Chapter 3: Isamu

Inu clearly needs to pee.Which would be a non-issue if I had my prosthesis on, but the fine dusting of sleep still lingers on my eyes, and my residual limb lays comfortably over the blankets I kicked off last night.

I groan and roll over in bed, only slightly wishing I could cover my head with a pillow and pretend she doesn't have any needs. I get out of bed, reaching for my crutches that pull uncomfortably at the hair in my armpits. Gonzales's neighbors—my new neighbors—are in for a surprise if they haven't left for classes yet.

"Settle," I tell her as I heave my way to the door in nothing but boxers.

She follows me, minding the crutches as we slowly make our way down the stairs.

"Get busy," I mumble out, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

The sun hasn't even finished its morning climb but here I am, giving the neighbors a peep show. At least I'm still in shape. Physical therapy was depressing until we finally learned how to squat with the prosthesis. That's when I really started feeling like myself again.

Now that I'm back to mobile independence, there's only one way to celebrate. Nothing speaks true freedom like hitting the road without a care in the world. I'll really be putting this leg to the test when I hike up every 14'er in the US, and down every canyon and crevice Inu and I can fit into. National Parks, State Parks, just a cute little trail on the side of the road. Whatever it is, Inu and I are hiking it.

But before we can even do that, I have to convert a camper van so it can fit a full-grown man, a ninety-pound rottweiler, and an entire living space for the both of us. It's going to take a lot of research and I'm not sure how much it'll cost me, but I've got until spring to figure it out.

I pause my train of thought as Inu finishes her business, and I frown at the shit that she's left behind. I didn't think to bring a poop bag.

Looking around to check for neighbors, I turn and leave the shit steaming in the early morning air. It's not like they're going to yell at a half-naked disabled man. Probably.

The apartment is spotless except for the stack of broken-down cardboard boxes by the front door. Even then, there are still small touches of Gonzales everywhere. A few mementos from our post-graduation trip to Mexico I barely remember—including a tequila barrel just slightly larger than my palm. One of those stuffed army bears that Gonzales made when he went with my parents to drop me off at basic—my last name, Miura, is sewed into the pocket of the bear's Army fatigues. And more textbooks than I can count, stacked haphazardly on his bookshelf.

Nerd.

Grabbing Inu's food bowl, I spy a mug from Atlanta. I didn't even know Gonzales had been there.

I hold the mug in my hands, thinking of everything I've missed out on. This was supposed to be our lives together.

There's no point in regretting it now, but I allow myself to wallow once I'm standing in the shower, one hand tightly wrapped around the support bar as I lower myself onto the stool, a few tears dropping. Looking down at my residual limb, I try to staunch my bleeding thoughts before finally accepting their release.

I lean my head against the shower wall and let the water wash my tears away. Finally, Inu's nose pops through the shower curtain, probably making sure I'm still alive in here.

"Hey, pretty girl," I say, voice as wet as the air trapped in the bathroom. I run a pruned hand under her jaw and she sniffs, trying to gauge my heart rate under the smell of my clean skin.

The vice grip that sorrow had around my heart is alleviated by the tears.

Inu watches me get out of the shower, patient and calm as water droplets fall inches from her snout. She has to back out awkwardly, allowing me the space to crutch out of the bathroom naked. I mimic the beep reversing trucks make as she takes tentative steps backward through the now open bathroom door.

A door in the apartment squeaks open and Inu and I both pause, still as we wait in anticipation.

"Did you know Gonzales was still home?" I ask Inu in a stage whisper.

She huffs at me.

I'd assumed he'd have started classes earlier than this.

"Oh my—I'm so sorry! I—I'm late," shouts a woman I've never seen before, averting her eyes, then looking back in confusion.

I blink at her in surprise but make no move to cover myself as she finally looks away. Privacy wasn't exactly something I got in the military.

She scurries across the apartment, heels clacking against tile as she snags a backpack hidden behind all the boxes.

"Aaliyah," Gonzales starts, carrying a T-shirt in his hands as he leaves his room. "Wait, I can drive—what the fuck? Oralé, let me get some of that," he jeers before slapping me in the dick with his shirt.

"Seriously?" I groan, crutches keeping me from folding into myself for protection and comfort.

