Dusk's Works In Progress

dusk_wip @ 2006-04-04T00:03:00

2006-04-04T06:05:37Z

This is for the the genie story. For the most part, this is just set up. Nothing really going on, but I felt it was enough to share.

1)

I guess I’m more of a mall person. People to me, as a general rule and stereotype, are stupid, ignorant, and completely irrational. Having said that, I imagine I have had my moments of stupidity, ignorance, and complete irrationality. So, I’m tolerable and I deal. Well, I can deal in malls. The high ceilings. The escalators. The packs of little boys and girls herded around by their exhausted mothers. The plastic plants and the rent-a-strollers and the recycled elevator hits of better times. Things like that are my brand of whiskey. It’s comfortable in its own uncomfortable way. I’m used to that sort of craziness. But my friend my Will invited me to come along with him and his cousin Michelle to the Boulevard. It’s this stretch of pure consumer bliss that practically bisects the city.

Or so I’m told. I’ve lived here for a shade over two years, but I’ve grown accustomed to staying inside my little safety bubble, a perimeter of three miles or so around my home. It’s close enough to most stores I’d care to shop at, but far away enough to keep me away from the great majority of the city that, quite frankly, frighten me. I agreed to tag along, because despite the scrawny mess of bones that is Will and the squeaky chatterbox that is Michi, I figured I’d be safe in their company. Sure, maybe they couldn’t assist me if I somehow got caught in the fire of a knife fight with a group of hoodlums. But they’ve got Visas and MasterCard with available credit and that makes me feel better about any possible situation.

“Dude, it’s pretty much like the mall,” I was assured, “There’s a little more walking and stuff, but you can work on a decent tan out there.”

Almost immediately after Will parked his Malibu in the parking garage with the ‘least ridiculous parking fees’ and we stepped out from the shade of the structure; I could tell the Boulevard was virtually nothing like the mall. Aside from the obvious differences—lack of a larger building holding the individual stores together, parallel parked vehicles, crosswalks and the opportunity to be hit by cars—the vibe was obviously unlike what I’d usually expect in a mall. For one, the people are completely different. It’s almost as though they emit an odor of high and mightiness. People can be snooty jackasses at the mall, but there’s something about mall jackasses I can deal with.

Just three or four stores down from the car, as Will and Michelle discussed the day’s agenda, he accidentally bumped into a passing woman. However, ‘bumped’ was probably harsher than what it actually was.

We took to the sidewalk and began a slow but elaborate stroll eastbound on the Boulevard. I read the first six store signs across the street—all privately owned businesses with cute names like Jonesie’s, Reed’s Street Effects, Glover Vintage, Carrianne Bridal, Perfect Pooch, and Frame By Frame—before turning to Will to my left. “So what exactly is the plan again?” I asked,

I didn’t really need to know, but a little reiteration never hurt anyone. From what I recall, Michi was in need of a dress. She hid a massive brain in the cavity of an encyclopedia-defined girly girl. She’s a card-carrying member of numerous academic clubs, including the Honor Society that is hosting a banquet in the coming weeks. The outfit absolutely had to be the most stunning and the most magnificent and at least a half dozen other superlatives. After telling her parents the same thing, they were convinced enough to allow her access to a gold card with deep pockets. Pockets so deep, they didn’t mind that Michelle asked if she could charge her prom dress as well.

God bless her parents, the amazing money bags that they are, but boy do they ever spoil the hell out of her. I can’t bitch, because both Will and I have benefited from their willingness to share with and, more specifically, spend on others.

Will, while answering my question, decided to walk just ahead of me with his back to the incoming pedestrian traffic. He kept a full stride while walking backwards, to which I was secretly impressed by. He basically said everything I already knew, but Michelle jumped in, claiming her parents were already going to buy the prom dress. “I told them I had a fine opportunity to kill two birds, so why not save everyone else some time?”

“Like you weren’t using this day as a way to spend a small fortune.” I said,

“Hey, dresses are very specific and important outfits for very specific and important events. You’re bound to spend a little money when looking for two, let alone one.” She explained,

Will smirked and pointed at her from his body, almost as though he were shooting an imaginary pistol from his hip, “Since you managed to avoid shopping for either outfit with your mom, you know you’re not gonna spend ‘a little money’.”

“She,” she said, her voice amplifying in complete defensive mode, “was unfortunately busy today and couldn’t come along. She's understanding of my shopping style, despite the fact that I’m apparently—“

“Unaware of price tags,” he teased,

“—not as thrifty as she,” she interrupted her own train of thought, said to Will, “You’re a shithead, by the way,” to which he chuckled to himself. She went on, “Anyway, I’ll get want I’m happy with either way, does it matter how much they cost?”

“Easy for you to say when you know you’re not fitting the bill,” I said,

“What is this, gang up on Michelle day? I’ll have you know that I hold a grudge, and you will be carrying every freakin’ bag I wind up with today.”

I frowned and tilted my head to Will, “Is she serious?”

He swung his arms out; nearly striking a man in what could have been a very uncomfortably warm suit to be wearing on a hot spring afternoon. The guy didn’t even notice and went about his way. Despite the near hit, none of us noticed the woman about twenty feet behind and closing in. “Oh yeah, man. Tough break. I didn’t wanna be stuck having to watch her try on a crap ton of outfits by myself, so I told her you were coming along to carry all the bags.”

“I appreciate you telling me this.”

“It’s not so bad, I mostly wanted someone to bullshit with while she attempted to paralyze with all those girly dressup questions. ‘Do I look fat in this?’ and so on,”

“Dude,” she said, her face contorted into total contempt. You’d never guess a seventeen year old girl standing at a shade above five feet could have the potential power of a total nuclear bombardment flaring in her eyes until you saw the expression she had that very instant. “There is no way I’m asking you that. The way you are with me, your honesty is gonna leave you neutered one day.”

I silently winced at the thought, as did Will. “Christ, Michi. That’s not even remotely cool.”

And like that, her face fell into the pixyish smile I was more accustomed to seeing from her. She let out a giggle half her age, but I felt a simple ‘tee-hee’ would have sufficed. Just afterwards, she attempted to tell Will to watch out, but it was too late. His fingers brushed over the waistline of a pinstriped power suit. The way the woman inside the suit reacted, you would’ve guessed that Will came across the side of her abdomen with a rake and left with one of her kidneys. She swung around and almost collided with me. “Oop. Excuse me.” Will said,

“Watch where you’re going, fucking goon!” she exclaimed, completely throwing us for a loop.

Will continued to apologize, but that only put the woman into a further rampage. A tap to her side apparently was grounds for a massive lawsuit or at least a threat of physical violence from her boyfriend or husband or whoever. I was too much in awe of how silly this was and Michelle could barely contain herself from exploding in laughter to probably pay any attention. Apparently the guy was a wide receiver for our town’s shitty arena football team. I think that’s what she said. Either way, Will listened to her for only a moment more before just surrendering, saying, “Hey, good luck to you and sorry about that again.”

We were half a store away from her and we could still hear her mumbling and moaning about the ‘incident’, but was still on her way to wherever she was going.

“Seriously, man,” Will asked, “What the flying hell was that all about?”

Michi had had enough and just shot up in a rambunctious laughing fit.

Now see, it would have been pretty likely that a situation such as that could have happened in the mall as well. I’m not gonna doubt that. Truth be told, there are plenty people at both places that walk with sticks in their asses and their noses turned up so high they’d catch rainwater. It’s just with the mall, I only get the impression that average snob is only thinking, ‘I’m better than you’. At the Boulevard, I feel they’re thinking, ‘I’m better than you AND I have more money than you.’

Maybe it’s easier to deal with assholes when they’re wearing the same stuff as you. Be a dick, that’s fine. Just as long as you’re wearing a hand-me-down college sweater, destroyed (genuinely destroyed or the fake destroyed variety that’s surprisingly big right now), and a pair of Converses you’ve worn for four or five years.

Seeing how only two people are friended to this journal, I apologized for these being doubled up on your respective friendlists.

Brainstormed Ideers

2006-04-03T04:13:10Z

I'm still having trouble just deciding to sit down and write, but that hasn't stopped me from devising several ideas for stories. I've been sitting trying to obtain some information for one of them, but we'll see if I actually put ink to paper (or finger to keys, at this current point of time). Anyhoo, here are the ideas.

1) 5GING (Five Girls I'll Never Get), I was on such a roll with this story but I just kinda... stopped. I still wanna finish it, as it's the most work I've put in any idea. I want to rewrite the beginning chapter (a paltry three pages, but I it just doesn't work for me anymore). Also, I'm reconsidering one of the main plot ideas, which involved the main character Nick and the relationship around an internet acquaintance. The relationship will still be there, I just got to figure out how I'm going to get around to how they'll meet and everything. Once again, the story idea is about how Nick suddenly realizes that he's never been in a genuine relationship in all his years and then feels as though he never will. In confessing this to a friend, one who really could careless and is only around for a ride to work, devises a 'wager' of sorts. He writes up a sheet of paper, containing a list of five unnamed women. If Nick can fill the list with five girls that he's tried to form a relationship with but has failed to, then he probably will never fall in love. His friend thinks nothing of it, but Nick, over the course of a year and a half, attempts to find 'the one or something close enough'.

2) An Upworld Tale (Tentative title), This was a fantasy story I've been thinking about for YEARS, but I've failed at putting much of it down. I know virtually everything I want to do with the story (even with potential sequel ideas), but it just hasn't happened. It's the not the initial idea to which I came up with the name Dusk, but I decided the name works well for what I want to do. I did devise the name Farris for it (it was to be derived from a Ferris Wheel, but changed the spelling slightly because I knew a family whose last name was Farris). The main idea was that a woman in her early twenties returns home from what was supposed to be the rest of life in the Big City (all the names of areas in that particular part of story were intended to be plain and boring, so to show that nothing terribly amazing happens there, it's all ordinary) to pick up her youngest brother, who had been staying with her parents until they died in a car accident. When she arrives, he tells her of a 'staircase in the sky' that he had been seeing above their house and of a person she met that came from the staircase. It sounds peculiar, but truth is that she used to see something similar when she was younger, but pretty much convinced herself it was nothing but something her imagination came up with. Eventually, they head up the staircase. It leads to a world miles above their home. All they see beyond the buildings on platforms that appear to float is endless sky. From there, they become entangled into a tale beyond anything they could've imagined.

3) If You're Lucky, This idea was inspired by the Women's snowboardcross event during the winter Olympics in part. I'm trying to write this kind of how Syrup was written by Max Barry, which was in short titled chapters. It's in its infancy, but I know what I want to do. The idea is a kid named Jacob was about to become a sensational Snowboarding star, but lost in what was supposed to be his break after showboating in the final moments of the race. He comes home with pretty much no plan for his future. Instead of what should have happened, he's now a laughingstock. After a few weeks of emo that follow the disaster in his lifetrack, he encounters a man who feels that Jacob is trying to steal his thunder. The man has made a life out of being a local joke, and doesn't want Jacob to take away what he has embarrassingly made his life. What starts as sort of a rivalry, Jacob decides to try to return himself to glory, while giving the man (still unnamed) back his claim to infamy.

4) Unnamed Reality Show Story, I've only put the thoughts on this, but it's completely developed. The idea is that virtually no shows on TV exist other than reality shows. One particular boy has grown annoyed with it, but it only gets worse for him when he discovers his family is going to be among the stars for new show about suburban families. He decides, after the second or third day of filming, to run off and head to a camp he learned about on the internet that shares the same feelings he does. However, the producer of the show, a once hotshot producer of many shows that is on her last legs, turns the show about her family into show that allows for viewers to participate. The pitch: find the runaway of a family and recieve a multimillion dollar reward.

5) Unnamed Lawsuit Related Story, For whatever reason, I thought about that one lawsuit where the woman spilled coffee on herself and sued McDonalds (or whoever it was) for it. So I thought of this idea that's similar to the Reality Show idea, in which something more drastic happens in the world than you'd expect. In this idea, a lawyer (someone pretty new into law, but I didn't wanna go with paralegal or whatever other pre-lawyer thing there is) takes the case of his friend's, that involves him suing a corporation after he burns himself with coffee. Sure, there's the precedent of the original case, but the lawyer successfully splits hairs to the point where his friend wins the lawsuit and coffee cup warnings everywhere now are superspecific ("This beverage is hot enough to scold your skin, so do not spill it on yourself" or something as equally silly). Afterwards, the friend continues trying to achieve more lawsuits, but the lawyer doesn't want to continue trying his cases. Instead, the friend then sues him, saying that was no way of knowing that he would be as rude to him as he was. It's an incredibly outlandish idea, and I don't even know if it could actually work. I don't have any legal expertise and I'd like to make this is accurate as possible while stile coming up with such a ridiculous idea. I'm thinking of a title that's similar to a coffee cup warning. This Person Could Potentially Betray You or something.

6) Unnamed Genie Story, This is what I'm devising now. The idea is basically a person finds a lamp in an antique shop that just so happens to contain a genie. It's not going to be a typical Genie story (then again, don't most writers create stories of typical events and claim it's not a typical telling of it?), as the Genie is a bit of a smartass. She doesn't follow traditional genie ideas. She's become rather cynical, as its hard to convince the people of the modern times that she is actually what she is. The person is pretty skeptical, but when she puts some of his 'wishes' to work, he definitely becomes a believer. There will be a relationship there, nothing romantic, but I want there to be an interesting dynamic there. I just haven't decided yet.

So there you go. Hopefully some of these are good.

If You're Lucky, parts 1 to 7

2006-03-15T08:04:02Z

ONE --- Mommy Dearest

I know moms mean well when they say things like that, but I pretty much was fucking sick of her voice by the end of the car ride home. I didn’t tell her that, of course.

Including the four fifteen minute stops for gas, the car ride from the mountain to home sweet home was a nonstop drive, consisting of about eight, eight and a half hours. Three shared bags of teriyaki beef jerky. Eight total bottles of assorted sodas. Four microwaved convenience store foodstuffs (burrito, burrito, chuckwagon sandwich, barbecue beef hot pocket). Three separate radio stations as we passed the appropriate county lines. Finally, and most importantly, a pack and a half of Marlboro Lights. My dad, the silent and enduring captain of the drive, would light a smoke every so often, and therefore crack the driver’s-side window open. For two or three minutes of pure heaven, the loud whistle and a cool shot of winter air would run through the Suburban. It didn’t wake my sister, despite how loud it sounded. It was, however, loud enough to for me not hear (rather, ignore) the nonstop announcements my mom would make whenever she saw me in the backseat looking out the window apparently with some dog-sad frown on my face.

“Cheer up, Jacob. It feels bad now, but I promise you in time this feeling will go away. You can’t dwell on it.”

Like I said, she means well. I really didn’t wanna deal with well-meaners that day. Luckily, I was in such a fake sense of calm and serenity that she couldn’t notice that I was one ‘There’s always next year.’ From throwing my left elbow through the window, flinging all the road trip supplies out and demanding as loudly as I could for her to shut the fuck up. I was good, but I also didn’t want my dad booting my ass out of the car to find my own ride home. So I leaned my forehead up against the window and counted road markers. I kept a tally of the boxcars of the trains we road past. I made stupid faces at the slow cars we passed. I purposely burned the palm of my hand with the overnuked bean paste of one of the burritos. Anything to past the time.

Anything to get me out of the fucking car. Anything to get me where I can just forget about what happened hours before we took off from the slopes.

TWO --- Time, why you punish me?

Time can be one mean motherfucker. I’m sure just about everyone knows what I mean. Some things can be completely and totally fantastic, but time can make it feel like it ended before it even started. A day or two at Disneyland never feels like because Time likes to mess around. The teacups, the Pirates of the Caribbean, Mister Toad’s Wild Ride, Splash Mountain, Star Tours, four dollar bottles of water, monogrammed Mickey Mouse hats and Matterhorn will literally take up fourteen or fifteen hours. Time will jog laps in your brain so fast that before you know it, it’s four months since you went and you can’t remember if it was you or your brother who lost the stuffed Winnie the Pooh plush your dad bought twenty minutes before you went on the Jungle Cruise. And then there’s when time will leave you shuffling uncomfortably in your chair while the seconds crawl by like they’re trying to sneak in a couple more dollars of overtime before they leave for the evening. Time will keep you in stasis while your yell at you for the longest two hours of your life after you were caught stealing baseball cards at a department store (not me) or masturbating in the bathroom (alright… maybe that was me. Maybe.). The sun will have set, risen, and set again before you can go, but you’ve already been degraded and humiliated so deeply that they should just keep it going. You’re free to go, but it’d be better off if you just shuffled around some more. Maybe the friction will set the carpet or the chair on fire and you’ll burn to death. Maybe then, maybe right then and there, you’ll feel better.

Time will make that skip by, but you get the idea.

Inside the car, time decided it was a fine time to mess around with me. Eight hours and change in overpacked SUV is long enough on its own, but apparently I hadn’t endured enough discomfort. So, from ten thirty to just after six in the morning, I experience a review of the history of Planet Earth. It ran at twenty times normal speed, so it only felt like a few hundred million years.

THREE --- The history of the world, part 1

Once upon a time, that being around when the caravans of exiting spectators spread out from the single lane road to the two lane highway heading east and away from what I would care to forget, the planet was a ball of fire. It settled down and realized there was nothing to be upset about. So it cooled off, had an herbal tea and called itself Earth. It sounded like a good name at the time and nobody was around to object. Things were icky and gross for a while, but that was okay. The primordial soup was everywhere, simmering onto, into, and all over itself until the miracle of life exploded everywhere.

There’d be ‘Congratulations!’ cards, Mylar balloons, stuffed bears in white, pink, blue, green, or purple, and assorted baby clothes lying in wait if any of that crap existed at the time.

It’s a… single celled organism. It’s adorable and precious.

But Earth couldn’t stand around and celebrate the creation its firstborn. Certainly not when she has a secondborn, thirdborn, fourthborn, sixtiethborn, nine-thousandthborn and so on quickly following their older brother… older sister… whatever. Countless numbers of microscopic near-nothings expanded the ever growing baby pond. Baby sis bacterias and cousin amoebas everywhere and then suddenly the trend changed. Everything went American before anyone and anything knew what the fuck that meant. Bigger is better, so what can be better than one? Two, then three! Four, then five and so on. Things were no longer so simple and invisible itty-bitties were a thing of the past. Soon enough things with weird new parts were everywhere. Parts that moved you faster. Parts that regulated how you acted. All sorts of crazy parts.

FOUR --- New England clam chowder

Around that time, Dad stopped for gas because he had forgotten he did fill up since we arrived at the mountain. We were running on short of quarter a tank of gas with the next pit stop requiring at least twice that. He topped the tank off while Mom raided the jerky shelf, my sister Janie slept over three quarters of the back seat, and I threw up in the restroom. I didn’t look at the time, because it probably would have made me threw even more, but I imagine everything I had eaten looked somewhat like the primordial soup. It didn’t cross my mind then. Food on its way back up your pipes with a swig or two or three of stomach acid, more specifically the salty and particularly awful taste, brought me to my knees and a tear to my eye. Therefore, I couldn’t think of how funny it sort of was. I know I see the humor in it now, but that’s hindsight for you.

FIVE --- The history of the world, part 2

The swimmers were in every size imaginable, but then they began to come in every mindset manageable. One such mindset was ‘I don’t think I like swimming’.

And like that, the new model of Earth’s lovely whatever hopped out of the water and roamed dry land. She had upgraded from a mere fishbowl to a glorified terrarium. They walked and ran and jumped and crapped and grew and made babies and ate one another for years and years until it became more practical to count them in multiples of millions. Some learned to fly. Some just got bigger and bigger. Some grew even fancier parts to keep themselves alive. Some things just tried, but were eaten anyway. And it went on like that for ever and ever, with dinosaurs becoming the BMOCs.

And then somebody threw rocks from outer space at Earth. I think at least one hit her, but it was big enough. Boy was it ever.

SIX --- Extinction Level Event

And all the dinosaurs died. The end. At least, I think it’d be fine if we ended there. Things went on, as it were. Even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t have made sense for all of history to end there. I’m still here, after all. Also, we can’t forget that at this point, we were only a quarter of the way home and still miles and miles and miles from good things. Good things like pillows and double-sized mattresses.

But some critters made it through the dumps. They’re such troopers.

The dust settled and the critters tough enough to sweat out the hard times eventually ran amok and once again grew into bigger and badder whatevers. Prehistoric squirrels made way for antique wolves, and saber-toothed cats and gigantic mammoths packed with miles and miles of thick, shaggy rug all over their bodies. Somehwere in the middle of Mother Earth’s amazing and fancy new creations (somewhere between Janey waking up, bitching about how she doesn’t get to drive and put a ‘measly twenty or thirty miles’ worth of time on her shiny new learner’s permit, and falling back to sleep in a huff) was what was her finest work yet.

SEVEN --- It’s new! It’s Man!

If a pitch was ever made for humans, it may have been something like this.

Picture a monkey, but not quite that small. Also, lose this tail. It can walk upright. None of that ‘all fours’ business. In many regards, they’re pretty much like all the animals. They eat, sleep, and mate like everything else. Except when they eat, they can also be finicky. They can choose to nitpick over the calories and fat cotent of what they eat. If they’re not establishing that they’re only straying from their low-carb diet because their cousin is having a huge banquet dinner after her wedding rehearsal and they don’t want to be insulting, they’re trying to jam as many hot dogs down their throats in twenty minutes.

They sleep, but only if everything is exactly how it should be. Pillows and cushions stuffed with sheep afros and golden goose tailfeathers. Satin, slik, and high thread count cotton sheets. Double, queen, and king-sized mattresses that are firm, but not too firm. Plush, but not too plush. Springy, but not too springy. Five hundred dollar posture-pedics, magic number beds, or home versions of hospital beds. Everything has to be goldilocks. Only then can they sleep for the proper number of hours they need. And even then, maybe they have a midterm that they have to finish before they can. Maybe some awesome movie is playing and they can’t afford to miss it. Maybe they’re depressed and the pills they’ve taken to help them do so haven’t kicked in yet or maybe they just refuse to because the DJ is playing their song in a 35 minute nonstop remix version.

They mate, but in no means is it ever conventional.

Sabrina v. Amanda (5GING Excerpt)

2005-09-30T07:02:14Z

Now before I go any further, I think it would be appropriate to explain the… relationship between Sabrina and Amanda.

There isn’t one. Ever since a silly conversation approximately four or five years before, Breenie has hated her with a fiery passion. Amanda’s relationship with Gabe was about three or four weeks old when she was brought to the house for the first time. She cleared her way through the parents, as both of them grew rather fond of her pretty quickly. Much to his dismay, he had to introduce her to Sabrina and me at some point. He pretty much had no choice when his plot to perhaps make out in the living room fell through thanks to his siblings being at home rather unexpectedly. A shame that Gabe didn’t know that a teacher in-service sent all the schoolchildren home three hours early that day. I caught the twinkle of optimistic eyes and the beam of an open toothed smile that said, “I am pretty sure I’m gonna get some!” slowly morph into an angry gaze and a grimace of rage that shot directly into both Sabrina’s and my skull. I abandoned my controller and allowed my sister to take the victory as Gabe and his shiny new girlfriend stepped into the living room. She didn’t flinch or notice that I had conceded. Breenie was winning and that was all that mattered to her.

