Of all the things I thought I’d have to deal with on this interplanetary aid mission, the stink of salted fish was not one of them. Turbulence? Epic boredom? Hostile alien invasion? Sure. It’s a two-year journey on a lightweight space craft ferrying precious medicines to a remote asteroid mining colony. Anything can happen. But salt fish? Hell to the no.
Every decent human knows that the only workplace appropriate fish is the cheddar cracker variety. And I have been assured my assigned shipmate, selected by the United Planets Humanitarian Committee, is indeed human. But I’m having my doubts.
I slide my eyes over to Sheila, who is obliviously munching away on the aforementioned piscine atrocity. She smiles up at me, as if she didn’t just spread the smell of rotting death through the entire vessel by heating her meal in our recirculated air.
Definitely human. Also definitely devil evil.
I choke down a gag and retreat into my tiny bunk. The smell lingers, but at least I don’t have to watch Sheila eat the damn thing.
This calls for drastic measures. Because there is no way I am putting up with this shit for two years. I don’t care if the battery of psychological tests insisted we were compatible for a long range two-woman mission. She needs to know I’m not a pushover. If her opening sally is salt fish, there’s only one possible response – tomorrow I make cholent.
Meat, beans, potatoes. The entire meal can be discreetly nuked and enjoyed within seconds, but I need maximum torture, so I place the food prep coil on “crockpot” mode just like we did back home. I still remember waking up to the smell on Shabbat mornings and begging my mother for an early bowl. Mom’s a softie, she always gave in, but I’m not giving Sheila bupkis.
“What is that?” Sheila sidles over to my half of the dining space as soon as I ladle myself up a portion. It’s a gross invasion of my personal space, but whatever. She’s already shown she has no respect for boundaries.
“Cholent,” I answer, rolling my eyes back in my head as I take another blissful bite. “meat, potatoes – “
“Meat?” She interrupts me with a squeak. “Eeew gross, it looks like dog food.”
Then ahe scuttles off to her bunk with a mumbled excuse about being late on her report to ground control. Which is total bullshit, because it’s my turn to write the report.
Rude.
Just when I think we’ve reached some kind of unspoken truce, with Sheila and her stinky foods staking claim to the common space for eight of our ship’s twelve programmed daylight hours and me grudgingly performing isokinetic exercises in the tiny coffin I call a bunk to avoid getting a blood clot from stasis, she starts blasting Christmas music on the loudspeakers.
She has headphones. I have seen her wearing them. Yet for some godforsaken reason she has decided everybody must suffer through listening to a Christmas album on repeat. It is July on her home planet, nobody celebrates Christmas on my home planet, and we are currently in a void of space time that makes holidays tied to a specific date utterly meaningless. There can only be one reason for her musical selections – she is launching a direct assault to try and force me to cede the few remaining hours of the shared cabin space that are mine.
Well, fuck that.
The minute her song pauses to reload I start blasting the most Jewish thing I can think of. Klezmer. Only, it is somewhat impossible to listen to Patch Tantz and not dance, so my feet carry me out into the shared space before my brain can ask them what they think they are doing.
Next thing I know, I’ve grabbed Sheila’s hand and we’re dancing the hora around the table. Even weirder? Sheila is actually participating.
“Whew!” she gasps, collapsing into one of the chairs. “I thought Mariah Carrey would help with the homesickness, but this is awesome. What is it?”
“Klezmer.” I try to process what she’s telling me. “You were playing Christmas music because you were homesick?”
So maybe she’s not a complete sociopath out to conquer as much of our tiny ship as she can lay her grubby, fish-stained hands on. It’s possible there’s some room for negotiation here. I decide to test the waters. “Would you mind using your headphones next time? I can do the same for my Jewish music.”
“You’re Jewish?” She says it without guile, and I realize there might not actually be any Jews on her planet. “I’m a pescatarian.”
“I see.”
We stand there awkwardly, the klezmer music still blaring in the back ground, until Sheila takes the first step towards resolution.
“I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”
Understatement of the century, but for once I am in total agreement.
We’ve got two years to figure out how to talk to each other. Might as well start someplace simple. I know she’s into salted fish.
“Tell me Sheila, have you ever tried herring?”
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