I can't believe I cried for this asshole in the shower.

He chases after the girl who's already left the scene of the crime.

"Would you rather take the bus? I can drive," Gonzales yells from the stairwell down at the girl.

I don't wait to hear her response and rush to my room, slamming the door shut once Inu and I are safe from Gonzales's harassing hands.

I put my head in my hands before finally picking myself and my virtue up off the bed.

Slipping the silicon liner around my residual limb, I redirect my thoughts to the long day ahead.

"We did a lot of research on vans last night, huh?" I tell Inu. "It's going to be expensive even with the military disability check." Turns out losing your leg to falling rubble kind of sets you for life. "But we might have to get a job if parts start to get expensive."

I push the air out of my liner and attach my prosthesis.

Last night, I tried to come up with a list of functions I needed for the van and almost instantly became overwhelmed. Some vans have video gaming systems, others have bathtubs with jets. Even the most basic builds were too overwhelming to try and understand all the components that went into it. That's when the YouTube walkthroughs of van conversions were helpful, and a familiar auto shop appeared in one of the fancier builds—Mulkey's.

"It's been a while since I've been there," I tell Inu, stepping into my leg to evacuate the air through the top. I was forced to take a day off from wearing it because of the aches. "I'll let you in on a secret, girl. I have no clue what I'm doing."

My hobbies were playing basketball and cooking meals with Gonzales, not working with wood or taking cars apart.

I strap Inu into her harness and am surprised to find Gonzales still in the apartment, humming happily as he stands in front of the stove. Smells like bacon.

"What'd you think? She's gorgeous, isn't she? And get this güey, she's a double E major," he says, smirking over his shoulder before dropping a plate of bacon in front of me.

"What's double E?" I ask.

"Electrical Engineering," he clarifies with a waggle of his eyebrows. "She's perfect, a genius, and mierda, she's a badass."

The thing about Gonzales is that he could sweeten a nun into bed. I attach the leash to Inu's harness while I casually say, "Too bad you're gonna lose her then. I bet it must be difficult for your girlfriend to realize she's dating the guy with the smaller dick."

Gonzales scoffs, pauses in thought, then scoffs again. "Shut up."

"Whatever," I tell him, slipping a piece of bacon into my mouth before shoving on my boots. "We could compare but—" I suck my teeth hard. "That'd be pretty gay."

"Ha! Yeah, cause you'd never do anything gay," Gonzales jokes, where he's begun picking off the plate.

I flip him the bird while slipping out the door with Inu.

"Do you want a ride?" he shouts from inside.

"Nope," I respond, grateful for the exercise after a day of rest. Last night, when I was researching how to convert a camper van, I found companies that do it for a hefty price. But I want to learn how to do it myself, since I don't know how long I'll be using it. If any repairs are needed, I better be equipped enough to do it on the road.

In high school, I drove a used mom van that broke down at least twice a year. Mulkey's was just off the highway, past the trailer park, and easy to get to between school and home. I just didn't realize they would also do custom builds for vans.

By the time the bus drops of me and Inu about half a mile from the actual auto shop, I'm regretting not taking Gonzales's offer for a ride. The sun is high in the sky, cooking Inu's dark fur and my darker hair equally.

If only North Carolina understood it was fall.

"Let's get your booties on," I tell Inu, crouching down to unzip her little carrier bag and pulling out her dog shoes. The pavement isn't too hot for her paws, but the sidewalk is nonexistent this far in the sticks, and I don't want to risk glass or worse as we walk through the tall grass.

She drinks from the portable dog bowl I've set out while I strap her into her shoes. The prospect of a van seems sweeter now that I'm violently reminded how miserable travel is in the US.

Mulkey's is surprisingly busy for a weekday morning, judging on the number of people in the waiting room. There is a guy manning the counter, old sweat splitting apart the grease coating on his face. His beard is scraggly and his hair comes out in tufts underneath his ballcap.

"What can I do for ya, sir?" he asks as I reach the counter.

"Hi," I start, violently remembering my southern accent that's never sat right on my tongue. "I actually saw your shop on a Sprinter van conversion, and was wondering if that's something y'all offer."