“Well hey there, Nick. Sabrina,” Gabe greeted us with an intensely obvious sense of disappointment and sarcasm in his words, “You’re all home early.”

“School let out an hour ago. Teachers had a workshop or something.”

“That right? Well that’s great,” he said with absolutely no conviction in his voice, then “Fantastic!” in a flat faux excitement and finally “Great…” almost to himself in a foul toned mumble.

Each of us was in our respective ‘little kid’ forms. We all looked typically 1998 in our own ways. Sabrina, at a mere eleven, was full blown tomboy in denim overalls, a long sleeved shirt, and the trademark ponytail every young girl raised by a sports loving father. Not that she was the product of our dad’s crafting in any real obvious way, she simply looked as such. I was essentially the same then as I was when I hung out with Amanda that night. Only then, I had poor taste in clothing. Nothing matched. Nothing blew anyone away. It was just on me and even it didn’t agree with how it was combined with itself. Gabe was overwhelming sporty, baseball shirt and track pants. Considering the overly dressy fashion he is accustomed to now, it was a complete polar opposite of that. And then there was Amanda, who I would’ve noticed more back then if I wasn’t a playful jackass who preferred to garner attention and then not know what to do with it. She didn’t put her hair up at all back then. I guess she didn’t begin to get overly creative with it until a couple years after that, as with that first meeting and each one after that year, her only real accessory to her hair was a peach hairband.

“Who’s the chick?” Sabrina asked, despite not actually seeing Amanda. Her eyes had yet to leave the TV screen, and she set up my defeat through the game’s multiple option windows.

“This is Amanda. I’ve talked about her around you guys a couple times before,” he then switched gears and did swift introductions, “Amanda, this is Nick and Sabrina. Nick and Breenie, this is Amanda.”

I shyly smiled and limped a quiet wave at her, to which she beamed.

“So she really exists,” Sabrina said, “I’m kinda surprised. I figured you were pulling our legs.”

Amanda and I both laughed, but I quickly petered off when I saw that Gabe wasn’t in the least bit impressed. “Don’t be silly. Of course she’s real,” he said flatly, almost robotic.

His girlfriend continued to giggle at the proceeding. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Sabrina responded, the game already beginning. I didn’t notice until after she spoke, to which I hustled to catch up.

“You’re as much a sweetie as Gabriel said you were,”

Neither she nor I believed Gabe would ever say anything along those lines. She probably said that to humor us or at perhaps to make her boyfriend a touch more comfortable.

About a minute of silence passed. I could see Gabe gradually becoming more and more uneasy, even though the only commotion was the sound of go-karts and explosions from the TV. Sabrina was content with the further kicking of my ass, and I, for the most part, had no chance to catch up. Amanda took a seat on the couch behind us, tugging on Gabe’s arm to inform him to sit down, at least on the seat’s arm. She broke the calm as she leaned into her beau’s side and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I don’t mean to be so forward, but Sabrina,” she said, “but I think you should consider a different look.”

Everyone, other than Amanda, took a face of complete confusion by the comment. Especially Sabrina, but the look slowly molded into one of total contempt, even before she heard the rest of what the girl had to say. Gabe’s face changed as well, to one that found the entire situation amusing. The three of us were, at that time, deep in our phases where anything that pushed the others’ buttons was fucking hysterical. Being the bystander in this exchange, I just waited to see what would come.

“Overalls are kinda cute, but only when you’re feeding ducks on a pond. It’s a little tacky when you consider the corner of suburbia we live in.”

Breenie paused the game, dropped the controller, and turned to her oldest brother and his girlfriend. Her eyebrows couldn’t arch and bend any more without tearing themselves off of her forehead. I’ve only seen her with that same expression a few times, and with each target of said expression, she officially declared a nemesis. It’s a rare sight, and I’m sort of proud to say that was the first of two or three instances in which I’ve seen it.

Amanda wasn’t finished, however.

“And I know you’re still a kid and everything, but that shirt is just too big on you. Far too puffy. It kind of makes you look chubby. I imagine that’s not what you were going for.”

The action in my sister’s head surely crackled with manic electricity. Now while Sabrina was known to get so riled up that she would threaten kill another human being, the fire in her eyes following Amanda’s well-intentioned yet rude comments revealed to me that she could very well have taken the girl’s life. Those tiny girl hands quivered with enough energy to squeeze the air passage of a person twice the size of her brand new enemy. Maybe even snap an iron girder if need be. Sabrina looked absolutely pissed. Yet, for as quickly as the lightning shot through her, it subsided. No, rather it transformed. Her demeanor switched immediately. She was still incredibly angry, but it was harder to tell than a moment before. Breenie was sly, and very, very, very foul while still sounding relatively composed as she responded, “I hope Gabe told you about his raging case of the Herp.”

As Amanda winced and asked, “I’m sorry, what?” Gabe shouted over her.

“Sabrina! I just remembered something I needed you to do. Could you come with me?”

He wasn’t asking. Judging by how he yanked her by her arm towards the front, he was telling her to follow. The only thing I could imagine as proper to do at that time was reset the game and hand Amanda a controller. “Wanna play a quick round?”

5GING Excerpt

2005-08-22T06:58:36Z

I vaguely remember previous encounters with Amanda when she was dating Gabe. Neither Sabrina nor I would go out of our way to hang out with her, but there were times here and there that we would wind up in the same room with her and have no real excuse to leave. During those times, I would often go into some show-offy, dopey routine where I bring up something I did the other day. It may have been anything not particularly important, but somewhere towards the end, I presented a clever line with a complimentary punchline that, in hindsight I found to be incredibly lame and embarrassing, but they always seemed to make her laugh.

And there she went again, chuckling at another silly and stupid line I made. “Well we can’t have that, can we? Let’s save the tiny offspring for tabbies.”

While she and I discussed the possibilities of my mother becoming pregnant with dozens of cats through Immaculate Conception, she took it upon herself to combine the remaining pepperoni slices with the last half of the Supreme pizza in one box. She took the empty box, held it open, and placed cans and bottles one by one inside. I grabbed the few on the far end of the table that she couldn’t reach from where she stood and placed them on the bare corners. With a quick “Thank you,” and a swift scoop of the crumpled and dirty napkins, she was off to the kitchen.

Once she left, I suddenly realized the time. Quarter to seven meant mom would be back soon, and she’d be packing Breenie with her. I wasn’t going to get too riled up about my mother seeing me entertain my brother’s ex-girlfriend, but I just knew nothing good would come from Sabrina the instant she saw me with Amanda.

On the other hand, with the sun down so early and the lights dimmed at a level suitable for afternoon lollygagging (which I just happened to be doing before she arrived), the evening would have been very romantic if not for the Domino’s in the center of the table and a movie designed more for a babysitting romp than a twenty-some trying to make a play on a very attractive woman in a slinky blue dress. I’ll take what I can get.

Amanda returned to the living room, but not to the loveseat. She rounded the couch from behind and stood to my right. “Mind if I sit here?”

“I see no reason why I should,” I said,

From how I sat while we chatted away earlier, a relatively large angle of free cushion was free between my legs and the back of the couch. I’d assume there was just enough space for Amanda to tuck herself in there, and with just a tad of shuffling and ‘excuse me’-ing, she managed fit in. From the looks of the pull in her dress and the form of her legs, I would say she was quite snug. She leaned into me and we went on watching the movie.

I had a virtual multitude of thoughts, most of which had to do with how her legs felt as she nudged closer to me. In the little instances where either of us pointed out something random during the movie, be it the Sydney Opera House or the lobsters that spoke in thick New England accents, I realized the sort of thing I figured Gabe noticed when he went out with her. She smiled at me and pointed out minor details I would have missed otherwise. Somewhere during these moments, the fucking piece of paper came to mind. I was going to have my way, and that sheet wouldn’t have a single name written on it. Maybe it was too early to claim victory, but things were going so well that I had no reason to think that I was celebrating too soon.

Having said that, I hadn’t asked if she would like to spend another night with me. After all, I couldn’t call anything I had tried that night a success if I didn’t see her again until the next time my brother backed out of set plans.

‘Allegedly’ backed out of plans.

The credits rolled to a pretty decent cover of ‘Beyond the Sea’, and Amanda motioned to her coat back on the loveseat. She pushed away from me to allow a little room to stretch over and grab it for her. “You have a little time off this week, right?” I asked,

She took the coat, but she held it in her lap. At least she was willing to hear me out. I had a minor fit of worry, where I thought she would have simply left once the movie ended. Then again, if she didn’t want to hang out, why would she have stayed any longer than the time it took her to discover Gabe wouldn’t be spending any time with her.

The fit lasted barely a moment.

“Well, like I said, he told me he would be in town much longer than he actually was,” she said, “So I set aside a few days of holiday time to spend with him and a day or two for myself afterwards.”

She cocked her head to the side and sighed. Her hands pressed down on the cushions on either side of her as she braced herself to stand. “Unfortunately, as I know what I know now, it turns out I have a full week of nothing to look forward to!”

A quick push and she was up on her feet. A quick stretch and yawn and her skirt rode up to just below her butt.

“Next time you hear from him, tell him I said hello,” she rolled her eyes as she slipped her coat on and continued, “and thanks. Thanks a whole fucking bunch.”

“You can decide whether or not to include the ‘fucking’ part. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

“I was thinking, though.” I said, mostly to gauge her reaction. With the desire to keep making potshots at my brother still fresh and heavy in her head, I wasn’t sure if I could steer her off that particular topic long enough to hear me out. She seemed curious at least, so I went on. “If you’re looking for something to do for the next week, maybe you could come over again and watch another movie or something.”

I can fake a nonchalant and smooth persona as well as the next person, but I absolutely blew any sense of confidence I may have portrayed in the matter of a few stuttered, run-on sentences. Worst case scenario, Amanda would laugh and reject the offer and show up months later, grinning to herself every time she saw me. And I knew it.

I went on with a long list of various ‘it’s okay if you don’t wanna’ responses.

But it’s just an idea. I’m not saying that you have to. I figured it would help make the week go by. Who knows, it could be fun. We’d only be hanging out. It’s not like I’m saying anything is gonna come out of it. You know, like… well, never mind that. Anyways, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. There’s no obligation or anything.

As though I was ensuring a purchase or the possibility thereof. Try before you buy. No money down. Satisfaction guaranteed. The Nick Clarett Fraternization Insurance Policy.

For as confident as I can portray myself, when I’ve lost control (usually by a fault of my own), I just cannot find the ability to shut the hell up.

Amanda chuckled, although I think she held it in a little so not to laugh too hard, “That’s very sweet of you, Nick.”

An answer of appreciation, but in reality an undecided non-answer. That sort of response worried more than I think a simple ‘No thanks’ would have. Maybe not as much as ‘Absolutely not, you creep’ or ‘Not if you were the last man in existence', but that was beside the point. “Tell you what,” she said, buttoning her coat back up and hiding all of that slinky number from view, “I’m not positive of what I’ll be doing tomorrow. I’ll check out if there’s anything I have to do. Y’know, with parents or friends and the like. If I’m free, how about I come here around the same time as today?”

I beamed because, to be completely honest, I wasn’t expecting that answer.

“And if I am busy, I’ll get a hold of you. You’ll be home all day?”

“Should be. Barring any emergencies or important meetings coming up, I’ll be here.”

A scoff and a grin, “Nick, when have you ever had an important meeting?”

“Hey, it could totally happen one of these days!”

“Oh, totally,” she snickered and smiled again at me. Her expression was bright and amazing, and only more so when I compared it to the shit-eating grin I figured I had on my face. “But yeah, if I can’t, I’ll call you. Otherwise, see you tomorrow.”

I really didn’t know how to respond, but a meek and rather shy wave came from my right hand as I said, “Take it easy, Amanda.”

She simply nodded and said, “You too.”

In a matter of steeps, she was out the door and I was absolutely amazed with myself. I’d have let an overwhelming confidence come over me if it weren’t for the fact that summoning up the courage to simply ask her to watch TV with me wore me out mentally. Soon after, I thought about how ridiculous it was and I laughed to myself for several minutes while trying to run another movie on the DVD player. Something a little less ‘first date’ friendly.

5GING: HOLIDAY SNUGGLEBUNNY (excerpt)

2005-08-03T07:11:03Z

We both went on, before and during the movie, about what we enjoyed about the movie. However, most of what we commented on didn’t seem to have much to do about the movie itself. Amanda went on about how she was an enormous fan of Ellen Degeneres, who played Dory. Seriously, she knew more than I could have ever cared to know about her. She has tapes of poor quality TV recordings of stand up appearances, comedy specials, and of episodes of shows she wouldn’t normally watch but did as she had a guest appearance. “That was the only time I ever watched ‘Will and Grace’.” She mentioned as described each archive of the woman’s career.

“Not many people know this anymore, but her old sitcom used to have a different title.”

I would’ve said something along the line of “Oh, really?” if I didn’t have a mouthful of pepperoni.

“Before they changed it to Ellen, it used to go by These Friends of Mine. I can understand why they would change it, though. It’s a pretty dull title, after all. Who the hell was gonna remember that?”

I laughed with my mouth covered, as I thought I would spit out the pizza on accident. Luckily I didn’t. When she mentioned that she may have been the only person she knows of that like the movie Mr. Wrong, I did spit out remnants of the slice I worked to finish. At least I had a napkin ready to cover and clean up.

Hearing Willem Dafoe’s voice a Moorish Idol reminded me of his portrayal of the Green Goblin in Spider-Man. I went on to explain that, despite overall opinion of comic books is rather indifferent, I enjoyed that movie. She followed me by explaining that, in my opinion mostly due to her overall opinion of comic books being rather indifferent, that she did not care for it and then every other comic book movie that came before. I didn’t know what to think when she dared tread over the Superman movies of old. At least the first one. I felt it better not to declare my opinion on the later films.

We went on debating, complaining, arguing, and then to the eventual joking, teasing, and heavy laughter. I recall more about her opposition to comic books and their movie adaptations than the flick she and I were so excited to see. The only part of Finding Nemo I can tie to anything we had done that night was the jellyfish scene. Around then was when I actually started watching. Amanda excused herself so that she may use the toilet, and in the five, six, or seven minutes I was left to myself, I witnessed Marlin save poor Dory as countless jellyfish closed in on them both. She came back, noting the mess that our dinner-and-a-movie became. Two pizza boxes sat kitty corner from one another greasy, sauce smeared napkins either underneath or on top of them. Any portion of the table not covered by the boxes or napkins was topped by Pepsi cans, half empty and quarter empty and fully empty bottles of water, Snapple, and unsweetened iced tea. “Knowing your mom, she would have kittens at the sight of this room.” She said,

A quick look and I’d be a fool not to agree, “She’d produce them by the litter for hours.”

I vaguely remember previous encounters with Amanda when she was dating Gabe. Neither Sabrina nor I would go out of our way to hang out with her, but there were times here and there that we would wind up in the same room with her and have no real excuse to leave. During those times, I would often go into some show-offy, dopey routine where I bring up something I did the other day. It may have been anything not particularly important, but somewhere towards the end, I presented a clever line with a complimentary punchline that, in hindsight I found to be incredibly lame and embarrassing, but they always seemed to make her laugh.

And there she went again, chuckling at another silly and stupid line I made. “Well we can’t have that, can we? Let’s save the tiny offspring for tabbies.”

While she and I discussed the possibilities of my mother becoming pregnant with dozens of cats through Immaculate Conception, she took it upon herself to combine the remaining pepperoni slices with the last half of the Supreme pizza in one box. She took the empty box, held it open, and placed cans and bottles one by one inside. I grabbed the few on the far end of the table that she couldn’t reach from where she stood and placed them on the bare corners. With a quick “Thank you,” and a swift scoop of the crumpled and dirty napkins, she was off to the kitchen.

Once she left, I suddenly realized the time. Quarter to seven meant mom would be back soon, and she’d be packing Breenie with her. I wasn’t going to get too riled up about my mother seeing me entertain my brother’s ex-girlfriend, but I just knew nothing good would come from Sabrina the instant she saw me with Amanda.

On the other hand, with the sun down so early and the lights dimmed at a level suitable for afternoon lollygagging (which I just happened to be doing before she arrived), the evening would have been very romantic if not for the Domino’s in the center of the table and a movie designed more for a babysitting romp than a twenty-some trying to make a play on a very attractive woman in a slinky blue dress. I’ll take what I can get.

Amanda returned to the living room, but not to the loveseat. She rounded the couch from behind and stood to my right. “Mind if I sit here?”

“I see no reason why I should,” I said,

Short Story, New Leaves (Teaser Excerpt)

2005-07-16T19:37:17Z

“I should go get a haircut, though. I dig how it looks, but it may be a tad too shaggy.” He noted,

Yet another thing he could have gotten down a month ago. In the long run, he’d have saved a couple boxes of dye worth of cash if he did everything all at once. He’s not that practical, though.

“Considering what you did to your ear, it’d be quite a waste if people couldn’t see it underneath that mop your drape over that thick head of yours.” I said,

“Fuck you, dude. I think it looks cool. Kinda gives me an edge.”

An edge, I thought, that had you crying for a couple hours. “But you’re right, though. Can’t really see it at this point.”

He turned his head to display the right ear in the mirror. He flipped some of the covering hair to flash the jagged rip on the fattiest part of his earlobe. Somewhere between the dye job, where ‘Medium Auburn’ meant in Anthony’s case ‘Rotten Tangerine’, and the box of ‘Powdered Cocoa’ that was ‘supposed to be like three or four times lighter than my normal color’, he asked me to tag along with him to get his ear pierced. For at least twenty or thirty minutes at one of those girls’ accessories mall outlets, this toothpick of a man with ‘arms gaining more and more shape every day’ (Which I knew meant he swung five pound dumbbells around for twenty minutes every third day of the week.) in more black than what was suitable for a person of his nature tried to choose between a silver stud and a brassy pirate loop with the decision making skills of an antsy eleven year old girl. Speaking of which, there was girl probably of that age waiting for him to hurry up. It was, as I overheard her mother say, her birthday and she would be late for her party if this numbskull doesn’t hurry and make up his mind.

He opted for the hoop, since he suddenly got a ‘great idea’ while not making a choice.

“I want you to yank it out.”

“You just got the fucking thing put in.” I said. I honestly didn’t care what the hell he wanted to do with it, but the sensibility in me just didn’t see how this would have any relevant point.

“I know, I know, I know, but it’ll be cool. This’ll give an edge.”

Again with the edge. The edge the stereotypical leather jacket gave him. The edge barbed wire cuff tattoo gave him. The edge that, in reality, was every stereotype the common loser would pull to make himself look cool. It was almost as though he picked up a book on every clichéd notion of hip and neato and chose the things he felt would work for him best.

“I’m asking you to do it, so it’s not like I’m gonna get pissed off or anything.”

So I sat up from his couch, more tacky black vinyl that he paid four figures to replace more old family heirlooms, and jerked the bastard clean off of his head. He cursed and shrieked like a female horror movie victim. “I wasn’t ready! God damn it! That really fucking hurt!”

I had to take him to the hospital, where he whined and insisted that the doctors not stitch the wound back together, but to bandage it so that it would heal with a permanent separation.

Possible Chapter Insert for 5GING

2005-07-15T02:48:41Z

This is something I had to write to get down, and it may or may not be included. I probably will, but we'll see. It's mostly just a funny situation of I thought of that could be perfect for the later end of the story. It's NOW completely done. Behold!

Fourth day of FleshFarm Ottawa started off a little earlier than I would have expected. Actually, I started the day much later than everyone else. Edmond and Cammy caught a cab with Peter and Jessica and arrived about five minutes after I woke. I blamed the jet lag, although it was as bullshit an excuse as I could come up with. I made it habit to wake no later than nine at home, that it became rather nice to be able to snooze as long as I wanted while on leave. Sure, there were plenty of things to do with the new gang of friends. The extra hour of sleep was far too good to pass up.

By the time I did decide to wake up, nearly everyone else had arrived. Elliot, from what I found out later, had slept in longer than I had. Diana managed to take leave for the entire week of festivities except for that particular day. She would miss everything up into the dinner at this restaurant she made reservations for. Table for ten at six-thirty sharp. I decided a quick shower was in order, but who was I kidding? I have never been one to take a shower shorter than twenty minutes, and the groggy post-sleep funk ensured it would take at least that long. I quickly rounded up my day’s arrangement, cappuccino-colored cargos and a gray tee I would cover up with a burgundy mid zip sweat by the end of the night. The days and nights were clear and nice, but the previous evenings told me that the Canadian air would still chill me to the bone by the end of it.

I stood under the showerhead, allowing the water to burn all over me. Not necessarily to painfully burn, but just so the sensation would either wake me or soothe me to pass out in the tub. There were things to do, but I honestly didn’t care which happened. Before I even go around to the actual cleansing and cleaning portion of my shower, my fingers became prunes and I imagine my toes did as well. I didn’t make the effort to look. I thought I could hear the ruckus from downstairs. I guessed that perhaps a conversation picked up, sparking an overwhelming reaction that I could hear even through the stream of running water. Perhaps something involving Eternal Battlegrounds. Perhaps concerning what we had planned for the afternoon. Maybe Will was telling another fucked up joke. I can’t say it enough, but he was impossibly hilarious.

The noise, however, appeared to approach the bathroom slowly. Nothing really worrying, but I had to wonder when the sound went from faint and below me, I believed from the kitchen, to beating it’s way up stairs and finally to the door, in a quick three knocks. I yelled, “What?” to the door, but I guessed it didn’t hear me.

Another three knocks, but louder and fiercer. “What?” I yelled, but louder and fiercer. At first nothing, but then, as I stuck my head out from the shower curtain, the door swung up with a skinny pale arm pushing it forward.

I made a conscious reminder to myself to remember to lock the bathroom door whenever I decide to bathe in Decker’s place.

Simultaneously, I shouted and the arm announced its actions.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, but the other bathroom is occupied and I have to pee like a motherfucker.”

Jessica walked in, attached to the arm that eventually led me to launching myself to the back wall of the shower/tub combo. I suddenly felt like I was twelve again. I hadn’t felt as bashful as I did at that very moment in years. “I’ll be quick, I promise.” She said,

Of what I saw before I hid back behind the curtain, her hair draped over her shoulders and top, just as it did the day before. Only now, she wore a green sweater. I guessed it was woven. She wore corduroy pants. Bluish. I heard a bit of rustling, and felt even more like a child as I heard the seat cover click against the toilet tank. Throughout this, I have completely forgotten that I was still washing up. Unrinsed soap is caked in my armpits, I get back to business. Still a little awkward, seeing as how there was a bottomless woman sitting feet from me.

“So, did you just get up or something?” she asked. It sounded way too nonchalant, considering the situation. At least I wouldn’t have sounded so casual.

“Um,” I was still a little uneasy about the whole moment, but I eventually was settling down. Jessica couldn’t have been as stupid as I was, and forgot to lock the door. If another person walked in, with her there pissing away and me still shocked and still very, very naked, I couldn’t imagine the embarrassment. The embarrassment I induced on myself. “Yeah. About five or ten minutes ago. I’ve been pretty bushed since I got here. Only a couple hours ahead of home, but it’s been taking some getting used to.”

