Page 23 of The Sign for Home

“You can stop right now,” I said, rolling my eyes. “We’ve talked about this.”

“But this one is really cute—I mean, for Poughkeepsie. And he almost has a year sober!”

“I’m good,” I said, using mythe discussion is overvoice. “Let’s talk more about worms in my penis, okay?”

“Okay, okay. Stay single. You’re probably smart. Marriage is a pain in theachterwerk. And, by the way, don’t worry, there are sadly no blood flukes around Poughkeepsie. Just another way this area is so boring.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“So, tell me, why do I get to see my little Cyrilje in the middle of the day? You have a job nearby?”

“I do. I started today. It’s this crazy temporary-ongoing gig.”

Hanne smiled and then shouted over a particularly loud hiss coming from the milk steamer that she had started cleaning out. “Temporary-ongoing?! What’s that mean?! Is this not some profound existential question?!”

“In fact, it is!” I shouted back. “Existential questions define the life of a freelance ASL interpreter! The good news is this replaced that gig I lost and it’s at the community college so we might be able to meet up on campus!”

“Super!” Hanne shouted before stopping the steamer. “I want all I can get of my little lobster man. Come. Sit up at my bar. Tell me fascinating stories of your life. The boring monsters are trying to eat me here.”

Hanne tossed her head toward her store manager, Kenny, the pie-faced twenty-five-year-old Marist student who sat in the small room in the back working on spreadsheets. Other than us the café was completely empty.

“Free cappuccino if you stay and talk to me?” Hanne said, tempting me with a large cup.

“Alas, I really need to go chill out before my next gig.”

“Please! Just fifteen minutes. You must save me from literally sticking my hand in the Frappuccino blender just to remind myself I’m alive.”

“I think I can do that,” I said. “But give me two extra shots. I’m feeling a bit tired for some reason.”

Hanne gave me a once-over and raised her eyebrows with a semijudgmental but friendly smirk before she started making me my cappuccino.

“Was my little baby hungover again this morning? Remember, if you ever want to make the visit to one of my ‘pottery classes’ with me, you are welcome.”

Pottery classis Hanne’s code word for her AA meetings. My needing to get sober is another one of the million little inside jokes we have with each other.

“Here you go. A triple cap. This will put the red fur on your chest. Now, tell me more about your eternal-ephemeral interpreting job!”

“Temporary-ongoing,” I corrected. “And it means the gig will last a few months, three hours a day, five days a week. Cha-ching.”

“Wonderful,” Hanne said. “And you were worried about money,ja?”

“Yep. And it pays ten bucks an hour over my usual rate. I’m golden.”

“Does this mean…?”

Hanne pushed out her lower lip in an exaggerated sad face.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” I said, crossing my fingers. “Which is yet another reason you don’t need to force strange gay men on me to date, since, come September, it’s bye-bye, Poughkeepsie. Of course, I’ve said that like a dozen times, right?”

“The Taconic Vortex of Hell,” Hanne said, nodding.

“Exactly. But I think this time it’s actually possible. Unfortunately, the job itself is not gonna be easy. The client is DeafBlind, which is decidedly out of my comfort zone.”

“Wait… what?” Hanne asked, her eyes widening in rapt fascination. “But how does that work?”

Before I knew it, Hanne was begging me to give her a demonstration of how Tactile ASL worked. I told her to close her eyes and signed “Hello. What’s up? This is Tactile interpreting, H-A-N-N-E.”

“Oh my God, it tickles!” Hanne laughed, pulling her hands from mine. “I love this. Oh, Cyrilje, it’s also kind of sexy,ja? But this freaks you out, right?”

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