The guy smiles, slow and rueful as if he's remembering an inside joke. "Mhm, yeah, I know the videos you're talking about. But nah, we don't offer anything like that. It's just one of the guys, he took some extra money to work it." The man pauses. "Definitely regretted it though," he mumbles under his breath.

"Well, does he still work here?"

Grease man nods and turns around, opening the door to the garage and releasing the sounds of machine and sweaty car mechanics in the process. "Yo! Love! Come here."

I don't see anyone look up but someone from inside shouts, "Love's in class," as another yells, "He's working on the Corolla, you need him?"

"Yeah! Some guy's here about a van conversion," grease man shouts with laughter in his voice.

Finally, he shuts the door but two seconds later, another man emerges. His uniform says "LOVE" in big letters but there's none in his eyes as he glares at grease man, eyes shouting displeasure his face doesn't betray. Wiping off his hands on an oil-soaked rag, Love's eyes snap to me and he blinks his long lashes once, slow, like he's trying to will me away.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asks, bracing his muscle knit arms on the counter to lean closer.

It makes me feel like I'm in a cage with a bear. It makes me feel intimidated. It makes me feel excited.

"Did you do the van conversion on YouTube?" I ask, letting my accent drop as I focus on not letting my voice crack. Attractive men make me weak in the knees—knee I suppose—and the tingle of anxiety crawls across my skin.

He nods slowly and I wonder if he's intentionally trying to make me feel like the scum on his grease rag. My attraction diminishes. "Yeah, but that's the only one I'm doin'. Ain't got time for no more."

Grease man walks away, laughing to himself from behind his fist. Love's eyes follow him with annoyance.

"I'm Isamu." I hold out my hand to him, which jostles Inu a bit.

He ignores my hand and looks down at her, jaw tightening. "She bite?"

"No. She's a service dog. I'm disabled." I immediately panic that it sounds like I'm pulling the pity card instead of just trying to avoid getting kicked out and move on quickly. "I don't need you to do the conversion for me. I just have a lot of questions and I was hoping to ask someone who has experience in it."

"I'm kind of busy here, man. I don't think?—"

"You don't have to answer them now," I rush to cut in. "You're at work, I get that. What if I emailed you some questions?"

He raises an eyebrow and rolls out his neck, the golden hoops in his locs shining in the store's awful fluorescent lighting. "I'm sure there are some companies who'd answer your questions, or one of those social media influencers that live in those vans."

"I'll pay you. Just for the questions."

He folds his hands over each other on the counter and rests his chin on them, plump lips puffing out in thought.

"Leave your number and I'll think about it. But I'm real busy man, so don't hold your breath."

I nod vigorously, writing down my number quickly, excited to not feel so lost on my project. "Thanks so much, Love. I seriously appreciate it," I tell him.

"John. Name's John."

I look up from where I'm writing and grimace. "Sorry, I thought with the—" I point at my own shirt. "Okay, well thanks John," I finish, sliding my number toward him before turning to leave.

As I look back to make sure Inu gets through the door without trouble, I watch him toss my number in the garbage bin before returning to the garage.

John

Aaliyah's boyfriendis in my garage this morning, driving a flashy white Camaro with electric blue racing stripes. Apparently, he asked for me specifically, which caused Tom upfront to crack a joke that I need to stop inviting my boyfriends to work. He won't be laughing when I crack one of his ribs.

"Hey, what's up, man?" Gonzales starts, clasping his hand in mine. Normally, we make the owners wait in the front, but Tom thought it'd be funny to tell Gonzales he can go into the garage to greet me.

"Working," I say, lifting the hood of his car. I wish I hated this car, but it's a working model of the 1969 Camaro my dad and I have sitting outside the mobile. It's from the year before health and safety rules were enforced. Before engine powers were lowered and other regulations were added, such as smog pumps and power steering. I'm screaming with jealousy that his car is up and running.

If I had the money, mine would be purring stronger than his.

My dad would still be salivating if he were looking at this car.

Tom and I start the basic check, seeing if there's anything other than the basic oil change that needs to be fixed.

"This is a nice gig you've got here," Gonzales says after a long period of silence. "Being able to move around before an entire day in class must be nice."

I'm a quiet guy. It goes with the territory of having a dad who never listens and a mom who never can again. Because of my silence, I've learned to listen to others. I can tell when someone is building up to say something that I'm not going to like.