I thought for an instant about two separate liquid sounds I thought I was hearing and about telling them apart. I then thought for longer than a moment, what the fuck was I doing?

“Well, that’s good and all, but how dare you keep us all waiting? Bokonon’s been telling me he’s been up since seven-thirty! You should have kept him company! We could have started our day bright and early, but thanks to you and Elliot, we’ll…” she stopped and thought, then went on, “Well, we’ll have plenty of time before dinner tonight. But still!”

She giggled, and I snickered as I shaved the days of stubble I picked up since arriving here from my neck. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you, Peter, Ed, and Cammy get here just a few minutes ago?”

“Hey, I can’t go and blame you for everything if you go and blame me for everything, right?”

I smiled, but it wasn’t as though she could see it. “I like your logic, Jessica.”

“Oh you know me, I’m a regular genius!” she sounded as though she was going to say more, but something distracted her. “Now what do we have here?”

The water was warm and soothing, but I turned the faucet knobs to make it warmer. I let it fall over me, specifically over my face and thought that sleep felt pretty good at that moment. It wouldn’t have been very practical with Kida right there taking a piss, and I pretty much lost any sense of drowsiness, but I couldn’t help but consider the possibility. I opened my mouth and gargled shower water, and then nearly choking upon hearing, “You know, Rhodes, I always imagined you wearing tighty-whiteys.”

I coughed and gagged, and somewhere amidst my own commotion, said, “Excuse me?”

“These are very nice drawers, albeit a little practical. Is it really that difficult to choose between boxers and briefs that you must wear a combination of the two?”

I pulled the curtain about a quarter open, which was probably too much. Kida turned almost immediately to me, holding a pair of black boxer briefs in front of her with both hands. It was as though she though she wouldn’t take the chance of them being recently worn and unwashed. They were a fresh pair, if it must be known. She was still sitting down, the profile of her ass atop the seat. She was a shade or two or three paler there and on her legs as the arm that led her in here. Her left hand dropped from my underwear to between her legs, just in case I could see anything.

I was wrong. Completely. Her pants were indeed corduroy, but green. An olive green. They were also around her ankles and over an equally olive pair of sneakers. A pair of lacy (At least I think lacy. It could’ve been silk.) peach panties sat in the interior of her pants. I imagined it was incredibly obvious how I was observing her in this situation. It must have been. I noticed a slight blush in her cheeks and she half-smiled, “Do you mind?”

Just when I started to feel my age again, I was suddenly a grade schooler. Kida was the entire sixth and seventh grade staring and laughing at me as I stood completely nude. Had I really been twelve at the time, if I didn’t have the shower curtain, I’d have cried to mom and never allowed myself in the public eye ever again. I tried to come to my senses and get a grip. “Do you?”

“Oh, get a grip!” she snickered and put them down, back into the pile of today’s ensemble. “It’s only underwear. Granted, I wasn’t expecting to see yours, but nonetheless.”

Behind her on the shower bar was my towel, which I leaned for immediately after shutting off the water. It occurred to me just moments later that I didn’t cover any of myself that may have peeked around the partially open curtain. I didn’t think she tried to sneak a peak, at least not at the time. “Are you done?”

“My, my, dear Nicholas, are you embarrassed?”

“No,” which was only half a lie, “this just… it’s threw me off is all. If you wanted to see my undies, you could’ve asked. I’ve plenty of pairs packed that you can gawk at. Take pictures of. Whatever.”

A short laugh, almost a cackle. “I don’t think it would’ve been quite the same as this.”

I just kept wiping off the excess from me, “Are you done yet? I need to get dressed.”

“Alright, alright, alright. I’ll meet you downstairs then.”

I probably should’ve realized that I didn’t hear a door close. I dried myself off and walked out of the shower to see she had simply moved from the toilet seat to the bathroom counter directly across from the tub. Speaking of the toilet, I said, “You forgot to flush,”

She raised her eyebrows and stepped back to the toilet, flushed it, returned to the counter and demanded, however lightly and with a bit of a devious tone in her voice, “Let me see it.”

“Huh?” I asked,

“Let me see it.”

“Let me see what?” I instantly realized what a completely fucking stupid question that was.

“I figure why the hell not?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You totally know me, Rhodes. I never kid around.” Jessica pointed at her face with right hand, and perched her left hand on her hip. I noticed she had zipped her pants up, but not buttoned them. “You see this? This wonderful face? It’s dead serious. Serious as war. This is hardly a joke.”

To myself, I had to commend her. It was a shock that she managed to keep a straight face through that little announcement. To her, I rolled my eyes and turned to the window to my right. While I wondered where the hell this whole thing came from, there was almost a moment of pure pride to hear a girl wanted to see me naked. In one of those completely primal bursts of masculine grandstanding, I felt like ‘The Man’, in the form it used in every movie moment involving a muscle-bound mook reminiscing over his conquests over assorted chicks and dames. In that moment, my age returned to twenty-three and I felt like challenging her.

“And besides,” she went on, “we’ve become friends right? I think it’s time that we evolve our friendship another step. Becoming good internet friends is one thing, but this is an opportunity not many have! How many people get to push their relationships to ‘friends who’ve seen each other naked?’?”

There was the opportunity. Since I was ‘The Man’, I knew I’d call her bluff. Kida wasn’t that brash, and I was going to completely make her fold. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re standing here fully clothed.”

“Tell you what, you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” I dared her,

It was fucking flawless. She would giggle briefly, but trail off and feel uncomfortable. There was an average to decent chance of her being so offended that she’ll slap me across the eyes and stomp back downstairs. She’ll turn red in the face slightly each time I look her in the eyes. By the end of the week, and then on, our friendship will be roughly the same, if not just overly awkward. It will be a change for the worse, but just to show that—

“Alright.” She said rather simply with not even a hint of a second thought.

I practically swallowed my tongue, and froze once I turned back to her. Before I could say anything, which would have only been a half-hearted, one word response (“Huh?” “What?” Something like that.), she had kicked her olive sneakers off and unzipped her pants. They dropped fairly liberally down around her ankles, and she quickly kicked them off. Just as fast, she pulled her sweater over head and revealed her matching peach bra. Her entire upper torso was pale like her arms and lean in the healthy sense of the word. “Can you get this for me?” she asked, nodding to her chest and getting close enough for me to put my arms around to her back.

I didn’t at first, as I instead waved my in front of my crotch, checking for a possible overly ripe erection. She laughed loudly, scaring me to the point that maybe people were wondering where she and I had gone to. I then unhooked her bra with a skilled ease I would have never pictured myself to have. Stepping back, she finished removing her bra and winked at me before finishing the strip and pulling her panties off. She weaved her legs through and out of them, unlike how she kicked everything else off. She held both bra and panties in her right hand and stood up straight directly in front of me.

“Now you,” she ordered, her left hand stretched out waiting for the towel.

And I couldn’t just bow out in however form of disgrace. I know I didn’t expect Jessica to go through with it, but now that she had I couldn’t run off. And to be honest, as unbelievable as she looked there wearing nothing but white ankle socks, dropping trow was a small price to pay to check her out.

And for the sake of argument, I cringed in my mind after I saw for the first time what the results of Brazilian Wax looked like. I couldn’t imagine going through anything remotely similar to it. Also, I didn’t know it was safe to get a tattoo that low on one’s crotch.

“Well?”

I said nothing, just grabbing the towel by where it rolled and tucked on my waist and removing it. I placed it in the hook her hand became, and she swung it down to her side. We just stood there. I don’t know for how long, but for however long it was, it was me keeping eyes directly on her face (Although I wavered a few times. A peek at her small yet proportionate breasts here. A quick gaze at her hips and thighs there. I had to look at the tattoo at least a couple more times by the end of it.) and her examining every part of me as though she would take a test over what she saw later that evening. Her eyes were peculiar, almost so critical in her observation that it nearly made me nervous.

And like that, she nodded and said, “Not bad. I approve.”

She gave me back the towel and she immediately redressed. I really didn’t know what to think or do, besides wrap the towel back around me. About as quickly as she became naked, she was completely clothed almost as though she hadn’t undressed at all. She stepped up to me yet again and looked at me directly in the eye. “You should comb your hair. It would look really great if did something with it every once in a while.”

A push of her heel into the left sneaker, then the right, and she opened the door (With an unlocking click coming first, thank god.). As she stepped out, she told me that everyone was waiting downstairs. After that, I almost forgot that I needed to dress. I certainly didn’t know if I was twenty-three or twelve at this point. In the mirror, despite being considerably foggy from the hot shower, showed to me that I was rather red. I had to laugh once I saw my clouded face.

I made my way down to the rest of FleshFarm, to a resounding ‘About damn time!’

The only thing I really remember that designated itself from the rest of the ‘what took you so long?’ lines was Kida sitting at the end of Decker’s massive dining table. “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever get out of bed, Slim.”

And I would’ve taken huge offense if I wasn’t expecting something. I was relatively ready. “I apologize for that. I hadn’t gotten a decent nights’ sleep in a while, but don’t worry, Rosie. I’ll be completely energized for the rest of the day.”

There came the reaction I was expecting. Better late than never, and it was probably better than neither of us were naked when she finally responded the way I was hoping for. I sat about two seats away from her, but it wasn’t nearly far enough. Her face beet red and her hands full of rolls on a small basket in front of her, she slung them repeatedly at me. I laughed almost maniacally, as did she but with a shade of anger underneath. Everyone else, including Decker’s dad who just walked into the kitchen, sat there with blank eyes and no words.

The Crecenza Memoirs - The Ruby Children, Part 1, Proper Hellos (TEASER)

2005-07-08T17:22:00Z

It has been a shade over fourteen years since the expedition to the continent of Noriander. It was the journey that I had longed for for many years before. It was where I learned many lessons and suffered through countless hardships. I met hundreds of people, made new friendships, strengthened old ones, but unfortunately broke and lost just as many. During those years, I stared death in the eye. I also stood face to face with life, which I felt was a larger accomplishment.

It has been a shade over fourteen years. Fourteen years that changed me in my own eyes. Fourteen years that defined me in the greater public’s eyes. The Noriander Expedition became the reason I came to be. It was why my name is told to school children and commented upon by more scholars than I could possibly imagine. My command over the long and arduous investigation of the mythical ‘Home of the Gods’ led to new beliefs and new philosophies.

I know this seems so horribly vain, but unfortunately it’s the reality I have come to live with. Do not believe for a moment that I regret anything I have done or anything that has happened to me as a result. There really is not a better way to explain it.

When I was merely the young assistant to Mister Stillshire, the curator of Regan City’s Museum of Mythology, he took a risk and assigned me to head all operations for the highly anticipated study. Many valued investors and friends of the museum funded the expedition, and for the entire project to be assigned to essentially an inexperienced girl was a brave and considerably foolish decision. For that, I thanked him and at the end, I present the Regan Archive.

The archive consisted of stacks upon stacks upon stacks of leather bound journals, wire bound notebooks, and folders of assorted sizes of loose leaf sheets when I originally turned it in to Mister Stillshire and my old friends from the museum. After days of organization and storytelling (I know I had many tales, as did my staff), we transformed a meticulous mess into nine hardbound books detailing everything I had discovered on Noriander.

In a matter of weeks, the Regan Archive was presented to our investors and eventually printed by the thousands for the rest of the world to see. The rest, as they say, is history.

There was something, however, that didn’t settle inside me. I am proud of the Regan Archive. I do not want anyone think otherwise. It is just... there is something missing. The archive has long been produced, for at least five or six months as I write this, and I could not possibly ask that a new edition be produced so soon after the original. The feeling I have probably would not fit into the archive, anyhow. It essentially would be repeating the story over again.

However, I feel it needs to be done.

The Regan Archive went into extensive detail about numerous mythological beings. Gods. Each and every revelation was carefully described and explained. Virtually no stone was left unturned. As far as I am concerned, the Archive could not be any more complete.

But, there was something missing. Something I could not put my finger on until just recently. The archive is definitive and precise, but it lacks any real soul. It has become nearly thousands of pages of definitions and terminology. I had created an encyclopedia. It had occurred to me that the finest events that happened while I was in Noriander for fourteen years were never properly documented. There were many things the greater public will never know beyond what I have presented in the archive. There were many times that I can only hope never leave my memories. My staff began with myself and two fellow associates from Regan City. It ended with me, two dear friends, and three additional pairs of hands that the final product would not have come to be if not for their help. The minutes to hours to days I spent with them compiling our lives’ work certainly became one of my finest times.

Days not spent on Noriander were spent on, what I firmly believe was the finest vessel to cross the seas. The crew of Mara’s Mercy was just as essential to assuring this long-term project saw completion. I saw many comrades lose their lives, to which I hold a place in my heart for. To those who remained with me and my team, either from the beginning or anywhere during the expedition, I could not appreciate their time and assistance any more than I do. I saw three captains each take the helm of the Mara’s Mercy, and to each of them, you have my eternal gratitude. It may be years before I ever step foot on another ship, as my engagements involving around Regan Archive keep me on solid ground for an undetermined period of time. When I do, I can only hope it will be the only true home I have had since I left Regan City aboard it.

All the people whose lives intertwined with my own will never get the true recognition they deserve. Their stories just would not belong in the Regan Archive. In that regard, my story would not belong. There were many trials and pitfalls that no man or woman will never know about. The loss of fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, friends, and lovers will rot and decompose in time, as no one will learn what they died for. My life and thousands of other lives were changed in the course of the Noriander Expedition, and it is not fair that it will become a mere a folktale.

And that is what willed me to write this memoir. I do not wish to see a disservice done upon everyone who had a part of any size in expedition, so I felt I need to give my personal account of my years on the country known as the birthplace of the Gods.

5GING - THE HOLIDAY SNUGGLEBUNNY PART (TEASER)

2005-07-04T01:54:04Z

Amanda walked into the living room strapped tight in a dressy, elaborate coat. It hung down to half-calf, so I could see her bare legs above a pair of blue heels. I didn’t want to stare, and luckily I could turn my head ever so slightly to alternate between the television and her not-too-pale-not-too-tan legs. At first nothing. Just silence. I suppose she expected me to be the first to say something. In normal circumstances, a leggy young woman walking into my house completely out of the blue may incite some sort of reaction. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a regular event for Amanda to just barge in, especially considering she hasn’t been with Gabe, at that time, for nearly eight months. I would’ve guessed that maybe she still had a house key, but Gabe didn’t live at home while dating her. He may have given her one in the off chance of an emergency or something. I kind of doubted it.

Then again, I may just have forgotten to lock the door. She probably just let herself in. Our family wouldn’t really have a problem with that. The break up between her and Gabe was relatively amicable, and the rest of the family could tolerate her. Except for Sabrina, but she tends to hate any and everyone at some point.

She looked at me, and continued to until my alternating between looking at the TV and her legs switched back to her and I had to catch her eyes. Once I did, she asked, “Nick. Is your brother around?”

“We like you and all, Amanda, but common courtesy should’ve told you to ring the door bell or at least call us before just strolling in.”

...

She shook her and regained the little composure she lost from my reaction. “I’m sorry. Is Gabriel around?”

Amanda only called him ‘Gabriel’ when something serious was happening. Seeing how they haven’t seen each other since the early summer of that year, I figured she just really needed to see him.

“You missed him,”

Up to that point, she was straight as an arrow. Even though the coat covered it completely, Amanda stood in such a way that she was in full view of any and everyone. Her stance presented all of her best features, not an inch of her dress (I assumed dress. There isn’t much in the form of wardrobe, at least that I’m aware of, that compliment three inch heels and creamy vanilla skin.) creased improperly under a hunched body part. Once I relayed the message, she slumped and sunk maybe an inch. She frowned at me and sighed, “Seriously?”

“Afraid so.”

“Will he be back in the next couple of hours?”

I felt awkward, and knew she wouldn’t take what I was about to say well. Not like I had anything to do with it, but I knew Amanda would not like the answer. So I felt bad. But I shoved myself back in the couch as though she was going to become so irate that she’d attack me. A fairly unnecessary response, but I couldn’t think of a more suitable reaction.

“He already left for home, Amanda.”

Her frown quickly became of a glare of surprise with a dash fiery rage.

“Gabe told me he would be here for the holidays.”

She always called him ‘Gabe’ whenever he pissed her off.

“He was,” I told her, “but he left about three or four days ago.”

Her hands balled up into fists. She wasn’t going to use them. They simply shook in gradual degrees. Light tremors, then a rougher shaking, and eventually the quaked as though she were squeezing the life out of her own palms. “He told me he would be here for a month.”

“That was the plan, but his job prevented him from staying that long. He was lucky to get the two weeks he ended up spending, from what he told me.”

“That son of a bitch,” she tried to say under her breath, but I managed to hear her, and she said out loud where I could intentionally hear, “that son of a bitch always does this!”

She sounded furious and appeared as enraged as all hell, but her eyes told a slightly different story. They grew red and watery, and once the tears dropped down her face, the rest of her anger faded and she appeared weak. She unbuttoned her jacket and wrapped it around her left arm before sitting down on the loveseat to my left.

I assumed correctly. What was hidden under the bulk of her thick yet elegant coat was a slinky number in a deep blue. It may have been a couple shades darker than her heels, but that could have been the lights reflecting off of her. I could only guess it was silk. It appeared quite soft to my eyes, even though it clung firmly to her. Not tightly, mind you. It hugged her body enough to detail her every contour, but it certainly didn’t squeeze at her as if it were a size too small. It held on firmly around her hips and chest and only displayed the briefest moments of slack as she sat down. Even then, only the spaghetti straps limped slightly and hovered over her shoulders for just an instant. There wasn’t even an impression from the straps over her gradually reddening skin.

dusk_wip @ 2005-06-25T17:49:00

2005-06-25T23:51:39Z

Okay, you know how I was making fun of Gabe and my dad? How they were dorks for playing that fucking game nonstop for like the last 3 or 4 years? How I would never get so addicted into something as silly as that? There's a couple reasons why it's so funny. For one, I love giving them crap. It's pretty damn hilarious to get their reactions when you call them various names. Making fun of the 'imaginary friends' they talk about all the time. The nonstop commentary of whatever this-and-that is hotstove material to them at the time. It puts a smile to my face so I'm able to go through my days. It also keeps me on my toes for the rest of the day, because I know the both of them are sharp enough to fire back. At any time. And I'm usually ready. Usually. I remember a couple times Gabe got me a couple of times with a flurry of harsh lines that caught me off guard. They caught me off guard and pissed me the hell off. So much so that I swung at him and gave him a tiny shiner below his eye. He got me back, just like he's gotten me back each other time I've done anything to him. I dunno, maybe it's the big brother/little brother thing. The older boy always gets the best of the younger boy. Maybe I just can't fight. Maybe I just can't put up a good match against Gabe. I really don't know. Either way, I can't help but bust their asses over that fucking game they play.

The other reason is that I became a hypocrite. You can completely blame someone, as she introduced it to me that same Monday I took up the challenge Jamie devised. After I dropped him off at the mall, I considered returning home for the next couple hours before I had to work. Instead, as it was about two or three miles from my house anyways, I stopped at the J & D, a truck stop just off the interstate where my friend Beth works.

I met Beth Duffy about three years earlier one day after heading into the J & D to gas up my car. She had been working there for a little while before that, but up until that day I had never seen her there. She opted for morning shifts, and only three or four months after the fact did they actually start shifting at those times. Anyway, the first time I met her, nothing really came out of it. I told her I had twenty bucks on pump four, she asked for the money, I obliged, she told me to have a nice day and I thanked her. Nothing out of the ordinary. Although, it soon became a bit of a routine. I frequently stopped into the stop for gas or food or drink or whatever, and she always happened to be there when I came in. Stupid, idle chat about the crap I was buying soon turned into stupid, idle chat in general. From there, we started talk about all sorts of shit. She was big into collectable statue sets. I told her how I dabbled a bit in that silly card game my brother played religiously. We agreed that country music was, as a whole, an atrocious abomination. We also laughed at how fitting it was for the both of us to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, which so happens to be ripe with shitty country music radio stations. About a month into the regular conversations, we started having lunch and hanging out together whenever our specific schedules allowed it. It worked out pretty well, as we both enjoyed the fact that we loathed the same type of people. The common grounds for us were the mostly brain-dead masses of the mall, and we could spend an hour or two shaking heads at them all while looked over various movie memorabilia in the three or four stores that specialized in them.

And from the handful of times I visited her with Jamie in tow, she couldn’t stand him just as much as I did. She didn’t know why I drug him around sometimes, but figured there was a suitable or at least hilarious reason and simply let it go from there. Like I said, he bugged the shit out of her and she often declared how she’d like to shoot him out of a cannon. That was reason enough to be friends with her.

Yes, the idea of the list had occurred to me as I approached the gas station. No, I wouldn’t put Beth on the list. For the three years I’ve been talking to her, it had been completely on a friendly level. I never saw any interest in me from her and it’s been roughly the same for myself.

That and she’s a lesbian. I considered that a huge exemption.

She pulled one of the stools from behind one of the other sales counters to the side of her station, so that I didn’t have to stand in the way of the occasional customer that came by. Beth appeared particularly annoyed that morning. She layered a pair of oversized, work-appointed jackets over one another and wrapped a headband around her ears. Obviously, she had shovel duty after the wicked snowstorm over the holiday. I’m pretty she didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t bother asking. She slumped over the counter and just stared off into same aisles and doors of coolers and freezers that she has not only seen, but cleaned and scrubbed many times before. She glanced to her right, where I sat, and noticed the Styrofoam tray that I had brought inside. She peered in, groaned, and said to me, “Christ, Nick. How the hell can you eat that crap?”

After I got rid of Jamie, I drove over to the nearest diner and picked up an order of chili cheese fries. The bowl of Special K wasn’t remotely enough to hold me for the day, and I kind of felt like some fries. Fries slathered in thick, meaty chili and a huge blob of nacho cheese, but fries nonetheless. “What? It’s good and I’m hungry.” I said,

“It looks like shit.”

“I don’t go and insult the food you eat, Beth.”

“It seriously looks like shit. Like dog shit. It’s as though you bought a perfectly suitable order of house fries and you set it to the side for a moment. While you weren’t looking, a dog jumped onto the diner counter and took an enormous crap.”

I glanced down at what I intended to be my second breakfast or early lunch, but only for a split-second. With a mouth full of chili and potato, I felt my stomach churn. I looked back up at Beth, who adjusted her glasses to sit higher on her face.

“And not just an ordinary crap,” she said, “Like the kind of crap you’d get if you drank a lot of apple juice.”

She grabbed the tray and shoved it into my arms. The smell shook me up, which stuck me as odd as I normally like the smell of chili fries. She nodded her head at me to look at the tray and continued on once I did look back down. “Look it at. It’s drizzled nearly over every dry portion of once perfectly good fries. That slop is hardly what I call delicious. I suppose that’s why they gunked all that cheese on top. Although, I don’t think that shit qualifies as cheese.”

“Beth, do you mind?”

Clearly she could care less. I don’t think she even heard me, or at least she was ignored me as best she could. “It almost looks like house paint. Or wood glue or caulking glue or something.”

“Alright, alright. I get the idea. Jesus,” I said as I closed the tray and set it aside, “Thanks for spoiling my appetite.”

