to sleep with me, You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, but you gotta put in the work. If I play my cards right—find a whip instructor, change my major to archeology, and learn Hindi—I’ll be the next Indiana Jones. I can already see my travel memoirs on shelves at Barnes & Noble: Adventures With Candida.
River rolled over to me half-way through the The Last Crusade, I’m assuming in an attempt to cuddle, but I ignored him. My brain was too busy planning the rest of my life. By the end of the movie, I had a list of everything I needed to accomplish to shapeshift into the next Indiana Jones. One of these was to remain a bachelorette for the rest of my life.
***
The drive back was as it was there: quiet. We both reeked of desperation, and though he lingered a beat too long after dropping me off, I did not resort to necking him. From the sidewalk, I watched as his cherry-red pickup drifted beneath street lights until he was only a pinprick of color. River meandered out of sight. Soon, he will only be a memory associated with a really stupid name that somehow changed the course of my life.
————
Camille Bliss grew up in Oregon in a cave with a herd of Maine coons. Much of her work constellates around subjects such as the meaning of life, death, Maine coon taxidermy, and dating. She’s written lots of things that will be published in lots of places, and a picture taken of her in the 11th grade holding a branch of some kind featured on the NSA most wanted list. Several of her novels, a memoir, and a few collections of poetry will be in circulation within the next 10 years, probably with awards. As of right now, she was last spotted in Wilmington, North Carolina, where all those stupid round-a-bouts are.