This is one of those times.

I'm not merciful enough to cut to the chase and give Gonzales an out because sometimes, people will still bail at the last second despite all their build up. I'm hoping he bails because if he's about to ask me what to get Aaliyah for her next birthday, he'll be disappointed to learn she's more likely to enjoy going to a Black poetry reading, versus a shiny new piece of jewelry he can just throw his Camaro money at.

"I actually have a favor to ask."

"What's up?" I ask him, taking a reluctant pause from calling out checks to Tom.

Today is finally cooler, and the humid North Carolina summer slowly begins to release in its delayed realization that it's autumn, but my shirt still clings to my back and chest. I look over at Gonzales and run the rag across the back of my neck, annoyed that I'm still waiting.

"That guy that came in yesterday for the van conversion?—"

I scoff and begin to change his oil, already uninterested in talking about the guy, no matter how nice his ass looked in those Lululemon pants I've never been able to afford. The last van conversion I worked wasn't worth the money. The customer was a pain, constantly changing his mind after I'd finished part of it and cracking constant jokes about all the ecstasy trips he'd take in the van during music festivals. It made my skin crawl knowing he was another addict in my life.

"John," Gonzales starts again, sounding too calm for my heat-stroked nerves.

Aaliyah really knows how to pick them, but thinking of her makes me feel guilty. I hold out a hand to Tom to hang on. Leaning against the car like the asshole I am, I cross my arms as I face Gonzales, giving him my full attention.

"What?"

Gonzales's eyes drop to my arms and back to my face before he smiles. I thought I was good at putting on a placating mask for customers, but Gonzales is on a level I didn't know existed.

"That guy, Isamu?—"

"Isamu," I agree, reminding myself of his name.

"Yeah, well, he's my roommate and he's really looking forward to converting that van. You see, he just got out of the military?—"

I grunt, uncomfortable with military sob stories when I've been living the residual of one my entire life. Still, knowing that's the reason why Gonzales is here, it tugs at my heart strings more than I'd like to admit. I know how hard it can be to watch someone you love come back as a different person.

"And it's just his dream to have one and travel across the country with his dog."

"His service animal?" I ask, gritting my teeth at the thought of already being lied to.

"Yeah, Inu. Isamu has a transfemoral amputation." Gonzales places his hand on his thigh, his eyes bright in a false sense of calm.

I fight the urge to turn away, rolling out my shoulder instead to rid myself of the excess energy. "I don't have the time, man."

"Listen, Isa will pay you just to help, and I can take some of the load off your plate so that you'll have more time. What's got you so busy?" Gonzales asks, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I'm a big guy. Taller than Gonzales, but less muscular. It's not often that people try to touch me, and I can't help but stare at his hand in confusion. He removes it.

Gonzales couldn't do my homework, and it's not like I'd even want him to. Judging by his car being here, I doubt he'd know the first thing about cars, except maybe how to change a tire. There's no way I'd trust him with the secret of my father's care, and I've put in too much work for the trans rally to pawn that off onto someone else.

I wrack my brain for a way to get out of this, filtering through every conversation I've had with Aaliyah until I find the right piece of information.

"Fine," I agree, turning back to the Camaro I'd much rather be dealing with. "I'll help your buddy. Under one condition," I tell him, turning to press an oil-stained finger against his chest. "If you can beat me in a game of one-on-one, I'll help him build it. If I win, give me the Camaro."

It's the most outlandish condition I can think of, which leaves me pleased. I know he'll decline them, and I can continue on with my day.

Except Gonzales says, "Alright, deal," with so much confidence that either this guy has a million Camaros in his garage, or he should be on the Duke basketball team.

I nod, hiding my surprise and hand him his keys. "Your car's done."

In small towns,word travels fast. In small campuses, word travels faster.

"Did you challenge Gonzales to a pickup game?" Aaliyah asks when I sit beside her in gender studies class, recently showered clean from the garage muck.

I grunt an affirmation as I pull out my laptop—not one of the expensive ones Duke's IT suggests, but a cheap version I found second-hand. Aaliyah sets her touch-screen laptop next to mine, covered in various stickers from college clubs, abortion rights, and pansexual flags. My own laptop is scratched but I don't use stickers to cover them up. Half of them are mine anyway from trying to fix it so often.