“You’ll get it back soon enough,” she said, “You don’t wanna waste it on something that sub-par, anyways. I think I’ll be ready for a lunch break just before you gotta split for work. I’ll get you something then.”

“Fuck, you better. I think it’s the least you can do for me after that.”

She snickered at me, but quickly turned her attention to the guy who approached her register. I had never seen a man look so sad. His face stuck in what I figured was a permanent frown. He said nothing to Beth, even as she greeted him and rang up his items, a bag of tortilla chips and a Gatorade. It wasn’t until she handed him his change and receipt and said, “Have a nice day, sir,” when he at last said something.

“The men’s room looks like shit. You oughtta do something about that.”

“Yes, sir.” She said, but he was already out the door.

She shook her head and slumped back down over her countertop. “What a fucking bastard. Would it hurt him to show any form of courtesy?” she said with a sigh, “I don’t wanna know what the fuck he did in the restroom.”

“You think he did it?”

“Of course he did. It’s a slick move they all do. They tell us ‘someone’ fucked up the toilets, so we’d immediately figure it wasn’t them. Why would we assume it was them if they tell us about it?”

Seemed possible to me. She knew more about that sort of thing than I would, so it was best to just take her word on it.

“It couldn’t possibly been as bad as what happened a couple weeks ago.”

“Is this the one where some dude clogged a pair of skid-marked briefs in the sink drain?”

“That was gross, yes,” she grimaced when she recalled her own story about the shitty underwear in the sink, “but this was infinitely worse.”

A short line developed, consisting of a skinny blonde and her relatively new offspring hanging from her back in a sling, a greasy trucker in greasy overalls with greasy hands scratching his greasy beard, and a random punkass kid clearly skipping school. She handled each of them quickly and efficiently, clearing her space in a matter of a minute and a half. Beth despises the general public, yet manages to deal with them in quick but remarkably friendly manner. She once told me she heard that she was up for Employee of the Month once, but she toned the enthusiasm to allow the chubby girl who runs the diner register. Fuck if I ever have my picture lined up in the break room with all the other losers, she once told me.

“I was lucky enough to have to pull a triple shift that night, and around three in the morning, about half dozen guys come strolling in. They’re just absolutely bombed from what I can tell. A couple of them were laughing at everything in sight. The ice cream freezer, the chip rack, the shelf of used cassette tapes; they cracked up laughing at it all.”

They browsed briefly, she said, and then eventually made their way to the men’s room.

“I knew I’d wind up having to clean up after them. Drunks have a knack for that sort of shit.”

Beth then sold a fat, sad looking woman fifteen dollars in quick-pick lottery tickets. She paid with a twenty, and demanded the change in quarters. Low on change herself, Beth directed her to one of the other counters. “I can’t tell if she’s needing the coins for the Laundromat down the way or for the video poker machines in the back,” she told me, “Anyway, I figure I’m gonna have some maintenance in there after they headed out. Y’know, a little pee here. A little pee there. I waited about a minute after they left the restroom, bought a few bucks worth of junk food, and motored away from the truck stop before going in there with a mop bucket.”

She removed her glasses and wiped the lenses with her shirt. The look on her face told it all, but she went on. “I’ve heard some really heinous stories from co-workers about the things people do in those bathrooms, but this was easily the worst I had ever seen. I suppose it wasn’t that bad in comparison, but it was still pretty damn retarded,”

She paused for effect. “There was piss everywhere. Not just puddling outside of the bowls and urinals. I’m talking everywhere. It’s like they all took their peckers out and had themselves a little pee party.”

They left no part of the room uncovered. There was piss on the floor, dripping from the stall walls, and flowing over a couple toilet bowls and even a sink. She had to pluck a gigantic wad of toilet paper out of the drain. Even though she was wise enough to remember the pair of rubber gloves in the maintenance closet, I imagine Beth was not too pleased in placing her hands in a bathroom sink full of urine.

“You remember that Coke clock that we used to have in there?” she asked me,

“Oh yeah, the one you were gonna give to me when they bought a new one?”

And then it occurred to me, just I asked, “Wait. What do you mean by ‘used to have in there’?”

Those drunken bastards yanked the clock clean off the wall and threw it into the one of the urinals.

“The damn thing reeked of pee. I think a couple of those guys ate a plate of asparagus or something. It smelled so fucking bad.”

“Did you clean it?”

I thought about it later. I really don’t know why in the hell I asked that.

“What are you, nuts? I was pissed off enough having to clean five, six, seven grown men’s piss throughout the fucking bathroom. What makes you think I’d take the effort to clean a pee clock?”

“Well, I really did like that clock. Why else would I have asked for it?”

I also thought about this comment. There’s no way I’d keep a urine-covered clock, even if it was properly cleaned off.

Beth looked at me with one part contempt, but at least three or four parts disgust and a hint of nausea, “Christ, Nick. I thought you said you lost your appetite.”

I didn’t really notice it myself at first, but about halfway through her story, I grabbed the tray of fries again. I guess I was just too hungry to pass it up. She snatched the tray and threw it in the wastebasket below her register.

“Even though you’re a sick motherfucker, you’re going with me to lunch,” she said, “You’re gonna have a meal that doesn’t look like human waste and you’re gonna like it.”

“I suppose I could, but only If you’re buying.”

“I already offered, you moron,” she smirked the same grin she always made at me; “You’re driving, though.”

She checked her watch, and saw that she had roughly fifteen minutes before her lunch break. “Warm up your car, I’ll be out in a bit. I have some stocking I need to do and then we can go.”

Beth seemed to be a polar opposite from me, but I was quite surprised how much we had in common. The biggest thing between us was similar tastes in video games. We were children of the video game golden age, when it felt as though liking games were taboo. It wasn’t a trend or a Hollywood craze, but something to play for five to ten hours a day when we had nothing else to do. She and I went through roughly the same phases. The ‘little kid gets a video game’ phase, where there’s plenty of playing going on, but very little accomplishment. The ‘good old days’ phase that introduces the classic games that we’ll remember for years and years. The sort of titles we play over and over until their broken or stolen or whatever, and then we pine over wanting to play yet again many years down the line. And now, more of an ‘I Know What I Like’ phase has come over us. We barely cross into any new territory, and we stick to the sort of games we enjoy. The similarities end there, however. Our tastes have kind of parted ways recently. Role playing games are always fun, but she has veered towards niche genres. Survival horror, espionage action, and so on. I’ve fallen into the typical adventure type of titles. Born a sidescroller addict, and currently a platform convert, I’m a more a fan of straightforward goals in my gameplay.

But as I mentioned, a role playing game brings us together quicker than we’d guess. A new epic journey comes out, and like that the two of us are dropping by each other’s homes and figuring out how the fuck to get past random sub-bosses.

I make my second trip to the mall that day, and I see that Beth’s idea of a healthy meal was ham and cheese on flatbread and a cranberry smoothie. More importantly, she further explains the new game she had recently gotten into. “You know how I generally feel about online games,” she told me, reminding of practically my own personal feelings on online role playing games. The idea of paying monthly fees made me wince, and all the horror stories of people disregarding their real lives for the triviality of their in-game adventures turned me off. “But, I’ve been really intrigued by this new game Trent had been telling me about.”

Trent was this friend of hers that she had met through the internet. I don’t recall the specifics, but he had dispensed a little legal advice to her a few years back. They continued talking after that, mostly of him answering many, many questions only a lawyer would accurately answer, or in his case, a blossoming law student. When enough lawyer and client talk dispensed, they turned to small talk, and just as she had with me, became good friends with him. She visited him about a year ago, and they keep in touch as much as people at distance can.

“He’s been playing it for roughly five months, and he’s been having a ball. Enough of one to do his damndest to convince me to play.”

“I take it he’s convinced you?” I asked, somewhere in between a sip and a bite,

“Pretty much,” Beth said, “I was gonna pick up the game after work, but since we’re here, I may as well get it after we eat.”

“And,” she continued, again with that grin plastered over her face, “I figured I’d convince you to play as well.”

I told her no, but I didn’t really put up much of a fight. I don’t feel like it, I said. I’m not up for paying a monthly fee. Stuff like that, but as flat as I could say it. The game seemed interesting, so I figured why not? Since Beth was playing, and her buddy would be there, I would have a decent circle of people I could play with. So, there was very little reason to say no.

We finished up lunch at around half past eleven, and moved onto the local video game outlet to grab a couple of copies of this game that had Beth’s attention. “What’s it called again?” I asked her, as we passed through glass doors smeared with greasy palm prints of assorted six and seven year olds.

“Eternal Battlegrounds,” she said, “I saw quite a few copies in here the other day, so we shouldn’t have any problems picking a couple up.”

I’ve been in that Electronics Boutique more times than I could possibly remember, but I constantly find myself on edge whenever I go in there. By no means is it a dirty, unkempt store. It’s one of the nicer looking shops in the mall, in fact. I suppose my main argument is that I feel completely out of place inside it. The sort of people that shop in stores like this are not from the same mold as me. Maybe I’m kind of an elitist prick, but there are three kinds of people that frequent this sort of place, and I just don’t feel like I fit in with any of those.

Of course, there’s the diehards. Like Beth and me, they’ve played since they could talk. The only real difference, and maybe I can only speak for myself, is that I haven’t become a know-all, tell-all gaming genius. I remember being happy with being able to reach the Warp Zones in Super Mario Brothers. The store lures the high school and college boys who can clear The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past without dying. The ones with record time Mega Man 2 clear times. The ones that can finish all the Metal Gear Solids without killing anybody. Guys with completed ‘No Junction’ Final Fantasy VIII save files.

I stand by these guys and feel dirty and ashamed.

Then again, I stand by these guys when they buy their limited edition versions of games that come with ten-inch statues of assorted video game vixens and their booster packs of the latest trading card game, and I feel I got relatively lucky.

Standing behind them in line are popular guys. The varsity basketball team or wrestling squad. These are the people who gave the hardcore nerds wedgies in middle school and slept with their sisters. They grab titles like Halo and Grand Theft Auto and talk about how ‘video games rock!’ I ask myself why they even bother buying here, as they would appear a little more fitting if they purchased their games, the yearly Madden, the flavor of the month first person shooter, at Target. But then I see them make the ‘nerds’ uncomfortable, and I ultimately answer my question.

It’s a half-assed turf war with no real progress in either direction.

I couldn’t possibly think of myself as one of them. Their cocky attitudes and assholish natures are the kind of traits I would never like to show. Besides, I sucked at basketball and I couldn’t make the wrestling team even if God willed it so.

And then there’s the mothers. After dragging leagues of children through housewares stores, bath and beauty shops, and every clothes outlet in the mall, it only made sense to let them have a look at something a little more acceptable to their tastes. Not until they finish their kids’ meals, mind you. Maybe they’d prefer the toy store, but that sits on the far end of the northwest wing and EB is right there in the food court. The little ones are just as tired as mom at this point, and it’s not like checking out video games are a bad thing. So, they opt for it instead. Bless mothers’ hearts, but the average woman with 2.4 kids doesn’t know their joysticks from their memory cards. They’ll humor the ‘gimme gimme gimme!’ shouts from their sons and daughters. They’ll ask the attendants for help and advice, only to bite off more than they can chew. And finally, they’ll buy something that will inevitably annoy them. Mothers will regret the day they bought them once the children become so entranced, they forget their being shouted at to turn the damned things off.

Obviously, I couldn’t fit into this group. I lack the proper parts to be a mom, for one. As for children, my current problem is makes it a little pointless to look that far ahead. One step at a time.

Beth picked up two copies and held onto both as we waited in the relatively short line. “I’ll pay you back,” I said,

“You bet you’re paying me back,” she said with a slight snicker, “You can expect me to round up my money the next time you get paid.”

I counted up from the last payday. Fourteen days on ten digits worth of fingers and thumbs, but I figured it out. As I tapped a finger per day, Friday-Saturday-Sunday-Monday-and-so-on, our turn in line came. “This Friday, it seems,”

“Even better,” Beth declared, then turned to the cashier, “Hey there.”

“How are you two today?” he asked us, in that false positive tone of voice they probably teach in training videos or business seminars.

I don’t know if the people they hire there are naturally that fake and smarmy, or if they teach them how to appear so slimy and bothersome. It was just the one guy there that day, but I know of at least four or five other employees that split hours there. Every last one of them acts in nearly the same fashion.

The guy that helped us had worked there than any of them, He was the example the others tried to duplicate.

The Video Game Salesman douchebag cookie cutter.

He dressed like his wage could actually support it, which I doubted. A dark long-sleeved dress shirt almost elaborately tucked into his black slacks. With a woven belt and slightly beat up leather dress shoes to finish his look, I pictured him thinking, after finishing a late shift the night before tending bar at an executive bar, that his uniform looked nice enough to wear to his second job.

This sharp dressed man complimented the whole arrangement with a thick black lanyard, the words ‘Electronics Boutique’ printed repeatedly on one side, around his neck. A small clip dangled from the lanyard, which bit into a plastic name tag.

The names of the people who worked there were not of this world. They were not names of real people. These were soap opera stars. English or French waiters who swept dinner guests off their feet with their ‘lovely accents’ when they read the wine list. These names belonged to men painted on romance novels. They fought elves and unicorns. They weren’t supposed to sell me a computer game.

Blaine. Hunter. DeVaughn. Kingsley.

Our wonderful helper’s name was Caleb. His overly blonde head of hair and pale face poking out of the dark outfit was laughable, but I held it in. I found it easier to do the more often I came in here.

I simply nodded at him. Beth felt she had to appear somewhat amicable.

“Not too bad, considering,”

I could tell she wished she could take that back. Considering what? It was just a throwaway answer she always gave. Most times, it’s ignored or acknowledged with “Oh, I see…” But she knew better with Caleb.

“Really? Something happen to you today? Would you like to talk about it?” he asked,

We didn’t know him personally, but frequented enough to know that he loves to play the concerned, caring gentleman when it comes to women. It was considerably sad, but disgustingly successful. Maybe it was his bright surfer boy hair, which I’d have figured mishmashed with the dark shirts and the important looking slacks, and the boyish face of his that convinced the occasional girl that he genuine. I’ve regularly seen him use that ‘trick’ to get women to buy extended warranties, which employees apparently receive commission on.

Caleb has tried it on Beth at least a dozen times, and each time was shot down. I’m sure she has outright told him that she was gay on a couple occasions, but it doesn’t stop him.

“No, I don’t.” she said,

“Are you sure? I think I could possibly help.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I see. Well then,” he said, completely at a loss. “Would you like to get the strategy guide for fifteen percent off the regular price?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“The guide has many detailed walkthroughs for the hundreds of quests and in-depth information on every piece of armor—“

“I don’t want it.”

“Well, how about your friend?”

He looked at me and said, “You could use the guide, right?”

Beth cut in before I could answer. It was probably better off that way. There was a good chance I would’ve caved in. Besides, she was paying. I imagine she didn’t want to spend another ten or fifteen dollars on me. “He doesn’t want one.”

“I believe he can answer for himself.”

“He doesn’t want one.”

I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “She’s right.”

Caleb, completely detailed from his usual routine, could barely finish the transaction following that exchange. He fumbled the boxes while trying the slip them into the bag. Beth almost got away with not paying, as he handed the bag without asking for the amount, but at the last moment asked for the appropriate payment. Money exchanged hands and we left with our copies of the game.

I turned to her, slightly in awe but mostly in amazement, and said, “Sometimes, I wonder how I ever got past that icy exterior of yours and became friends with you.”

After minutes of stonefaced staring, I was slightly thrown off by a sudden smile and snigger. “Unlike that sleazeball, you’re never appeared to me as someone who only wanted to talk to me as an excuse to sleep with me.”

And that sort of made me feel bad. Not as bad as the night in the Spur with Elaine, but It was getting there.

“I guess we were always mutually cool, right?” she asked,

“I’d say so.”

“Good. No offense or anything, but if you were a woman, we’d only ever be friends. I don’t think I’d see anything between us going any further than that.”

I said, “None taken,” but it was total shit. Right then and there was when it hurt yet again.

I drove her back to the J & D without saying a thing. She didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong, but she was far too busy reading the manual to realize I was sulking during the entire drive. Once we got back to the truck stop, she told another horrible bathroom story, and while I was considerably grossed out, I forgot thinking about my bad luck and whatnot again. Beth always managed to be relatively therapeutic without ever knowing it.

And I know this doesn’t look particularly important, but trust me on this. The game itself really meant nothing, but it will play a fairly integral part of the last year and a half. There’s not much of a need to go into all of it this very instant, though. It wouldn’t do me or anyone any good to jump ahead when it’s not necessary.

There are a few parts that need to be brought up at this instant, however. Just a couple things, and then we’ll get back to the interesting parts. Not that this won’t have some intrigue later on, but anyway…

I installed the game later that evening, and made my character after much heated deliberation with Beth over the phone. By ‘deliberation’, I actually meant that Beth declared nearly every decision I made ‘lame’, ‘stupid’, or ‘boring’. The option to make men, elves, cat-like people, munchkins and brownies, brute monsters, banshees and undead minions with one of twenty to thirty hairstyles were cut down to a few within minutes. Skin tones were accepted and rejected. Cute button noses and off-kilter, crooked beaks were compared. Sharp, angry eyes were lined with tired pairs of baby blues and deep browns. And afterwards, as I mentioned before, Beth altered any decisions I made.

From that, my character for Eternal Battlegrounds was made. I named him Rhodes for no particular reason. It was the first thing to enter my mind, and I couldn’t help it. I’m just not good with coming up with names.

I spent several hours, which rolled by in what felt like half the time, that night learning the ropes with Beth, who went by Polaris in game. She brought me into the group her buddy Trent was in. It was called FleshFarm. Beth didn’t seem to know why, and neither did Trent. I figured it was better not to ask.

About a couple hours in was when I got to know a couple others in FleshFarm better. First was Trent, who had a late study group but insisted on showing Beth, and in turn me, around the starting areas. He went by Skellington, his avatar a jittering gray corpse in an oversized captain’s coat.

It was relative odd having these names to call both Beth and Trent by, because by the end of it the three of us wound just using our actual names. And that only confused some of the others in FleshFarm (I was told FF was the choice acronym for the guild).

“who teh hell is trent?” one of the guild members asked, appropriately misspelled as things on the internet should be. I honestly don’t remember who it was that asked.

“I am Trent. That’s what they call me in the real world, at least. :P” Trent answered,

I noticed that Beth and Trent always typed properly. I suppose it was habit for them, but it definitely stuck out amongst those usual unpunctuated mess.

“real world? what’s that? lol” said Decker, one of the guild mates that had played roughly as long as Trent had,

About five to ten other people in FF followed with multiple variations of written laughter. LOL. ROFL. Hahahaha. LMAO. So on and so forth.

Decker was the first person beyond the people I knew (although I didn’t exactly know Trent, but I figured knowledge by association counts) that made any direct conversation with. The talk wasn’t about anything horribly important. It mostly consisted of me asking about certain aspects of the game and him answering them in a fashion that I could half figure out what he was trying to see. I just replied after every other line with something along the lines of ‘oic’ or ‘ah’ and hoped that I was figure out half the crap he was talking about later down the line. He was pretty helpful and fairly informative, so I knew we’d get along.

The end of the first night was hilarious. Beth and I were brought along a relatively high level dungeon (relatively high when you consider that Polaris and Rhodes were a couple levels off the ground) with Skell (all of FF couldn’t be asked to spell his entire character name) and Hazel. Hazel the avatar was a gorgeous, statuesque elven woman in incredibly elaborate plate mail. The person who plays Hazel, I learned, was a young man from Arizona and a neverending source of information on Eternal (another one of those things that was quicker to just partially type). The actual journey wasn’t that funny. Beth and I had our share of troubles and Trent and Hazel had to come and save us many times by the end of it. In fact, it was pretty tedious and borderline annoying.

It was mostly funny because of Kida.

I didn’t talk to Kida any that night, but the stories she (Sure, Kida’s avatar was female, but I was unsure of whether or not she was actually a woman until I asked Trent and Hazel in party chat.) told cracked me up. She talked about groups with random people who also play, and some of the boneheaded things they pulled off. Kida had a way with words, which I found unbelievably funny. Most of what she said was damn near gibberish, but still understandable.

I learned later that she had just started playing recently as well, so I thought it may be good to welcome her to play with Beth and I, whenever we managed to get on. Kida logged for the night before I was able to ask, so it had to wait for another day.

So the first night playing wasn’t so bad. I imagine it still doesn’t look like it matters with what’s going on with me in the real world, but I can assure you that it will.

But don’t worry, I haven’t gotten to any of the real trouble yet.

I must be honest here. I don't like how I ended this piece. It's not clicking. The introduction to internet aspect of one Nick's conflicts just isn't coming off how I want it to.

I also have another problem. I don't know exactly who I want the first girl to be. Damn it.

The Types that Shop in EB/Video Game Salesmen (5GING excerpt)

2005-06-23T01:28:38Z

I’ve been in that Electronics Boutique more times than I could possibly remember, but I constantly find myself on edge whenever I go in there. By no means is it a dirty, unkempt store. It’s one of the nicer looking shops in the mall, in fact. I suppose my main argument is that I feel completely out of place inside it. The sort of people that shop in stores like this are not from the same mold as me. Maybe I’m kind of an elitist prick, but there are three kinds of people that frequent this sort of place, and I just don’t feel like I fit in with any of those.

Of course, there’s the diehards. Like Beth and me, they’ve played since they could talk. The only real difference, and maybe I can only speak for myself, is that I haven’t become a know-all, tell-all gaming genius. I remember being happy with being able to reach the Warp Zones in Super Mario Brothers. The store lures the high school and college boys who can clear The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past without dying. The ones with record time Mega Man 2 clear times. The ones that can finish all the Metal Gear Solids without killing anybody. Guys with completed ‘No Junction’ Final Fantasy VIII save files.

I stand by these guys and feel dirty and ashamed that I haven't accomplished what they have.

Then again, I stand by these guys when they buy their limited edition versions of games that come with ten-inch statues of assorted video game vixens and their booster packs of the latest trading card game, and I feel I got relatively lucky.

Standing behind them in line are popular guys. The varsity basketball team or wrestling squad. These are the people who gave the hardcore nerds wedgies in middle school and slept with their sisters. They grab titles like Halo and Grand Theft Auto and talk about how ‘video games rock!’ I ask myself why they even bother buying here, as they would appear a little more fitting if they purchased their games, the yearly Madden, the flavor of the month first person shooter, at Target. But then I see them make the ‘nerds’ uncomfortable, and I ultimately answer my question.

It’s a half-assed turf war with no real progress in either direction.

I couldn’t possibly think of myself as one of them. Their cocky attitudes and assholish natures are the kind of traits I would never like to show. Besides, I sucked at basketball and I couldn’t make the wrestling team even if God willed it so.

And then there’s the mothers. After dragging leagues of children through housewares stores, bath and beauty shops, and every clothes outlet in the mall, it only made sense to let them have a look at something a little more acceptable to their tastes. Not until they finish their kids’ meals, mind you. Maybe they’d prefer the toy store, but that sits on the far end of the northwest wing and EB is right there in the food court. The little ones are just as tired as mom at this point, and it’s not like checking out video games are a bad thing. So, they opt for it instead. Bless mothers’ hearts, but the average woman with 2.4 kids doesn’t know their joysticks from their memory cards. They’ll humor the ‘gimme gimme gimme!’ shouts from their sons and daughters. They’ll ask the attendants for help and advice, only to bite off more than they can chew. And finally, they’ll buy something that will inevitably annoy them. Mothers will regret the day they bought them once the children become so entranced, they forget their being shouted at to turn the damned things off.

Obviously, I couldn’t fit into this group. I lack the proper parts to be a mom, for one. As for children, my current problem is makes it a little pointless to look that far ahead. One step at a time.

Beth picked up two copies and held onto both as we waited in the relatively short line. “I’ll pay you back,” I said,

“You bet you’re paying me back,” she said with a slight snicker, “You can expect me to round up my money the next time you get paid.”

I counted up from the last payday. Fourteen days on ten digits worth of fingers and thumbs, but I figured it out. As I tapped a finger per day, Friday-Saturday-Sunday-Monday-and-so-on, our turn in line came. “This Friday, it seems,”

“Even better,” Beth declared, then turned to the cashier, “Hey there.”

“How are you two today?” he asked us, in that false positive tone of voice they probably teach in training videos or business seminars.

I don’t know if the people they hire there are naturally that fake and smarmy, or if they teach them how to appear so slimy and bothersome. It was just the one guy there that day, but I know of at least four or five other employees that split hours there. Every last one of them acts in nearly the same fashion.

The guy that helped us had worked there than any of them, He was the example the others tried to duplicate.

The Video Game Salesman douchebag cookie cutter.

He dressed like his wage could actually support it, which I doubted. A dark long-sleeved dress shirt almost elaborately tucked into his black slacks. With a woven belt and slightly beat up leather dress shoes to finish his look, I pictured him thinking, after finishing a late shift the night before tending bar at an executive bar, that his uniform looked nice enough to wear to his second job.

This sharp dressed man complimented the whole arrangement with a thick black lanyard, the words ‘Electronics Boutique’ printed repeatedly on one side, around his neck. A small clip dangled from the lanyard, which bit into a plastic name tag.

The names of the people who worked there were not of this world. They were not names of real people. These were soap opera stars. English or French waiters who swept dinner guests off their feet with their ‘lovely accents’ when they read the wine list. These names belonged to men painted on romance novels. They fought elves and unicorns. They weren’t supposed to sell me a computer game.

Blaine. Hunter. DeVaughn. Kingsley.

Our wonderful helper’s name was Caleb.

The Bathroom Horror (5GING Except)

2005-06-20T05:40:28Z

“It couldn’t possibly been as bad as what happened a couple weeks ago.”

“Is this the one where some dude clogged a pair of skid-marked briefs in the sink drain?”

“That was gross, yes,” she grimaced when she recalled her own story about the shitty underwear in the sink, “but this was infinitely worse.”

A short line developed, consisting of a skinny blonde and her relatively new offspring hanging from her back in a sling, a greasy trucker in greasy overalls with greasy hands scratching his greasy beard, and a random punkass kid clearly skipping school. She handled each of them quickly and efficiently, clearing her space in a matter of a minute and a half. Beth despises the general public, yet manages to deal with them in quick but remarkably friendly manner. She once told me she heard that she was up for Employee of the Month once, but she toned the enthusiasm to allow the chubby girl who runs the diner register. Fuck if I ever have my picture lined up in the break room with all the other losers, she once told me.

“I was lucky enough to have to pull a triple shift that night, and around three in the morning, about half dozen guys come strolling in. They’re just absolutely bombed from what I can tell. A couple of them were laughing at everything in sight. The ice cream freezer, the chip rack, the shelf of used cassette tapes; they cracked up laughing at it all.”

They browsed briefly, she said, and then eventually made their way to the men’s room.

“I knew I’d wind up having to clean up after them. Drunks have a knack for that sort of shit.”

Beth then sold a fat, sad looking woman fifteen dollars in quick-pick lottery tickets. She paid with a twenty, and demanded the change in quarters. Low on change herself, Beth directed her to one of the other counters. “I can’t tell if she’s needing the coins for the Laundromat down the way or for the video poker machines in the back,” she told me, “Anyway, I figure I’m gonna have some maintenance in there after they headed out. Y’know, a little pee here. A little pee there. I waited about a minute after they left the restroom, bought a few bucks worth of junk food, and motored away from the truck stop before going in there with a mop bucket.”

She removed her glasses and wiped the lenses with her shirt. The look on her face told it all, but she went on. “I’ve heard some really heinous stories from co-workers about the things people do in those bathrooms, but this was easily the worst I had ever seen. I suppose it wasn’t that bad in comparison, but it was still pretty damn retarded,”

She paused for effect. “There was piss everywhere. Not just puddling outside of the bowls and urinals. I’m talking everywhere. It’s like they all took their peckers out and had themselves a little pee party.”

They left no part of the room uncovered. There was piss on the floor, dripping from the stall walls, and flowing over a couple toilet bowls and even a sink. She had to pluck a gigantic wad of toilet paper out of the drain. Even though she was wise enough to remember the pair of rubber gloves in the maintenance closet, I imagine Beth was not too pleased in placing her hands in a bathroom sink full of urine.

“You remember that Coke clock that we used to have in there?” she asked me,

“Oh yeah, the one you were gonna give to me when they bought a new one?”

And then it occurred to me, just I asked, “Wait. What do you mean by ‘used to have in there’?”

Those drunken bastards yanked the clock clean off the wall and threw it into the one of the urinals.

“The damn thing reeked of pee. I think a couple of those guys ate a plate of asparagus or something. It smelled so fucking bad.”

“Did you clean it?”

I thought about it later. I really don’t know why in the hell I asked that.

“What are you, nuts? I was pissed off enough having to clean five, six, seven grown men’s piss throughout the fucking bathroom. What makes you think I’d take the effort to clean a pee clock?”

“Well, I really did like that clock. Why else would I have asked for it?”

I also thought about this comment. There’s no way I’d keep a urine-covered clock, even if it was properly cleaned off.

Beth looked at me with one part contempt, but at least three or four parts disgust and a hint of nausea, “Christ, Nick. I thought you said you lost your appetite.”

I didn’t really notice it myself at first, but about halfway through her story, I grabbed the tray of fries again. I guess I was just too hungry to pass it up. She snatched the tray and threw it in the wastebasket below her register.

“Even though you’re a sick motherfucker, you’re going with me to lunch,” she said, “You’re gonna have a meal that doesn’t look like human waste and you’re gonna like it.”

5GING - THE PART WITH THE LESBIAN (TEASER)

2005-06-18T04:43:50Z

You can completely blame someone, as she introduced it to me that same Monday I took up the challenge Jamie devised. After I dropped him off at the mall, I considered returning home for the next couple hours before I had to work. Instead, as it was about two or three miles from my house anyways, I stopped at the J & D, a truck stop just off the interstate where my friend Beth works.

I met Beth Duffy about three years earlier one day after heading into the J & D to gas up my car. She had been working there for a little while before that, but up until that day I had never seen her there. She opted for morning shifts, and only three or four months after the fact did they actually start shifting at those times. Anyway, the first time I met her, nothing really came out of it. I told her I had twenty bucks on pump four, she asked for the money, I obliged, she told me to have a nice day and I thanked her. Nothing out of the ordinary. Although, it soon became a bit of a routine. I frequently stopped into the stop for gas or food or drink or whatever, and she always happened to be there when I came in. Stupid, idle chat about the crap I was buying soon turned into stupid, idle chat in general. From there, we started talk about all sorts of shit. She was big into collectable statue sets. I told her how I dabbled a bit in that silly card game my brother played religiously. We agreed that country music was, as a whole, an atrocious abomination. We also laughed at how fitting it was for the both of us to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, which so happens to be ripe with shitty country music radio stations. About a month into the regular conversations, we started having lunch and hanging out together whenever our specific schedules allowed it. It worked out pretty well, as we both enjoyed the fact that we loathed the same type of people. The common grounds for us were the mostly brain-dead masses of the mall, and we could spend an hour or two shaking heads at them all while looked over various movie memorabilia in the three or four stores that specialized in them.

And from the handful of times I visited her with Jamie in tow, she couldn’t stand him just as much as I did. She didn’t know why I drug him around sometimes, but figured there was a suitable or at least hilarious reason and simply let it go from there. Like I said, he bugged the shit out of her and she often declared how she’d like to shoot him out of a cannon. That was reason enough to be friends with her.

Yes, the idea of the list had occurred to me as I approached the gas station. No, I wouldn’t put Beth on the list. For the three years I’ve been talking to her, it had been completely on a friendly level. I never saw any interest in me from her and it’s been roughly the same for myself.

That and she’s a lesbian. I considered that a huge exemption.

dusk_wip @ 2005-06-17T18:40:00

2005-06-18T00:42:06Z

‘You’re not my type.’

What does that even mean? I swear, it’s a clever device created by women generations and generations ago to ward off countless hordes of horny men. Not a soul has any idea what it means, not even those who wield that mighty trump card. But ladies all over know men will fall for it and believe it if you tell it to them enough. Sadly, most of us guys are that gullible.

Either that, or there truly are only fifteen or twenty men fit for every woman on the face of the earth. Nights like that Thanksgiving are making me firmly believe that there’s not even an inkling of a possibility that I’m one of those fifteen or twenty. I’m not a chosen one. A golden boy, I am not.

I’m not even mad that Elaine isn’t interested in me. That’s not the point. The point is that I’m coming to the realization that my one of my biggest fears about myself may be true.

Allow me to dispense a little information about myself. My full name is Nicholas Isaiah Clarett. Most people find the initials clever. N. I. C. Funny, huh?

I’m a prisoner of the American Midwest. The middle child of a military father and his overseas bride, I’m the unfortunate one. Gabe’s out and about with his fancy position and college is all but determined for Sabrina. I put it off for the first year following high school and it snowballed from there. I work in a department store on the edge of town, smack dab where all the tourists and out-of-towners can shop without getting too lost.

I feel remarkably short for someone who’s six foot one. It could be because I’m the shortest guy in my family (Gabe and Dad are six-four and six-three, respectively). It could just be a brain thing that happens when I go through these pansy emotional hissy-fits. I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell.

I’m never gonna be able to grow facial hair, but it’s not like I was really trying to. Apparently it’s one of those genetic things. My dad has told me on many occasions that he wasn’t even able to grow a full moustache until he was thirty-five.

I’m not scared of spiders, but if something small like a spider suddenly scuttled across my body, it would probably frighten the piss out of me.

For me, water and juice over soda.

And it’s ‘soda’. Not ‘pop’.

I prefer my pancakes in stacks of three with a pat of butter and enough maple syrup to put a small child in a diabetic coma. I’m more of a ham and eggs type of guy, but I’ll take bacon if it’s crispy enough. French toast, I can tolerate, but only in small portions.

In order of preference in the morning: orange juice, milk, and then coffee. But only if there’s absolutely nothing else.

None of this really matters, considering I eat breakfast maybe a half dozen times a year.

When I was younger, I thought of plenty of the things I would be when I got to the age I am currently. I would be married (I was eleven when thought this). I would drive all the girls crazy (fourteen). I’d be an excellent kisser (fifteen) and pretty good in bed (sixteen).

Very good in bed (seventeen).

Extremely good in bed (eighteen).

Most of those and plenty other predictions are you to be determined as true or otherwise. I have, however, learned many other things about myself as told to me by plenty of girls. I’m a sweetheart. I’m a great guy. Cool. Wonderful to be around.

“You have a great sense of humor, Nick.” Countless people have told me, “You’re hilarious.”

I’m told I have lovely eyes. A great smile.

I have a cute butt.

According to those I’ve talked to, I’m quite a catch. There are girls all over that would love to be with you. One day, I would make a woman very happy.

This sounds delightful and all, but that’s only half of it. It gets better.

‘You’re a great guy and everything… I just don’t think it would work between us.’

‘It has nothing to do with you. I just don’t feel we would connect.’

You’re not my type.

Apparently, I’m the most amazing man on Earth that no woman wants any part of. All the compliments I get have some sort of provision or stipulation. Something like you can have your steak for free, but only if you kill the cow yourself.

Nick, you’re quite a catch… for somebody else.

Girls all over would love to be with you… it’s just that none of them are here.

One of these days, you’re gonna make a woman very happy… but it won’t be me.

They should just tell me this ahead of time and save me the misery.

I can’t believe that it took this long for me to realize how much this bugs the ever-loving shit out of me. Obviously, this isn’t something that just came up. I’ve been hearing this ‘you’re a good friend’ stuff since I’ve been regularly associating myself with girls. It was kinda funny at first, and a bit hard to believe, but first and foremost I was positive it was just a phase.

Can somebody be so likeable but not… you know, ‘like-likable’ forever?

One can deal through middle school about being turned down by girls. One can handle rejection fairly well even through the hell that high school can be. But now it’s the early 20s, and you can only shrug it off for so long.

At the time of that damned bar conversation with Elaine and pretty much on to this point, I’ve never had a relationship. Not one that really meant anything. No group dates, no real dates, no nothing. I’ve never kissed anyone before. Not a ‘have a good day at school’ kiss from your mom or something like that. Like one of those gushy date movie kisses that run for thirty or forty seconds over a Sting or Norah Jones song.

I am twenty-three and I’m a virgin. How the fuck is that even possible? Are virgins even supposed to exist after the age of nineteen? I’ve got to be some sort of endangered species. I better not let this secret out, or they’ll put me in a preserve.

It was only a matter of time before I let this get to me. Just so happened that that Thanksgiving night in the Spur was that time. I could only imagine how I was for the rest of the evening. Everyone else had to have noticed. I didn’t say a thing unless something was asked of me. Even then, I probably responded in quick, short answers with very little feeling. I don’t even remember if any of them asked me anything. I want to blame it on the fact that it was nearly two years ago, but I have a habit when I drink upset. It’s a habit of drinking more than I usually do. A lot more, and faster. Much faster than anyone should drink.

I think Anna said, at one point, “Nick, is that your ninth beer? Jesus, you’re gonna puke till the New Year!”

That very well could have been the only thing said to me the rest of that evening. None of them seemed to notice. I would have figured Lynn saw how brooding and relatively whiny I probably appeared to be. Then again, I wasn’t looking at anything or anyone in particular. I stared off wherever people weren’t, and therefore if she was indeed concerned with me, I wouldn’t have noticed. And she didn’t say anything, so I guess she didn’t notice or maybe didn’t care.

Even though I remained around friends for that entire evening and the early parts of the morning, I just did not want any sort of cheery, flowery, ‘make me feel better about myself’, happy talk. It’s pretty funny to think about it now. Maybe I’m simple, but that sort of reassurance is what I needed. Any moody episode that I’ve ever had could be remedied with a variation of, “You poor thing, it’ll all be okay.”

Don’t worry, Nick. Everything will be alright. You’ll get yourself a lovely girlfriend one of these days. It will all be rainbows, butterflies, and shooting stars sooner or later and all will be right in the world!

I wouldn’t have believed any of that crap, but it would be just what I needed to hear. But I’m stubborn and considerably ignorant when I’m depressed. Even more so when I’m drunk. Any comforting would have led me to shut everyone out. I was incredibly shut off as it was, it wouldn’t have done me any good to seclude myself AND be an asshole.

Once I got home, cleared my stomach (yes, yes, yes... Anna was at least partially right. I threw up for what felt like hours, but I didn’t quite make it to 2004.), and slept on the thought of being lonely forever did I suddenly realize I needed to vent. I had to confess all these sad and sorry feelings to someone. Unfortunately, the usual suspects weren’t exactly the sort I wanted to tell these particular things to.

Mom and Dad? Absolutely not. I’m not at the age where mommy and daddy can help me. At least not with this particular issue. There is no fucking way I’m running crying to them saying, “Why won’t girls go out with me?”

My brother and sister? I’d have to be fucking nuts to tell them. If they knew that I moped the entire weekend because at least seven years of ‘no hard feelings’-style rejections suddenly led to a bout of loneliness? Jesus, I’d never hear the end of it. Gabe and Sabrina—especially Sabrina… oh lord, would she do a job on me if she found out –would make sure I’d never hear the end of their ridicule. For three weeks at worst, a month and a half to two months at best, those two would brand me with all sorts of titles.

Softy. Crybaby. Fucking pussy.

“You’re such a bitch, Nick.”

Breenie’s said that to me many times, but in an instance like this, it would have more weight.

And honestly, I wouldn’t blame them. Shit, I know I’d be the first to mock if I were in their shoes. It’s a sort of privilege. When you have brothers or sisters, you are entitled to mock their pain, belittle their accomplishments, shatter their dreams, and if you are so inclined, whip their asses. I would fully understand why they would do that to me, even if all it did was make me feel worse. It just means I would bust either Gabe or Sabrina’s chops at the very moment I heard of any of their own personal woes.

Siblings are important and relatively caring, but they’re also brutal and considerably rude when they need to be. There’s a brand of pain, suffering, and embarrassment that only siblings can dish out, and in the long run it’s something I am probably better off having been a victim of such.

It just means I owe the both of them a vicious punch in the back of their heads.

I suppose I could’ve gone and spoke to Duke. She’s usually willing to listen to whatever. Then again, surprising to at least myself, she’s quite a wildcat for a woman in her mid 40s. She has always been particularly rambunctious, and perhaps with my current state of being it would not be best to ask a firestarter such as herself to my lonesome losers’ whiskey party.

Imagine the moment of consolation. Duke would hug me tight, providing all the reassuring clichés that I would want to hear. Nose deep in her huge pillowy breasts, but not in the least bit is the situation arousing. With how tight her strangling grasp is and the amount of my face embedded in pounds and pounds of tit, I’d probably need resuscitation if I managed to get out of her cleavage.

And without a doubt, either Gabe or Breenie would catch this. Once again, I would never hear the end of it.

So she was out of the question.

And before the realization that I sat with four perfectly reasonable and understanding individuals fully kicked in the following morning, I had already ruled out telling three-fourths of the table at the Spur. Justin’s a decent enough fellow, but him and I aren’t that close. At least not close enough to share my particular issues.

Not to mention that he was in cahoots with Anna. Seriously, Anna is a wonderful girl and all, but there’s no way I’m opening up to her about anything that is in any way sensitive information. My little circle, being Anna, Justin, Elaine, Lynn, and myself, learned many things about one another pretty quickly. When it came to Anna, we knew many things but three big facts for sure.

One. She’s an absolute sweetheart. There isn’t a single woman on the planet that treats her family and friends better than her. It can be a little tricky to get used to someone going out of their way to treat better than necessary, but it’s useless to tell Anna to stop.

Two. The more she drinks, the louder she gets. That night at the Spur was a prime example. She was Lynn’s and my drunken backup singer… and that was after having two Razers.

TWO Razers and she was bombed. Her voice hit bullhorn volumes three hours and two more Razers and a Tequila Sunrise later. I know she’s been worse, though. Lynn once told me the cops broke up a party at Elaine’s place one night because half a bottle of Jim Beam had Anna screaming and hollering loud enough to wake the surly seniors a block and a half away.

Lynn said the officer told her there were reports of a woman, either in pain or extreme joy, howling up and down the streets. Truth was Anna was so far gone; she stripped half her clothes off and rand down Elaine’s block, shrieking random noises that couldn’t be signified as actual words.

She ignored me and walked off the first time I asked for her side of the story. She still does with each time I ask about it.

And finally, but perhaps the most important thing we about her, something the rest of us discovered fast.

Anna is a huge gossip.

She may be the nicest and most caring person I know, but I figured there’s much more to her days than buying her friends lunch, helping old ladies cross streets and baking cookies. Her sincerity and congeniality tend to make her very accessible. People get so comfortable with Anna that they succumb and eventually tell her just about anything about themselves. Shit you wouldn’t tell your immediate and not so immediate family or even the best of your best friends you would eventually tell her.

I don’t know what the fuck it is about Anna, but she manages to eek a story out of everyone she’s ever known. Unfortunately for everyone she’s ever known, she will share these tales. Be it slightly funny or something meant to be kept secret and she will share these tales with everyone she’s ever known.

When Elaine was fifteen, she went commando under a pair of white Capri pants to the mall with Anna and a couple girlfriends. About forty-five minutes into browsing and potential clothes shopping, she had a bit of a… problem.

A feminine problem. I suppose that’s what it would be called.

She hid behind a pair of shirt racks as her friends picked up a sweater for her to wrap around her waist. It cost each of them about fifteen bucks apiece, but with as loudly and frequently as Elaine was cursing and shouting, they found it an acceptable expense.

I imagine it was difficult for the general public to keep from gawking at a circle of girls when one of them is yelling herself into tears.

Even after she covered up any red bits and blotches from public, she remained unsatisfied until she could change into a darker (and not so covered in… feminine problems) pair of pants and I imagine a pair of panties as well. Home was thirty minutes out, and she preferred to stand around for a few while Anna withdrew about forty bucks from the ATM.

I heard about it about a year or two later. From Anna, of course. That sort of ‘accident’ was not the sort of thing I’d expect any woman, let alone Elaine to tell me. Tell any man, at that. I don’t even remember why she told me in the first place. I don’t recall the context of any of the conversation, the icebreaker, the segueway, anything. Anything but the story about Elaine.

Elaine and her feminine problems.

Anna told me about Lynn’s incident during sophomore year Chemistry class that led to her losing her left eyebrow. She wound up telling me herself a day later, but she was too late. “I don’t know why I told her. Everyone’s gonna know by the end of the week.”

I suppose a burned off eyebrow would be fairly difficult to hide, but when she approached me to tell me about it, I almost thought she was lying. Maybe I was ignorant or blind at the time, but she penciled in a sharp looking replacement.

So I’d never tell her anything about this, because I just know by week’s end, all her friends and her friends’ friends and so on will know about it. Furthermore, when you get Anna, you get Justin in the package. With those two being as thick as thieves as they are, you can make these assumptions.

Tell Anna anything, you’ve told Justin by proxy (in addition to everyone she’s ever known).

Tell Justin anything, you’ve told Anna by proxy. By him telling her, you have then told everyone she’s ever known by proxy.

Personally, I’m not horribly comfortable with the fact that the entire western half of the state could wind up learning I’ve never been laid. So Anna and Justin are out.

When it comes to Elaine, I think of it as such. It’s pretty much her fault that I started to feel the way I did. She doesn’t know it, but yeah. Besides, I think I’m fine with her not really knowing. That and I’m not feeling up to cornering her and putting all the blame on her. “How could you say that you wouldn’t date me? How am I not your type? You’re just like every other girl who wouldn’t give me a chance!”

I can hear the violins now.

And that leaves Lynn. Seeing as how she’s my closest friend, I probably would have told her. I’ve confided in her before and she’s done the same, so there is a mutual trust between us. She may be the only person I can honestly say that about. I’ve never really lined up everyone I know and figured it out for sure, but on any off chance that I briefly think about, Lynn’s the first and only person that really comes to mind. There fore, I feel it’s safe to make that assumption.

And if I had only cleared my head in time, I probably would have told her. But, Lynn was only in town for a few days. She had to drive back to Minneapolis the following morning in order to make an evening meeting in time. Or something along those lines.