"He played all through high school and he still plays like every week," she says, speaking above the sound of my loudly whirring laptop.

If it weren't for the online portion of the class, I wouldn't take it out. Everyone's used to the loud groaning machine by now but at first, it gained too many curious looks, and I wanted to dig into my skin and bury myself underneath it.

"I'm better," I tell her confidently, looking up at the professor as she begins her lecture.

"So, what? You're just going to take his car instead of helping Isamu with the van?" Aaliyah throws off her coat, not seeing when I cringe at my own shitty situation.

"Yep."

Every semester, I put more on my plate than I can handle with no end in sight. Summer isn't even a reprieve because of the unpaid internships at some campaign office or new age think tank, followed by late nights working at a fast-food joint on the edge of town, in hopes no one from the office will see me.

Last summer, I couldn't even afford an apartment in DC. I slept in my car and paid for a gym membership just to shower in the morning. All the money I had made from converting the last van went into my tuition or my dad's medical bills.

The van was a pain of a conversion. It was for some coked-up rich kid who decided he wanted to be a social media influencer instead of a lawyer like his dad. His father supported it financially, as long as the kid kept quiet about his father's affair. But of course the rich kid told me all about it. And about how a fixture for the solar panels was unnecessary when duct tape could do the job, and about how he wanted a marble finish on his counters—after I had already stained the wooden counter that would be in his kitchen.

I wish he would've just thrown his money at it and let me work in peace.

"John, is everything okay? I get you're a cranky old man, but you're normally not this bad," Aaliyah says.

"How long would you say it took me to do the last conversion?" I ask her quietly, simultaneously taking notes and filling out some forms on my laptop. It feels like I'm always doing five things at once.

If only I could just breathe.

"He said he just wanted to ask questions, not for you to do the whole conversion," Aaliyah counters.

I raise an eyebrow at her because we both know how it'll turn out. There's a lot about remodeling that people don't understand until they're staring at it in the face.

"Six months," she finally says.

I wave my hand as if saying, see?

"I accidentally saw his dick," she whispers. "Isamu, the roommate," she adds at my confused look.

I drop my pencil and turn away, a grin wobbling on my lips.

"Already tired of Gonzales's?" I ask, teasingly.

Aaliyah grabs my shoulder, turning me back toward her just so I can see her glare.

"Come on, you know it's all about the motion of the ocean," I tease.

She rolls her eyes but can't help the laugh that escapes her. "It was an accident. Did you know he has . . . I don't know the right way to say it?—"

"Say it the wrong way then."

"He's missing... parts? Gonzales says he has?—"

"An amputation," I correct, forgetting Gonzales's exact words this morning.

She pulls her coat back on, the AC getting to her as the sweat from walking across campus freezes. I look back at the professor and catch up on notes.

"So, roommate's dick. It's a prosthesis?" It's only half a joke because now that the idea is in my head, I wonder if that's why Gonzales was so interested in the rally.

"No. It's uh, from birth?—"

"A growth, if I may," I supply, eyes still on my notes so I can stuff away my grin.

Aaliyah is starting to blush under her dark skin and if I continue to egg her on, I may actually let a laugh slip.

"That's gross. You may not. No, just shut up. Let me explain. He was coming out of the shower as I was leaving for class?—"

I look up in shock. "You're sleeping over at his place?"

She gives me a deadpan look. "I said let me finish, John. Also, yes."

I don't have to tell her that sleeping over at a guy's house with another large roommate sounds like a bad idea. She can see the thought on my face. Some people would call it paranoia, but those of us on the receiving end of dicks call it safety.

"Anyway," she continues when she sees I'm staying silent. "He's coming out of the bathroom, but he doesn't have a towel on. He's just all," she gestures between her legs. "Free. Probably because he had crutches and was missing his entire leg."

"Hey, if it's big enough, then at least he's got another."

I avoid the glare she sends me by taking notes, biting the grin on my face.

"You are such a man. I swear."

"Thanks," I tell her, drawing a penis on her touchpad with my finger.

"Oh, fuck off," she giggles as the professor looks up and glares at us.

We both duck our heads quickly and get to work after that.