With all my options either being unavailable or ultimately not an option, I spent the holiday weekend feeling sorry for myself. Brooding silently and sulking at every possible moment from Friday to Sunday, I let just about everything sink in. Elaine’s comments first and foremost, but every other sad similar moment as well. Every girl that found me nice, but not nice enough. Every ‘you’re not my type’ I heard. Every girl that snuck out of a hug (This really happened. It only happened once, thank god, but once was enough.). Every single moment in the ‘girls are pretty’ phase of my life that was, in some fashion, telling me that maybe I should get used to being single because I am and will be until the end of times. It filled me up and wore me out for three days.

And by the fourth day, an uncommonly warm Monday (Uncommon when you compare it with the nasty, wintry week we experience beforehand, but this really was no surprise. The weather around here is beyond fickle.), I had enough.

I needed to let this out. To anyone. AT this point, it didn’t fucking matter who. I wasn’t in a position to be nitpicky by this time. I just needed to let it out and the first person I saw that day was the poor shlub that would get to hear my entire sad story.

But maybe I ended up with the bad end of the bargain, now that I think about it.

I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen around nine, nine-thirty to find Jamie Roswell sitting at the dining table with a bow of Trix and a commentary that began to scare my mother.

“Oh thank goodness, Nick. You need to tell your friend if he can’t appreciate a free breakfast, then he either needs to supply his own cereal or find somewhere else to go in the morning.”

Jamie moved into town while I was a junior in school. He lived about five houses down from me and stuck me as a bit of a wiseass the first few times I had to deal with him. He’s a bit of a firecracker and typically spunky for a short, wiry kid as he is. He craves attention and has a fair arsenal to grab it whenever he needs it. Primarily, he’s loud and brash and can easily turn heads his way by simply raising his voice a notch. Jamie’s real weapon is how unbelievable random he can bit. It’s sometimes unbelievable to hear some of the things that will come out of his gob. You will just never know with him. One day, there’s assorted interjections that could throw you off completely if you didn’t pay enough attention. Other days, such as that Monday, he’d provide a crackpot theory about damn near anything for people to discuss. Well, there was usually less discussion and more confusion, but it often was too difficult to differentiate the two.

“Jamie, I thought I told you to quit freaking out my mom.” I said,

“I was simply making a point. A pretty damn valid point, if you ask me.”

He said that while crunching a mouthful of fruit shapes and milk. A light drip of two percent dribbled from the crease of his lip and down his chin.

“Enlighten me then.”

“This cereal,” he pointed to, while still scooping Trix into his face, “is everything that’s wrong with children today.”

“He claimed that by buying this brand of cereal means I support children acting like,”

She paused, “like… like,”

I knew exactly what she was stalling on. Mom hated profanity, especially when anyone in the house used it. It was kind of difficult for her when she had two sons and a daughter that dropped f-bombs like they were going out of style.

“Like assholes,” Jamie completed the sentence for her,

“Watch your mouth while you’re in my house,” she ordered,

He waved apologetically while and I glared at him in confusion, “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Nick! Did you just hear me?”

“Sorry, mom,” I said, but continued immediately into my questioning, “What are you talking about, Jamie?”

“Well, there’s always talk about how rowdy and disrespectful kids have become. I say it was merely a matter of time. Can you believe some of the crap cereal and their complimentary commercials tell kids to act?”

I figured Mom had the same reaction as I did, as she couldn’t say anything that could describe how bewildered she was by Jamie. I was equally as speechless.

“Like this, for example,”

He raises a spoonful of Trix for us to see, but gave us less than ample time to notice it before jamming it in his mouth. “Trix is a pretty good, wholesome looking breakfast cereal,” Jamie mumbled and ate, “Pleasant looking. Pleasant tasting, that’s for sure. But!”

He actually exclaimed that ‘But!’, and spat a fair spray of the mush in his mouth in every which direction. I shuffled back after I thought I may have been struck by it. I lucked out, and also witnessed a disgusted wince develop across my mom’s face.

“But, do you see how the children in those fucking commercials treat that rabbit! How the hell could they do that to him! He’s the TRIX rabbit. How can you not allow the TRIX rabbit to have a bowl of Trix? It’s like they’re saying, ‘It’s okay to tell people they can’t have the stuff they want. Fuck ‘em. Who cares about them?”

Mom, grasping onto the sink counter in an absolute but subtle rage, glared at Jamie and said, “Jamie, I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Dude, Lucky Charms are the same fucking thing!”

She just gave up and stormed out of the kitchen. “I’ve got to run some errands in a bit, so I’ll be upstairs getting ready. You work in a bit, Nick?”

“At noon, yeah.” I said, “I’ve gotta take Jamie to the mall, too.”

“Fantastic. I don’t wanna see him in the house when I get home.”

Almost as though she wanted Jamie to hear how upset she was with him, she stepped as heavy-footed as she possibly could upstairs. He turned to the direction of Mom’s stomps, but then turned back to me when the slam of the bathroom door banged loudly.

“The fuck was her problem, Nick?”

“Jamie, you know my man can’t stand cursing.”

“Oh,” he shrugged, somewhat embarrassed, “shit. Sorry, dude.”

My mom hated when Gabe, Breenie, and I cursed, but we were in no way as bad as Jamie. He would make sailors and prison inmates uncomfortable.

“What was I saying? Oh yeah, the Lucky Charms guy.” Jamie went on, but only after another shovel of cereal lemons, raspberries, and oranges went was tossed into his mouth, “Same fucking thing, man. Children chase after the poor bastard all the time. All he wants is some fucking Lucky Charms!”

Somewhere in the middle of this, I’ve filled a bowl of cereal for myself and taken a seat. To avoid anymore of this stupid rampage, I grabbed the box of Special K from atop the refrigerator. The gallon of milk was on the far side of table, on Jamie’s right, so I had to motion to him to pass it to me. “Not that I blame him, because that cereal is beyond delicious.”

I just hoped I could crunch loudly enough to be able to mute Jamie. I thought about the box of Raisin Bran we also had, and how it would be more up for the job. It was too late at that point, so I poured the milk on and ate.

“I’m telling you, kid’s cereals promote horrible practices. The mascots for Cookie Crisp are a dog and a fucking burglar!”

“They changed that, though.”

“Huh?”

“It’s only the dog now.”

“That’s not the point. They had a criminal promoting they’re cereal for years and years. A change just recently doesn’t mean shit.”

He then went on about Barney Rubble, Fruity Pebbles and Cocoa Pebbles. “I used to be a fan of the Flintstones until I started watching those Pebbles commercials,” he said, “but now I realize was what a cock Barney is. How cheap is he that he has steal cereal from his best friend? A box of fucking Fruity Pebbles probably costs like three or four… shells? What the hell is the currency in Bedrock? Is it shells? Stones?”

“Clams.” I said flatly, and then continued with my Special K.

“Oh yeah. Clams. It’s like three or four clams. Is he that much of a cheapass? Fred should beat his fucking ass. Like, hardcore kick his ass.”

“At least there’s Tony the Tiger. He seems to be pretty wholesome.”

“What? Are you freaking kidding me?”

If she was down here, Mom may have found the sudden use of a cleaner curse rather odd.

“What, are you telling there’s something wrong with Tony the Tiger?”

“Fuck yeah, man! He’s the worse of them all! He’s the Michael Jackson of Breakfast Cereal Mascots!”

I practically choked on a mouthful of puffed rice. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Dude, I’m serious! Think about it for second. Big burly dude like Tony, right? He surrounds himself with dozens of children, treats them to breakfast, takes them out to carnivals and shit, makes them run around and, quote-unquote, exercise, making them all sweaty and crap—“

“Oh my fucking god, Jamie!” I shouted. I dropped my spoon, and it quickly made its way to the floor.

“It’s the goddamn truth, man! Those commercials are video proof of how deranged these crazy fuckers are!”

I was at a complete loss at this point. The only thing I could think of saying, while I’m fumbling around on the floor for my spoon was, “Now wait a second. You’re talking all this crap about the Trix Rabbit and whatnot, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem to be stopping you from eating it.”

He seemed to finally reach a total stop. Jamie just shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Dude, it tastes fucking great.”

He didn’t realize his bowl was empty until clinked the bottom with his spoon. “Hey dude, can I use your computer?”

“Yeah, sure,” I waved him in the general direction of my room, as if he didn’t know where it was by now, “but wash your dishes first. You’ve already pissed my mom off enough this morning, so make it up to her.”

“I will later,” he said, then stood up and left the dining table for the staircase,

“At least put your bowl in the sink, dumbass!”

“I will later,”

I sighed and went on to finish my breakfast while Jamie had long gone up to my room and bumbled about on my computer.

Somewhere between the truth about cereal mascots and the first time AI saw him confuse and frighten people (if I recall, it involved a detailed discussion of boils and cancerous sores to the fourth grade triplets that go to his bus stop.), was the moment I allowed him to enter my home. It started with a week where we had to study for the same final (Imagine that. The day was a certified genius. He was taking junior year classes while still a freshman.). From then on, he came over every other day whether I wanted him to or not. There was never a good excuse for all the unexpected and mostly unwanted visits. At least until he got a job in a video arcade a year ago. He couldn’t afford his own car but judging by the part-time, minimum wage fare he signed up for, he was in no particular hurry to get one. Why would he be when he can walk down the street and bum a ride for relatively free (I try to regularly yell at him once a week for gas money.)? My parents figured the job meant he’d spend less time at the house. All it did was guarantee my mom would have a lovely chat with Jamie every morning. He’d knock on the front door and weasel his way inside for breakfast at nine on the dot. As soon as I realized this, I set my alarm clock twenty minutes later so that I would always managed to get up and head to the kitchen just as he finished breakfast. He would always ask to use my computer after ate, and I always allowed him. Who knew what sort of sinful atrocities he searched for and drooled over while I wasn’t watching him? I figure he can do whatever he wants as long as I get that first half an hour awake with a bowl of bran flakes or puffed wheat or whatever. Just as long as it’s not with him. I have to put with for three hours before I head off for work and more importantly, drop him off at his job. I figure it’s only fair.

Although I did get to pay him back, somewhat, that morning. That was the thought when I first decided I would tell him. It probably wasn’t such a great idea, looking at it now. I should have figured so, especially after his reaction. After telling exactly what I felt, about how it felt like I was doomed to a life by myself, he stared with me and formed deep doe eyes and smirked at me.

He said, “Aww, Nicky wants a girlfriend! You poor thing, I’ve bet you’ve never used that thing in ages!” he pointed at my crotch, “On second thought, you probably do frequently. Self service doesn’t do the job all the time, I’m guessing.”

“Shut up, man. This is serious. A guy my age should have had at least one sort of relationship by now. This can’t be normal.”

“Sure it is. You’ve heard of all those middle aged losers, haven’t you? The ones that live with their parents’ basements until their forties or fifties. Y’know, kind of like my aunt, except it’s twice as pitiful when it’s a dude doing it.”

“You’re not helping,” I said. Although by him bringing that up, it did scare me. I love my parents, but I sure as hell do not want to be in their home for my entire life. There’s something about that that’s just wrong. At that point, I’ve pushed nearly twenty-two years there. A tad too long, I feel. With that train of thought in head, it probably explained why I went along with his idea. His stupid idea. The one with that paper. That fucking piece of paper.

“Dude, don’t be such a puss. Go out and do something about it. Girls don’t run out and look for guys unless they’re Brad Pitt or fucking Tom Cruise or something,” he went on, “And no offense, you’re no Brad or Tom.”

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,”

About midway through that, I realized what a blatant lie that was. So did he. “If that were that was the case, we wouldn’t have this problem. Would we?”

I must have appeared lost and complete dumbstruck. He had me in a bind, and pretty much willing to listen to whatever he had in mind.

“Hand me a sheet a paper,” he said, and I did, tearing a sheet from a notebook on my nightstand.

“What are you doing?”

“You think you’re a lonesome loser or some shit, right? We’ll see if you’re right.”

He had his back turned to me, scribbling something on the sheet. I suppose I could have stood up and glared over his shoulder, but I just sat confused yet curious of what he had in mind. “Here,” he turned to me and said, with the paper presented to me.

For as long as it took him to write it down, there was relatively little written on the paper. His handwriting is particularly sloppy, but I was able to make out what he wrote. The first line was centered on the paper.

Five Girls Nick Will Never Get

After that, the numbers one through five were double spaced.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

“Jamie, what the fuck is this?”

“I’ve officially declared your last stand, hombre. If you can’t pull this off, then you’re absolutely right. You’re a total loser and you’ll never get laid.”

I should’ve been mad. I should’ve smacked him in the back of the head and told him to find another fucking ride to work. Instead, I sat on my bed and examined the paper. “I don’t think I understand.”

He leaned forward in my chair, his legs seemingly bolted to the floor. “Dude, what’s there to understand? You’ve been moaning for the last twenty minutes about how you haven’t done well with ladies, right? The way I see it, you just haven’t been taking the right approach to it. You gotta hit the ground running, man!”

According to Jamie, I needed to be more aggressive. Take the initiative and get my face out there. It didn’t explain the list all that well, however.

“Well if this doesn’t work, we can’t have you going around forever trying to hook up if it’s hopeless. That’s what this is for.”

From what I gathered, he was telling me I had five chances. He probably figured I needed that many chances to get laid. I saw it as five opportunities to actually a legitimate relationship. “If you can score with somebody before you get five names on that sheet, then more power to you,”

He crept up to me a bit, as though he were trying to be dramatic. “But,” he said, with the jackass tone in his voice almost completely gone. Jamie wanted to convey this as well as he could, as though what he was about to say was law, “if you’re shot down five times, then you probably are screwed.”

“How do you figure?” I asked,

“Come on, man. If five chicks in a row tell you to fuck off, maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Just get used to singlehood or something. Either that or you could try playing for the other team.”

I beamed at him, hoping he’d feel my look.

“It’s just a though, Nick.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Jamie.”

“Look, that’s not the point. You have five shots are happiness, so I suggest you work on it before you really do have to consider the alternative.”

I knew it then, just like I know it now. This idea of his, that paper, the whole concept that this is a do-or-die type of situation for me, the whole nine, this was beyond fucking stupid. I couldn’t have been that desperate. Of course not.

But while a part of me understood this and knew that this was a waste of time, other parts of me went on with other plans.

A part of me actually thought that this really could be the end of me if it went wrong. That part feared I would be a single, lonely and crying virgin for the rest of my life.

A part of me strategized. I wasn’t exactly short on charisma or anything. I’m not the sort of person that throws pick-up lines, but I could be impressive if I wanted to be. Jamie was right, I haven’t been trying. If I kicked it up a notch, this wouldn’t be a problem anymore. I’m not so wretched looking, after all. Dozens of girls I’ve ‘missed’ with seem to think so.

A part of me thought I’d get only get to the third girl. No, a part of me KNEW I’d have no more than three. This was ridiculous. I couldn’t fail five times in a row. That would be sad, and while I haven’t had anything work out for me up to that point, I was confident I could blow it that many times. I’d have a warm-up disaster, another one to grow on, maybe the third would be oh so close, but number four would fall for me as quickly as I could fall for her. I’d ride off into the sunset with a wonderful woman in my lap, but not until after I’ve shoved that fucking paper up Jamie’s ass and laughed as he struggled to pluck it out.

And a part of me agreed to give it a shot after Jamie asked, “So what do you say? This is your life, dude.”

“That’s the spirit.” He said, then spun back around to my desk and computer, “But before we send you off, we’ve gotta do a little checkup on things as they are at this moment.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you’ve technically got five shots at this, but what if you’ve already blown three or four of those shots already?”

It would’ve figured that I was doomed before I had a chance to fix things because of a technicality. But then he continued, saying, “We’ll just look at more recent specimens, though. Wouldn’t want to give you your first strike because some girl wouldn’t walk with you to the lunchroom in the third grade.”

“That’s very nice of you,” I said as sarcastically as I could, although I was strangely glad he added that stipulation.

“So where to begin?”

He thought about it for quite a while. Odd, considering how little I’d expect him to know about anybody I knew outside family and my closest friends. Yet, he came with something. “How about that Amanda chick? She used to come around here all the time. Didn’t she shoot you down a year ago?”

I shook my head, “You’re thinking of my brother’s ex-girlfriend.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, that wasn’t me. Besides, she had a knack of baby-talking to me and Sabrina. Like we were half our ages or house pets.”

He sort of rose up in his seat. “Oh… that’s right. My bad. I wonder how I got that mixed up? You and your brother do kinda look alike.”

I never understood why people said that about me and Gabe. “He’s got three inches on me and a goatee. How the fuck do we look alike?”

“I dunno. You just do,” Jamie said, then went on, “Oh, what about that Nora chick you work with. I remember you tried to hook up with her a few months ago.”

Sort of uncharacteristic of myself, I did try to ask ‘that Nora chick’, her actual name being Nora Waverly, out on a date that August. She was a cashier at the place I worked at, and sported a dimpled smile that made me blush every time I saw her. I remarkably managed to grow the balls to ask, but it was far too difficult to get her out of the typical conversation she would get into with every person. In no particular order, Nora would speak about some to all of the following: cats, stuffed animals, especially stuffed cats, ribbons (she almost always wore a ribbon somehow in her hair), horses, ponies, horse riding, Disney cartoons, how scary movies, no matter how stupid some of them were, scared the bejeezus out of her, and at least a dozen other things I can’t seem to remember. It was fun to talk to her. Well, try to talk to her. It was fun to listen to her, rather. At least the first few times. But, then the topics began to overlap and repeat, and I eventually grew tired of it all. She’s still a sweetheart, but I can’t take her for more than a small dose or two a week.

“She also only dates guys with accents,” I said,

There was that, too. I was a tad disheartened when I discovered this. Being as American sounding as they come, without having some sort of regional accent, I quit trying.

“No fucking way. Really?”

“You know that guy she’s been around with the last couple of weeks?”

“Rich or something or another? That’s right, he’s Irish.”

“Scottish,” I said,

“Whatever. They’re sort one in the same,” Jamie argued, “I figured that was a coincidence.”

“She told me the guy she dated before him was Italian. The one before that? Korean.”

“How the hell did she manage that? This town isn’t exactly a melting pot.”

I just shrugged my shoulders and further thought about any women I may have tried to hook up with.

“Well, there’s your main roundup of buddies. I guess Elaine would count. She did basically reject any possibility between you two.”

Which was true, but I objected, “Yeah, but I wasn’t really looking to hook with her. I was more curious as to why she didn’t think it would work out.”

“Hmm… that’s a bit nitpicky,” he noted, still looking away from me and at whatever it was he found interest in on the internet. I just assumed it was better not to ask and not to search it out. “Okay, fine. Who else? Anna?”

He knew better than to think of her. With ‘there but not really there’ relationship between her and Justin, I’d never even attempt if was falling for her. “On second thought, I know that answer. How about Lynn?”

“No.” I said, simple as that.

He broke away from the monitor and swung back around to me. “That was a pretty quick answer.”

“I’ve known Lynn for ages. She’s like a sister to me. I’ve never thought of our relationship as anything beyond that.”

Looking at it now, I wonder if I jumped the gun.

Jamie sprung up, seemingly due to my comment but evidently not so much. “Oh shit!” he shouted, “That reminds me. I’ve gotta pick up something for mine. Is it cool if we head to the mall now? I’ll just hang there till I clock in.”

“I guess so. Go downstairs while I get ready. I’ll be a few.”

And with that, he took off without shutting off my computer. It was nothing new, so I didn’t complain. He also left the paper with the five blank spots where failed attempts of relationships were supposed to go. I folded the sheet in stuffed into the right hand pocket of the pants I was to change into. That’s how it began, and if you would’ve told me that fucking sheet would affect me for an entire year and a half, I’d have laughed at you. As I dressed, I was coming to the assumption that the whole idea was stupid and I’d throw the damn thing out within a few days. Funny how it didn’t quite work out that way.

dusk_wip @ 2005-06-17T00:24:00

2005-06-17T06:38:23Z

Saving titles for future use...

Big Filthy Charisma
Big Sweaty Charisma
(potential short story involving slick Cell Phone salesmen)

Fifteen on Four
(potential short story on a gas station holdup)

The Truth about Breakfast Cereal (5GING excerpt)

2005-06-15T05:53:18Z

I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen around nine, nine-thirty to find Jamie Roswell sitting at the dining table with a bow of Trix and a commentary that began to scare my mother.

“Oh thank goodness, Nick. You need to tell your friend if he can’t appreciate a free breakfast, then he either needs to supply his own cereal or find somewhere else to go in the morning.”

...

“Jamie, I thought I told you to quit freaking out my mom.” I said,

“I was simply making a point. A pretty damn valid point, if you ask me.”

He said that while crunching a mouthful of fruit shapes and milk. A light drip of two percent dribbled from the crease of his lip and down his chin.

“Enlighten me then.”

“This cereal,” he pointed to, while still scooping Trix into his face, “is everything that’s wrong with children today.”

“He claimed that by buying this brand of cereal means I support children acting like,”

She paused, “like… like,”

I knew exactly what she was stalling on. Mom hated profanity, especially when anyone in the house used it. It was kind of difficult for her when she had two sons and a daughter that dropped f-bombs like they were going out of style.

“Like assholes,” Jamie completed the sentence for her,

“Watch your mouth while you’re in my house,” she ordered,

He waved apologetically while and I glared at him in confusion, “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Nick! Did you just hear me?”

“Sorry, mom,” I said, but continued immediately into my questioning, “What are you talking about, Jamie?”

“Well, there’s always talk about how rowdy and disrespectful kids have become. I say it was merely a matter of time. Can you believe some of the crap cereal and their complimentary commercials tell kids to act?”

I figured Mom had the same reaction as I did, as she couldn’t say anything that could describe how bewildered she was by Jamie. I was equally as speechless.

“Like this, for example,”

He raises a spoonful of Trix for us to see, but gave us less than ample time to notice it before jamming it in his mouth. “Trix is a pretty good, wholesome looking breakfast cereal,” Jamie mumbled and ate, “Pleasant looking. Pleasant tasting, that’s for sure. But!”

He actually exclaimed that ‘But!’, and spat a fair spray of the mush in his mouth in every which direction. I shuffled back after I thought I may have been struck by it. I lucked out, and also witnessed a disgusted wince develop across my mom’s face.

“But, do you see how the children in those fucking commercials treat that rabbit! How the hell could they do that to him! He’s the TRIX rabbit. How can you not allow the TRIX rabbit to have a bowl of Trix? It’s like they’re saying, ‘It’s okay to tell people they can’t have the stuff they want. Fuck ‘em. Who cares about them?”

Mom, grasping onto the sink counter in an absolute but subtle rage, glared at Jamie and said, “Jamie, I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Dude, Lucky Charms are the same fucking thing!”

She just gave up and stormed out of the kitchen. “I’ve got to run some errands in a bit, so I’ll be upstairs getting ready. You work in a bit, Nick?”

“At noon, yeah.” I said, “I’ve gotta take Jamie to the mall, too.”

“Fantastic. I don’t wanna see him in the house when I get home.”

Almost as though she wanted Jamie to hear how upset she was with him, she stepped as heavy-footed as she possibly could upstairs. He turned to the direction of Mom’s stomps, but then turned back to me when the slam of the bathroom door banged loudly.

“The fuck was her problem, Nick?”

“Jamie, you know my man can’t stand cursing.”

“Oh,” he shrugged, somewhat embarrassed, “shit. Sorry, dude.”

My mom hated when Gabe, Breenie, and I cursed, but we were in no way as bad as Jamie. He would make sailors and prison inmates uncomfortable.

“What was I saying? Oh yeah, the Lucky Charms guy.” Jamie went on, but only after another shovel of cereal lemons, raspberries, and oranges went was tossed into his mouth, “Same fucking thing, man. Children chase after the poor bastard all the time. All he wants is some fucking Lucky Charms!”

Somewhere in the middle of this, I’ve filled a bowl of cereal for myself and taken a seat. To avoid anymore of this stupid rampage, I grabbed the box of Special K from atop the refrigerator. The gallon of milk was on the far side of table, on Jamie’s right, so I had to motion to him to pass it to me. “Not that I blame him, because that cereal is beyond delicious.”

I just hoped I could crunch loudly enough to be able to mute Jamie. I thought about the box of Raisin Bran we also had, and how it would be more up for the job. It was too late at that point, so I poured the milk on and ate.

“I’m telling you, kid’s cereals promote horrible practices. The mascots for Cookie Crisp are a dog and a fucking burglar!”

“They changed that, though.”

“Huh?”

“It’s only the dog now.”

“That’s not the point. They had a criminal promoting they’re cereal for years and years. A change just recently doesn’t mean shit.”

He then went on about Barney Rubble, Fruity Pebbles and Cocoa Pebbles. “I used to be a fan of the Flintstones until I started watching those Pebbles commercials,” he said, “but now I realize was what a cock Barney is. How cheap is he that he has steal cereal from his best friend? A box of fucking Fruity Pebbles probably costs like three or four… shells? What the hell is the currency in Bedrock? Is it shells? Stones?”

“Clams.” I said flatly, and then continued with my Special K.

“Oh yeah. Clams. It’s like three or four clams. Is he that much of a cheapass? Fred should beat his fucking ass. Like, hardcore kick his ass.”

“At least there’s Tony the Tiger. He seems to be pretty wholesome.”

“What? Are you freaking kidding me?”

If she was down here, Mom may have found the sudden use of a cleaner curse rather odd.

“What, are you telling there’s something wrong with Tony the Tiger?”

“Fuck yeah, man! He’s the worse of them all! He’s the Michael Jackson of Breakfast Cereal Mascots!”

I practically choked on a mouthful of puffed rice. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Dude, I’m serious! Think about it for second. Big burly dude like Tony, right? He surrounds himself with dozens of children, treats them to breakfast, takes them out to carnivals and shit, makes them run around and, quote-unquote, exercise, making them all sweaty and crap—“

“Oh my fucking god, Jamie!” I shouted. I dropped my spoon, and it quickly made its way to the floor.

“It’s the goddamn truth, man! Those commercials are video proof of how deranged these crazy fuckers are!”

I was at a complete loss at this point. The only thing I could think of saying, while I’m fumbling around on the floor for my spoon was, “Now wait a second. You’re talking all this crap about the Trix Rabbit and whatnot, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem to be stopping you from eating it.”

He seemed to finally reach a total stop. Jamie just shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Dude, it tastes fucking great.”

A Little On Brothers and Sisters (5GING Excerpt)

2005-06-12T04:17:40Z

I had to confess all these sad and sorry feelings to someone. Unfortunately, the usual suspects weren’t exactly the sort I wanted to tell these particular things to.

My brother and sister? I’d have to be fucking nuts to tell them. If they knew that I moped the entire weekend because at least seven years of ‘no hard feelings’-style rejections suddenly led to a bout of loneliness? Jesus, I’d never hear the end of it. Gabe and Sabrina—especially Sabrina… oh lord, would she do a job on me if she found out –would make sure I’d never hear the end of their ridicule. For three weeks at worst, a month and a half to two months at best, those two would brand me with all sorts of titles.

Softy. Crybaby. Fucking pussy.

“You’re such a bitch, Nick.”

Breenie’s said that to me many times, but in an instance like this, it would have more weight.

And honestly, I wouldn’t blame them. Shit, I know I’d be the first to mock if I were in their shoes. It’s a sort of privilege. When you have brothers or sisters, you are entitled to mock their pain, belittle their accomplishments, shatter their dreams, and if you are so inclined, whip their asses. I would fully understand why they would do that to me, even if all it did was make me feel worse. It just means I would bust either Gabe or Sabrina’s chops at the very moment I heard of any of their own personal woes.

Siblings are important and relatively caring, but they’re also brutal and considerably rude when they need to be. There’s a brand of pain, suffering, and embarrassment that only siblings can dish out, and in the long run it’s something I am probably better off having been a victim of such.

It just means I owe the both of them a vicious punch in the back of their heads.

I Know What I Like (Prelimary Rough Draft/Teaser)

2005-06-10T22:29:35Z

“Dude, I don’t even know why you fuckin’ bother.” My buddy Dave told me, “You’re not gonna read any of those.”

That’s total crap. I don’t just buy these books not to read them. So I’m like, “What are you talking about? I bought that one book,”

And at that moment, I can’t even think of what it’s called. Two or three word title, fantasy novel, fairly well-known author. I think he was one of those guys who tote around that fake initial like it really means anything. If I were to become a writer, I would just use my actual name. Then again, I suppose mine sounds kinda writer-ish. Brand new novel by literary extraordinaire Adam Lourdes. I guess it already has a ring to it, but still. Some of these author names I just cannot stand. Walter J. Poindexter. Albert S. Fischer. Henrietta R. Pufnstuf. Crap like that. Middle names are nice and all, and I’m sure they’re very lovely and everything, but keep them out of the books. Such pompous and pretentious garbage, and all produced by a single letter! I suppose it could be worse. I could browse an entire shelf here and find at least five or six names that just awful. Like, GOD awful. Just horrible. These are obvious pen names, and it’s like they don’t even try to make them sound like actual names. Devin Claymore. Amy Van Silverbaum. Lucrecia Hawksblood. Wilbur Redrover. Peter Paulinmary. Crecember Lilliputia. N. Bryan Decemberween. Some people don’t even try with names anymore. I suppose nobody wants to read a book by Bill Smith or Sarah Anderson or Jim Robinson. Perhaps the general thinking is that you can write something profound and utterly amazing if you don’t have fifteen letters in your last name. If you don’t hide your first or middle or both names by slyly initialing them. Maybe no one would give a shit about Crime and Punishment if Fyodor M. Dostoevsky was instead Chris Brown. I know that’s total crap, though. I know this guy, who went to school with me, who used to have me read these short stories he’d come up with. His name was Matt Crosby. They were fucking brilliant, but he’d never get any of them published. It’s a fucking shame, because if he could get someone to put it out for him, he’d make millions. He could sell the rights and have it made into a movie. Like some big budget summer movie that releases on Fourth of July weekend. Well… maybe not then, perhaps just before Memorial Day weekend. Kind of one of those flicks that kick off the summer movie season…

Wait a second, where was I going with this?

5GING - THIS PART IS NOT YOUR TYPE (TEASER)

2005-06-08T04:09:11Z

Allow me to dispense a little information about myself. My full name is Nicholas Isaiah Clarett. Most people find the initials clever. N. I. C. Funny, huh?

I’m a prisoner of the American Midwest. The middle child of a military father and his overseas bride, I’m the unfortunate one. Gabe’s out and about with his fancy position and college is all but determined for Sabrina. I put it off for the first year following high school and it snowballed from there. I work in a department store on the edge of town, smack dab where all the tourists and out-of-towners can shop without getting too lost.

I feel remarkably short for someone who’s six foot one. It could be because I’m the shortest guy in my family (Gabe and Dad are six-four and six-three, respectively). It could just be a brain thing that happens when I go through these pansy emotional hissy-fits. I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell.

I’m never gonna be able to grow facial hair, but it’s not like I was really trying to. Apparently it’s one of those genetic things. My dad has told me on many occasions that he wasn’t even able to grow a full moustache until he was thirty-five.

I’m not scared of spiders, but if something small like a spider suddenly scuttled across my body, it would probably frighten the piss out of me.

For me, water and juice over soda.

And it’s ‘soda’. Not ‘pop’.

I prefer my pancakes in stacks of three with a pat of butter and enough maple syrup to put a small child in a diabetic coma. I’m more of a ham and eggs type of guy, but I’ll take bacon if it’s crispy enough. French toast, I can tolerate, but only in small portions.

In order of preference in the morning: orange juice, milk, and then coffee. But only if there’s absolutely nothing else.

None of this really matters, considering I eat breakfast maybe a half dozen times a year.

When I was younger, I thought of plenty of the things I would be when I got to the age I am currently. I would be married (I was eleven when thought this). I would drive all the girls crazy (fourteen). I’d be an excellent kisser (fifteen) and pretty good in bed (sixteen).

Very good in bed (seventeen).

Extremely good in bed (eighteen).

Most of those and plenty other predictions are you to be determined as true or otherwise. I have, however, learned many other things about myself as told to me by plenty of girls. I’m a sweetheart. I’m a great guy. Cool. Wonderful to be around.

“You have a great sense of humor, Nick.” Countless people have told me, “You’re hilarious.”

I’m told I have lovely eyes. A great smile.

I have a cute butt.

According to the those I’ve talked to, I’m quite a catch. There are girls all over that would love to be with you. One day, I would make a woman very happy.

This sounds delightful and all, but that’s only half of it. It gets better.

dusk_wip @ 2005-05-28T13:40:00

2005-05-28T19:40:42Z

Within moments, the group dispersed and returned to their tables or sections of counter to make their own shenanigans. Once the girls finished admiring Lynn’s voice (“That your boyfriend? He’s not too bad either.”), the guys were through with giving me shit (“Nice performance, Blue Eyes,” followed by a quick handshake or a tap to my shoulder with a closed fist.), and Elaine had coerced enough free drinks out of bystanders, the only person left by our booth was Heather Grey.

I saw him all around the Spur that evening. Except by us. I guess he realized he missed a few. He brushed at his shirt repeatedly until everyone had gone back to their own matter. Maybe he was agitated and uncomfortable or just itchy. Either way, Heather didn’t appear to enjoy being in the middle of such a large mob of people. Now that it was gone, I could see a gradual change in him. A return of the confidence I saw him project for the last few hours. He was collected, cool, and perhaps only in his mind, charming.

If anything, he grew back the brass balls he had been toting around all night.

Heather flashed his horrible smile at us, each tooth as yellow as corn and between dry, wrinkled lips. Those were details I fortunately missed when watching the guy from a distance. Details like those and the crook in his nose. How his glasses sat slanted on his face. The ripped left earlobe.

When Heather is across the way from my table, I don’t notice how his mess of hair has enough gray to place him in his late 30s at best. More like his mid-40s.

“That was a pretty amazing show you put on,” he said, directed at me for some odd reason,

I thanked him, but he had already turned his attention to Lynn. It made sense to me, as there was no way he came over to us to talk shop with me. “You have a pretty voice. It’s almost as pretty as your eyes,” he told her,

Heather’s voice, whiny and childish in tone but clearly aged, couldn’t in any fashion sell that line. I stopped myself from doing so, but I was positive at least Anna and Justin rolled their eyes.

“I’m Gordon, but for the sake of our conversation I am all yours,”

That time, I couldn’t help but laugh. Luckily, everyone else at the table reacted a little more boisterous than I did. We almost attracted a crowd yet again, but it ended only in the barflies turning their heads to us and then turning them away. Heather… I mean, Gordon didn’t seem to notice. “And you are?”

I don’t know how she managed to compose herself so quickly, as the rest of us were still cracking up, but Elaine immediately replied.

“She’s lover boy’s little companion. I don’t believe he appreciates you flirting with his lady.”

Anna and Justin burst out even louder in laughter as Lynn and myself immediately fell silent and glared over at her.

“Is that so?” Heather asked,

Elaine just nodded, not only in response to him but to answer Lynn and me as well, both of us sending her sharp stares asking the exact same question.

I sensed him sizing me up, and nearly instantly stiffen up. “My mistake, my fellow man. Didn’t mean to take away this lovely sight from you.”

“All is forgiven,” I said,

“I, on the other hand,” Elaine said, while primping herself ever so subtly, “am pleased to meet you and would like to get to know you a little better.”

“You what?” Everyone said,

“You what?” Everyone said, including Heather. He cleared his throat and continued, “I mean… is that so?”

“Absolutely, Gordon. Do me a quick favor before we finish our introductions, though.”

The brass balls melted away and it was clear to us all that Heather and melted right before us. Goo. Wet putty in Elaine’s hands. “Absolutely,”

“I am just parched. Would you be a dear and buy me a drink? It wouldn’t be fair to drink in front of my friends—“

“It’s done! Consider the next round on me!”

Our eyes grew and everyone beamed. Well, I didn’t. I kind of felt like I could have ruined the deal. I held a bottle with about a couple sips remaining inside. Gordon didn’t seem to notice. Elaine lightly pinched at his cheek, and lightly winced with the feel of oil and sweat from his half-shaven face on her fingers. “You are just a doll, Gordon!”

“And another thing,” she noted, “It must be really hot in here. You seem a little disheveled. Go and clean up your do a little bit,”

She ran the same fingers that touched his greasy face through the bush of bristles he called his hair. I couldn’t imagine how gross it was, but the looks of disgust and minor nausea that blinked in between the lovey-dovey faces she made at Heather gave me just a brief hint.

“How about you tidy up a little in the restroom? Y’know, freshen up a bit.”

Before Heather could say anything --and he would’ve in his state of shock and apparent victory-- Elaine stood up from her seat and spoke into his ear. I couldn’t quite tell, but I was fairly certain she wiped off her hand on her pant leg as she leaned over to Gordon.

“And wait there. I’ll knock on the door three times. When I do, we can talk in private. Sound good?”

At this point, all of us have no idea as to what the hell Elaine was plotting. I sat back and finished the last of my current bottle. We had the next one on the house, after all. Justin followed suit, but he opted to suck the leftovers out of all the empties we had accumulated. Lynn and Anna watched Elaine, their heads cocked to the side and their minds probably thinking, “What in the fuck are you doing?”

Gordon stepped back to look her in the eyes, and evidently was convinced by Elaine’s doe-eyes. He beamed at her, displaying that mouth of butter yellow kernels.

“I’ll have those drinks brought over shortly. I’ve gotta go for now, but I’ll talk to you all soon.”

Heather smiled again at Elaine, who tried to not look too repulsed by his dirty teeth. “And I’ll talk to you even sooner.”

We all knew it was a charade, but only then when she responded bluntly with, “Make sure you get Bud Lights. There’s five of us,” was it obvious.

I guess she could only fake that false infatuation for so long. Her voice was flat and fed up, that ruse must have taken a toll on her. Even with her cutting the act, Gordon just nodded and took to the bar. He began talking at the counter, motioning various things with his hands. He pointed to us, said something and held up an open palm in the bartender’s face.

He continued talking, and then ran his hands over that broom head of hair of his. He scuttled away in a sad, bullied shuffle. The bartender glanced over at us briefly, specifically at Elaine. With what Heather rambled on about to him, and then with a wink from Elaine, he knew exactly what had actually happened and laughed as he waved back to her. He turned around, and would have our free round to us shortly.

“Okay, what in the world was that?” Lynn finally asked,

“That was an act of charity,” Elaine said as she scraped any remaining essence of Heather’s face or hair off her hand on the table, “Trust me, honey. Gordon would’ve stuck around yapping at you until last call if you let him. Knowing you, you’d probably ask him to give us a ride home by night’s end.”

“He may be…”

“Creepy?” Elaine said,

“Weird?” Anna added,

“Odd?” Justin chimed in,

“A possible sex offender?” I replied,

She cleared her throat and finished, “He may be a little strange, but you didn’t have to lead him on like that! What about when he comes back? Now he’s just gonna be all over you instead.”

“He’s not coming back.”

We had every reason to believe Elaine. The five of us had only been old enough to drink for a few months, but already she had racked up enough visits into the local bars. The makeshift dance clubs, the pool halls, the juke joints, and of course the dime-a-dozen shitholes like the Spur. Between her first legal trip into a bar (and I can’t stress this more, just because she was just twenty-one didn’t mean she had no idea what the inside of most of the town’s bars looked like) and Thanksgiving, she will have been barhopping more than the rest of us will have for entire first year as legal drinking Americans.

In just the five or six months that she had caroused in the bars, she had gotten pretty familiar with regular creeps. She had a knack of getting friendly with all the bartenders and bouncers, so in exchange for a free Long Island here and there, they provided her with advice on how to avoid the freaks. One of those freaks was Heather Grey. Gordon. He was a pitiful fellow who made his rounds to each bar to make weak attempts at getting girls most likely half his age to sleep with him.

“I figure he’s at least forty, but I don’t know for sure. None of the bartenders or waitresses know for sure. I guess he doesn’t tell anyone. Odd, considering how he doesn’t really hide it, appearance-wise.” She said,

According to Elaine, Heather only gets as far as the flirt. It was no surprise to any of us that the hunt was the furthest he ever managed to get. Naturally, most girls were disturbed enough by his unwashed appearance (“Now that I think about it,” Elaine said, “Every time I’ve seen Gordon, he’s always wearing that same ratty shirt. I guess it’s possible that he has a closet full of them, but that doesn’t make it any less freaky.”). However, the repeated rejections never appeared to affect him. If anything, it made him even more determined. She figured the routine of trying to impress women and inevitably being shot down was half the fun. Sport rejection. If he got through the night without a boyfriend, or girlfriend on the rare occasion, threatening to whip his ass or with only a couple drinks thrown in his face, then the night wasn’t a total loss.

“So what I figure,” she said, snapping up a new bottle as a waitress arrived at our table, “Why not let him win? He won’t have a clue what to do. Hell, he looked about as confused as you all.”

“But you only delayed things. He’ll be back soon enough,” Lynn said. She was clearly unimpressed by Elaine’s stunt. I imagined she was probably offended on Heather’s behalf, but then again she wouldn’t want that sweat Casanova asking her questions for the rest of the evening.

“No. He won’t be back. As long as I stay away from the men’s room, we’ll be safe. He’ll probably practice a few more pick up lines in the john and try to hide the ketchup stain on his shirt until I knock. You’d be surprised how often this works.”

Who knew Elaine was such an expert on the courting habits of barflies?

“Sometimes I don’t even know why I bother coming to bars. The men this place attracts are such parasites,” she sighed then drank, “I guess I like overpriced alcohol.”

She slumped in the seat and held her head in her hands on the table. Elaine looked about as either exhausted or fed up as I had seen her in quite some time.

“How’s that saying go, Elaine? ‘There’s plenty of fish in the sea. Be patient enough and you’ll find somebody.” Anna said,

I don’t know how she took it, but I know it somewhat resonated with me. If only just a little bit.

“I don’t want fish. I fucking hate seafood.”

I suppose I was distracted again, but by nothing in particular. I was out on my own, fumbling over the empties and the rings of condensation on the table. It took Anna pinching my left arm to return me to awareness. I had no idea why she did, not until I heard what she said.

“There’s always Nick here! He seemed pretty into you when we got in here, after all.”

I would have glared fire at her. At both her and Justin, who I knew shared the same stupid grin. I would let them know I didn’t appreciate being put on the spot and in some fashion; some fashion I hadn’t completely thought out, the two of them would have hell to pay. Massive hell. But, my attention went to Elaine instead.

“Nick, huh?” Elaine thought about it for a moment, “I don’t know. Sweetheart, you’re cute and all, but I don’t believe it would work.”

She went on, “Perhaps I need to find better bars. The Spur is a shitholes, after all. The new owner’s a nice guy and all, but this place houses the biggest—“

“Why not?” I interrupted,

I don’t know why. I don’t know why, but I wanted to know.

This is what got me. This is why a sheet of paper bothers me.

“Huh?” she asked,

“Why wouldn’t it work?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Answer the question. I just wanna know.”

She pushed back, her entire back on the booth cushion. Her stomach was completely visible, but I suddenly didn’t want to stare anymore. “Oh I don’t know, really…”

“Like I said, you’re a wonderful guy. It just wouldn’t work because…”

Almost as if I commanded it so, the bar was silent. At least I couldn’t hear anything. Anything except Elaine, as if everything was allowing me to listen in.

“You’re just not my type, I guess.”

dusk_wip @ 2005-05-28T13:37:00

2005-05-28T19:39:52Z

It's FINALLY done. Maybe I rushed the end, but I can come back around and fix it later.

Thanksgiving, 2003
-----

We arrived at the Spur approximately fifteen minutes after we picked Elaine up. I would’ve expected the drive to take twice as long, as the snow refused to let up. However, I forgot the city usually plows the main roads the instant it begins to look a tad too messy. It’s funny, considering that the city could give two shits about residential roads. My street and every other street a couple miles away from City Hall won’t see a plow for another two days.

And unfortunately, the tiny bar parking wasn’t going to see a plow for three days. When clean, there were only enough spots for about twenty, thirty-five cars. With the lack of visible parking lines and the fact that inclement weather seems to reduce the intelligence of the average driver, there was just enough room for seventeen vehicles. Lynn managed to park her Corolla between a large black pickup and a hatchback sitting diagonally over two spaces.

I got out of the car before anyone else had managed their seatbelts off, and I opened the rear passenger door for Elaine and Anna. Next to exit was Lynn, who peered over the roof of her car at me. “Ever the courteous one, Nick. You’re such a gentleman.”

“You’re probably just mad I didn’t walk around to open your door for you.” I said,

“Oh nonsense!” she responded, hand shot to her hips, “I don’t need a man to open doors for me!”

“Well I, for one, do not mind it,” Elaine said, motioning for me to take her hand while she stepped out of the car, “I appreciate it immensely, Nick. Thank you so much, kind sir.”

Before I said anything, I made sure I saw Lynn respond somehow. Roll her eyes. Mouth ‘oh my god’. Pretend to gag or vomit in disgust, anything. She sneered and scoffed, not letting me down in the least. “The pleasure is all mine.” I added, just to rub it in a little more.

“Hey, man. The courtesy is fine and all but try to tone it down a little bit.”

Out of the rear driver’s side door came Justin. “Some of us can’t be expected to live up to the expectations you set.”

I met Lynn by the front of her car as Anna teased, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. We all know there’s no way you could live up to anyone’s expectations.”

“Of all the places, you had to pick a cowboy bar.” I whispered to Lynn,

I wasn’t sure if she heard me, with the remarkably steady holiday traffic streaming by and Anna and Justin fussing at one another.

“I can be courteous!” he argued,

She scoffed and jabbed my side, “A bar is a bar is a bar, Nick. More importantly, a bar with Budweiser on the cheap is a bar with a seat for me.”

Elaine crept up from behind me, completely to my surprise. She hooked her arms through my right arm and clung to me like she had to. The last chance for salvation or a square meal. That’s me, alright. To be honest, she probably took a hold of me because she was freezing. Sure, it has been established how piss poor the weather is. Nonstop snowfall, coldest Thanksgiving in three years, so on. She didn’t seem to know that, at least it seemed so by how she was dressed. Elaine had a long black coat buttoned up to just below her neck, but it couldn’t possibly have kept her very warm. Even with on my own jacket preventing any real feel, I could tell it wasn’t all that thick. It fell only to the knees, of her black pants, also incredibly thin. She shivered briefly before clinging tighter to me. “I wouldn’t be too concerned about that anyways,” she said, “The Spur’s been under new management for the last year or so. Guy’s been cycling all that cowboy shit out. He just can’t be asked to change the name. Oh and there’s still the line dancing thing. They do that every…”

Another quick cold tremor from her arms. “Thursday. Lucky us. Shall we?”

Anna and Justin’s exchange had by then come to a head and a shared laugh. The both of them were ready to go. I glanced at Lynn, mostly to have her lead the way. That she did, turning the corner from the lot to the street. About fifteen or twenty feet down, away from where the driveway into the lot intersects the snowy sidewalk, the plain entrance awaited us. If it weren’t for the fact we knew it was the Spur, we would have been hard pressed to figure it out on our own. It didn’t, at least to me, look like a door to a bar. This was the entrance to a pawn shop or a hobby store. A convenience store, but without the gasoline and optional carwash with the brushless system designed to be safer on vehicles. If I didn’t know better, I would have stepped through the door in the pursuit of porno and stroke mags, as opposed to Heineken and shots.

Lynn held the door open for everyone, and she made sure to jab me in the side with two fingers. Even with the freezing Elaine hanging from my right arm, she managed a clean shot to my ribs. Being as ticklish as I am, I darted a short distance away from her, tugging her arms along with me. She let out a quick yelp, and turned to see Lynn grin at the both of us. In I went, just beyond the door to allow everyone else to huddle inside.

To my horror, I’m assaulted by some random country song. That normally would have sent me out of the door, but Anna and Justin blocked my only escape. And despite the awful fiddle solo and the crowd in the far corner of the bar hot-stepping on a small square wooden platform, the Spur actually wasn’t all that cowboy themed. I suppose Elaine was right after all. The crowd represented a little bit of every possible character type. Well dressed college students. The hip-hop outfitted wisenheimers embellished in many silver and gold chains. The unwashed masses in assorted bike rally and NASCAR t-shirts and mucked blue jeans. The amazingly gorgeous women who clearly spent more than an hour to get ready.

Elaine unbuckled from me and removed her coat to reveal that she was one of those many ladies. She wore a cream colored halter top, which seemed even lighter than it was over her surprisingly tan skin. I don’t recall her ever being quite that dark. I figured she fake tanned, but all the salons I knew of were in the boonies. With the weather as bad as it was all week, I would assume she wouldn’t chance driving way the hell out there. Then again, if she would gussy herself as wonderfully as she had that night… for a seedy juke joint, then it wouldn’t surprise me. Elaine was looking far too pretty for the Spur. I mean way too pretty. She was fucking gorgeous. I got a much better look at her after she folded her coat over her right arm. I didn’t even notice how she had done up her hair until then. It would explain why we waited an additional ten minutes for her at her house. She did pretty good work, as far as I could tell. Every bit and strand held magnificently over her ears. Nothing at risk of tangling in her black wind chime-like earrings. Nothing preventing the view of the herringbone necklace that sat just above her breasts.

They were nipping. Like I needed another reason to stare at her tits.

“What do you all want?” Lynn asked,

At least, I think that’s what she asked. It shocked me how loud banjo and acoustic guitar can sound over what I figured was a fairly cheap sound system. I suppose the random chatter and merrymaking of forty to fifty drunks may have had something to do with the overall noise level. At any rate, all I heard afterwards was what I figured was everyone (First Anna, Elaine, and then Justin) calling off their drinks of choice. I figured I had a smaller risk of getting some girly drink I wouldn’t be fond of, so I said I’d have the same as Justin.

The country song at last came to an end, with a disappointing amount of people in the rear of the bar shouting, applauding, and wooing. Once the cheering died down, the something a little heavier and a little less bumpkin blared from the multiple speakers bolted in every corner of the Spur. Fuck if I knew what song it was, but it ultimately made me feel better about the place.

“Lynn,” Elaine turned to her and said, “You see that bartender?”

I kept eyeing her, and with additional attention now that I had something new to gawk at. The small of her back was bare, which explained the shivering outside. I didn’t approve of the overly trendy tattoo, typical tribal curls spreading out from the tear-shaped jewel in the center. I think it was a topaz, but I can’t remember her birthstone.

I don’t know if it’s because the music has been become so loud or if the crowd has picked up a few decibel levels, but I can’t hear a goddamned thing being said by either Elaine or Lynn. They were only a matter of feet from me and I could only pick up the odd word here and there. I suppose I’m nosy, considering they were talking to me, but there really wasn’t anything else to listen to.

Something something something tell him Elaine something something. He’ll know what something something something something blah blah blah. Dum de dum de dum over at that booth over there.

Elaine swung her arm back towards me, but beyond and behind me to the open booth. I didn’t look, as I was still admiring Elaine. Admiring her skin. Admiring the semi-profile she formed into from turning to point at our seats. Admiring the fact she wore those pants that night.

Maybe that was why I could hear what she was saying.

Something something something? Elaine asked,

I guess Lynn answered her, but I didn’t hear anything. Perhaps she nodded or gave a ‘mmhmm’ response that in no way was going to resound in the bustle of noise.

By then, I had moved on from her tattoo to her heart-shaped ass properly fit into the rear of her thin black pants. She absolutely knew what she was doing when she dressed into that pair. No pockets, no panty lines, just a perfect—

“Hey,” she said to me, accompanied with a sharp whistle. Elaine had completely turned around by then, but my eyes shot up to her face immediately.

“Eyes up here, sweetie.” She grinned at me and pinched my cheek.

Lynn didn’t notice, as she had long walked off to the bar to get our first round. I could hear Anna and Justin snickering behind me, but I could deal with that. Lynn would have been a completely different problem, and one I would have massive trouble dealing with.

“Was your birthday this month?” I asked, pretty much in as blatant a tactic I could come up with to explain my perverted eyeballing.

She cocked her head, confused.

“That birthstone on your back. November, right?”

A junior high mineralogy class I managed to not fall asleep through was saving my ass from further embarrassment. I had never loved school as much as I did that very moment.

“Yeah, on the seventh. You didn’t come to my party.”

“You didn’t invite him.” Anna noted, breaking from the little chucklefest she was celebrating with Justin.

“That right? Well fuck,” she said, followed by a quick yet present pause, and then continued, “Yeah, it was this month.”

“That’s what I thought. I was pretty sure that was supposed to be a topaz on your back. It looks really nice.” I said,

In the clear, I thought. Well, half-heartedly. I’m fucking ignorant if I thought that really worked. She did, however, have me fooled for a second when she said, “Why thank you, Nick!” with a convincing full smile and what seemed to me to be a minor blush coming across her cheeks.

And then she said, “But in my opinion…”

She grabbed my right arm again, and my left as well. A tug on them both brought my ears close enough for Elaine to talk into them. Even then, she leaned forward on the tips of her toes. If she wanted to, she could have rested her chin on my shoulder.

“In my opinion,” she repeated, but in a whisper. With as close as she was, the noise didn’t matter. On the other hand, it felt like the sound level in the bar dropped just for her sake. “You were staring low to be checking out my tat.”

To me, all the noise around us just dissipated. The Spur had become silent, and everyone was listening. They were doing their thing, bullshitting with one another, drinking their assorted mixed beverages, but they could hear everything. And they were listening. It sure felt like it. I felt like I was thirteen, getting scolded for hiding a dirty book under my mattress.

And this wasn’t even the start of my troubles.

“It’s not like I’m mad about it, Nick.” She said with a light giggle, “It’s kinda cute of you to be checking me out like that.”

“Well do you blame me?”

Surrender and confess. It’s about all I felt I could do.

She stood flat on her feet again, still looking at me. Her eyebrows were sharp and the smirk on her face forced a stupid-face grin out of me. “Hell no! I’m fucking hot, sweetie. It was inevitable, if you ask me!”

We shared a laugh, but I cut it short to see where Lynn was. At the counter, she was speaking to the bartender Elaine directed her to. She fumbled through her small handbag, searching for her ID. “Just promise me one thing, okay?” I asked,

“Shoot.”

“Don't tell Lynn anything about this, alright? I’ll never hear the end of it from her.”

Another giggle, but at least she agreed. “Secret’s safe with me, kiddo. Scout’s honor. How about a seat?”

A seat is exactly what I needed. I nodded to her, and followed her to the booth behind me. I have no idea why nobody had taken it in the time I stood there, about ready to piss my pants, but it remained free for us. About halfway to the booth is where the sound returned. I took to the booth side facing the rear of the Spur. The dance floor was hidden from my view, thanks to the counter. It didn’t stop the commotion and noise from that end of the room, however. Anna shuffled into the seat across from me, with Justin sitting right next to her. Elaine boxed me in and grinned with the hope that she could squeeze a humiliated smile out of me. I had already gotten over and past that awkward situation. All I wanted at that point was random banter to go with the music and however many beers as it took for me to require help walking to the door. About a minute later, Lynn returned with both hands loaded. The left pinching the longnecks of three brown bottles. The right hand face with two small glasses resting in her palm. I’m not very familiar with mixed drinks, so I’ll be damned if I knew what they were. They both appeared to be the same. Both were clear. Both had tiny red straws up and down between ice cubes. Both were probably the same thing. Either way, both were drinks I would never order for myself. She stood at the edge of table, setting down everything one at a time. The beer first, freeing that hand to allow her to pick the glasses out of the other. Lynn slid Justin one of the glasses before turning to me. “Bud Light work for you?” she asked, “I didn’t think you cared for girly drinks, so I got you that instead.”

It didn’t even occur to me that one of the glasses may have been mine, not even after I saw the first of two passed to Justin. It figures, really. That’s what I get for assuming. That’s what I get for staring at Elaine’s ass and not paying attention.

Speaking of her, I lied. I snuck a peek of her stomach while she occupied with trying to grab her beer from the far end of the table. No success, however. Lynn was stretched in front of the bottle preventing Elaine from any easy access. She was lean, but by no means was she skinny. Usually, girls who dare to bare their tummies under such tiny tops have a bit pudge. Nothing too bad, at least most times. Just that cute baby fat the majority of guys dig. The sort of cellulite that women traumatize themselves over until they’ve found some way to get rid of it. Not Elaine. She was hunched over, but no part of her spilled over the waistline of her pants. She was as perfect as anyone could get.

She was fucking gorgeous.

“Works for me,” I said,

Lynn slid the second glass to Anna, which didn’t surprise me. She and Justin were practically attached at the hip and did nearly everything alike. I figured it was just a matter of time before I heard one of them completing the other’s sentences.

She passed over two of the bottles. The first came to me and the second to Elaine, much to her relief. She took a seat next to Anna, and almost immediately we began talking. What about? Pretty much whatever. First things first, we started with what we usually begin with: our high school days.

Personally, I didn’t get to know any of them, except for Lynn of course, until mid-sophomore year. I got my license about four or five months before Lynn, and she often needed rides home from choir. I never minded. It wasn’t like I ever had anything pressing to do immediately after school anyway. Not in my sophomore year, at least. She only had to stay an extra 30 minutes, sometimes 45 to 50 minutes, after school on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I usually just wandered the hallways or dinked around in the library until she got out. I eventually just waited for her in the classroom, watching most of her choir practices that year. I wasn’t heavily impressed. Well, with the song selection at least. Show tunes. Songs selected exclusively by her dingbat of a music teacher from many a Broadway musical. Guys and Dolls. Oklahoma. The Sound of Music. Godspell. Miss Saigon, My Fair Lady, Annie, and Joseph. Him and his amazing Technicolor dreamcoat. More often than not, I’d catch a song from Cats or Grease.

Oh god, Grease.

Summer lovin’, having a blast.

Summer lovin’, happened so fast.

I met a girl crazy for me.

Met a boy cute as can be.

Summer days drifting away, to oh oh the summer nights.

I’ll never forget that damn song and it’s all that fucking teacher’s fault. Damn her and those three weeks of nonstop rehearsal of that song and a couple others.

I suppose I’m just not cultured or something. If you ask me, none of those songs did anything for Lynn or for anyone in the class. I know she can sing. And good lord, can she ever. But the selections didn’t do her voice any justice. She couldn’t stand out, and it’s a shame. Luckily, there were days when everyone in the choir was allowed to perform a song of their choice. If everyone enjoyed it, most importantly if her instructor approved, then they would be asked to sing it during the spring concert. Almost every student presented two songs by the last few weeks before the recital. Lynn only had the opportunity to sing once. She caught the flu the first time around, and was out of school for a week. Her name came up in the rotation roughly a month and a half later and she was healthy as can be.

I missed the first couple of hours of my sister’s birthday to make sure I was there when Lynn had to perform. I felt I needed to support her as much as possible. And it’s not like I minded. As I said before, I know she can sing. I know she can sing well. Beautifully.

And that day was easily the best I had ever heard from her. She chose “Last Dance, a Donna Summer song. Admittedly, I may have heard the song maybe a handful of times before then. After Lynn poured all she had into it, it became one of my favorite songs. Seriously. Bought the Greatest Hits CD, downloaded it to every computer I’ve ever used. It was that good. No, Lynn was that good.

Everyone else was there as well. For Anna and Justin, things were pretty much the same then as they were at the Spur. The two of them lived some five or six houses apart since pre-school. Oddly, they shared nearly every class from Kindergarten on. Justin joked about how Anna freaked out and cried for the first week of fourth grade because it was first time she didn’t get the same teacher as he did.

“In my defense, Mrs. Herbert was the creepiest teacher ever!” Anna explained, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was one of those weird old ladies with two hundred cats or something. I’ll be damned if I know how she got a teaching license.”

By the time they reached high school, they shared one more elementary class, and a hefty majority of their middle school classes. It only made sense they would have the same extracurricular activities, and they both decided to take choir that year. They clicked with Lynn almost immediately, and once I started waiting for her after school they took to me just as quickly. They’re good people, even if the two of them together talk more than it is humanly necessary about… well, about anything. Anna is mostly to blame, but Justin is her catalyst. Whenever she loses any steam, a quick tease or an extra detail to her finer points of conversation will kick her back into gear. It’s always been like that. She’ll talk, stop, and Justin will chime in for no more than a few moments. Like that, she’s good for another fifteen minutes.

Personally, I was never really all that impressed with how they sang, but it was never my place to tell them how awful they sounded. Well, it wasn’t awful. It just wasn’t good. Justin sang a couple really terrible renditions of Dave Matthews Band songs. I figured his performance tanked each time because he was adamant on trying to sound exactly like the artist. And when it’s Dave Matthews? That suicide no matter how you look at it.

I don’t remember what Anna performed. I guess that just shows how forgettable they were.

And then there was Elaine.

As far as I can remember, Elaine didn’t even seem interested in choir. Yet she was there, performing whichever song was to be rehearsed at the time. I honestly don’t know what her singing voice sounds like. Either she was meek and soft-spoken in comparison to the rest of the class whenever they sang or she cruised through each practice by mouthing every word. Now that I think about it, she always had an excuse to not perform when her name came up. Maybe she didn’t really do anything.

Even if that was so, she and Lynn got along. Every other week or so, Elaine would ask if I could give her a ride home as well. Those days were quiet ones for me. Normally, Lynn and I would ramble on about whatever occurred during the day. When Elaine came along, it was all Greek. Apparently, she knew more about those silly songs than she let off. She knew all about the musicals. The writers, the most prominent performers of the Broadway productions, the off-Broadway productions, the movie adaptations. She knew it all, and it intrigued Lynn greatly. So greatly, that it would be all I ever heard them talk about. Being completely out of my league, I simply drove both of them home and kept my mouth shut. She lived about 20 minutes further out than Lynn and I did, but I always dropped her off first. It’s hard to be present in a conversation you can contribute absolutely nothing to. Believe me, I’ve tried. The one time I mentioned anything, I got a lengthy complaint about how the term ‘show tune’ was an insulting and demeaning to works as impressive as musicals were.

And it worked. I never say ‘show tune’. Not to her, at least.

Thinking of Elaine in high school reminds me how much we had all changed. Here in the Spur, she is absolutely dazzling. I easily cannot be the only one that has been staring at her since she walked in. She is just that unbelievable. Which is the most bizarre thing. I don’t recall ever being that floored by her in school. She wasn’t fat or ugly or anything. I would almost say she is exactly the same. Only not. Perhaps she’s just filled out in the last four or five years. Maybe she’s emitting some sort of aphrodisiac. I suppose it’s just me. I guess I could be coming to my senses, not realizing how sexy she is. She did have a boyfriend all through high school, after all. A new one every so many months, actually.

It could just be her ass in those pants. I really don’t know. Just something is different.

As for the rest of us, we had changed considerably. Anna, by most stereotypical standards and to any class act dickhead, was the ‘fat friend’ of the group. She had always been a fairly large girl. Large, however, is a bit of a harsh word. It wasn’t as though she was picked on in school. Not that I saw or heard, at least. Anna probably had a couple dress sizes on Lynn and Elaine, but so what? The two of them are as petite as they come. She was not. I suppose I’m making a bigger deal than she ever has. For as cheerful and in good spirits as she is, I guess she doesn’t let that sort of shit bother her. And with how she looked at the Spur that night, I would certainly hope she is still upbeat. Anna never made a habit of declaring her own personal achievements, but I could tell. She lost a significant amount in the last few years. And yeah, if she was placed side-by-side to Elaine and Lynn, she’d still be the ‘big girl’. Only now, she’s less of a fat big and more of a ‘curvy in all the right places’ big.

Justin’s changes since school have been more of a necessary alteration. If there was one thing he did, and did constantly for years, it was try too hard. As though puberty had just struck him, he vowed he would grow, and I quote, ‘the most bitchin’ goatee you’ll ever see’.

I’ll be damned if I know why. Probably some cool hipster on some random Fox drama inspired him. Unfortunately, inspiration did not lead to execution. Justin could grow a mean five o’clock shadow, but that was pretty much it. And then the day he tried to shave it down to a ‘goatee’…

It was as though he had a prickly pear for a chin. Even then, he paraded it around like his own personal badge of cool. I would have said something, but I had only known him for about two or three months at the time. Honestly, I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Well, not really. Truthfully, I didn’t want to come off as an asshole.

He gave up on the goatee early into the summer, but all that meant was he had something else in mind for junior year. The new idea? Sideburns and not just overgrown sideburns from missing a regular visit to the barber shop.

“Some real slick looking ones, man.” He told me when he first devised the plan.

He mentioned a few of the styles he had in mind. Elvis style. Big thick pork chop sideburns. If all went well, an Abraham Lincoln chinstrap. Personally, I would have to try to not laugh at him if he grew any of those. I would’ve had to try VERY hard. Lucky for him (or maybe lucky for me), what he wound up with didn’t even remotely resemble what he had in mind.

And I didn’t laugh at him. I couldn’t. I felt so sorry for him; I couldn’t manage even a brief chuckle. His sideburns were so uneven and lopsided; I would’ve guessed he tried shaving blindfolded or something. He sported them for about five weeks or when he finally had enough of the varsity football team giving him shit. Whichever came first. Justin wasn’t finished, however. He returned to school following Christmas Break with his next experiment: hair color.

The first attempt actually wasn’t all that bad. It took a few days for my eyes to adjust to his going from a dark brown to a dirty blonde, but it worked for him. He would’ve been fine, had he just stuck with it. But no, the moment his roots revealed their true color was the moment he dyed his hair some other color. He changed it maybe a half dozen times, each color choice becoming gradually more and more heinous. Bleach blonde. Pitch black. Blonde highlights. Deep red. Finally, something that can only be described as green leopard spots.

I want to say that was the end of it, but he didn’t come to his senses until about a year before this particular Thanksgiving. When he’s not out to impress, he makes his best impression. I am, however, still opposed to the ridiculous pirate loop on his left ear. He’s had that damn thing for years. Actually, it may be the only vain fashion decision he’s ever stuck with. I suppose there’s a little bit of sentimental value there. I still think it looks fucking stupid, but that’s not my call.

The transformation Lynn has undergone has been mostly frosting. She’s always been beautiful. The sort of changes she went through were subtle things that the average dunce would not notice. A little polish to her shine. About five years' worth of polish. She’s a natural blonde, with the sort of bounce that defied all logic. Even when it was short through all of middle and high school, her hair had a sort of pizzazz to it. A sort I made a habit of complimenting. What the hell did I know about hairstyling? Nothing, but I couldn’t help but notice. Notice… something. Her hair, the short cut of her school years to the sudden drop of locks that dangled to the middle of her back around the time she turned twenty, framed her face unbelievably well.

Her delightful face. Those thin pink lips that covered teeth made for full smiles. A small, cute nose. A pair of sly, almost tricky eyes. Those eternally cheerful eyes…

Which reminded me of how she used to wear glasses.

Lynn usually had a new pair of glasses approximately every three or four years. She told me about the first pair of glasses she got. She was six or seven at the time. In typical fashion, her first pair was gaudy monstrosity only a thrifty mother could love. The lenses, she said, were gigantic shields designed to stop small passenger planes. The frames were a grimy off-color plastic. The color of murky aquarium water. She couldn’t stand them, but she wound up wearing them until she was ten. Lynn often remarked that in the school photos she took in the years she wore them that they made her look like her grandmother.

Having seen her student pictures from kindergarten on to fourth grade, and having met her grandma personally, I couldn’t help but agree.

At least the next couple pairs made up for the horror of the first. For six years, she donned one of two pairs of cat’s-eye frames. I don’t recall ever seeing the first set, but from what she had told me on many occasions, they were the ‘cutest things in all of existence.’

“They were white,” she once said, “but not like a white white. I mean they weren’t a plain white. Kind of a shiny white or a glimmery type of white. A pearl white! Yeah, they were a pearly white. But that wasn’t even the best part!”

On both of the temples were ‘masterfully’ painted stars in black and blue. Large and bordered in fine gold lines closer to the lens, the stars shrank and ran down each temple in jaggedy patterned lines until there were mere paint speckles.

“They weren’t all boring or anything. Not some lame crap like a straight line of stars, but like shooting stars flew from my ears and making their way outward. Oh Nick, they were absolutely adorable!”

Adorable they may have been, but permanent they were not. Within a year or so, she told me that she rubbed the paint off almost completely just from taking them off and on every night. Her very own pair of Haley’s Comets came undone from under her own fingers. She tried to restore them for a short while, taking some of her father’s acrylic paints and retouching the fading stars with the smallest paint brush she could find.

“It was a disaster, sorry to say,” Lynn said, looking almost ashamed or embarrassed from even trying to revive the gold, black, and blue streaks, “Each time I tried, they came out less like stars and more like some sort of microscopic creature. Amoebas and that sort of shit. Even when I did get them to how I liked, it was a waste. Sweat from gym class or rain caused the damn things to bleed all over my face.”

Her little sister told me she took a picture of Lynn several years back with black paint lines running down the side of her face like deformed sideburns. Unfortunately, Lynn had the evidence long destroyed.

Her second pair, the pair I remember her wearing more often, were pretty sharp in their own regard. No shooting stars. No pearly white temples. No bleeding repaint jobs, just a deep blue metal frame (“I think they were graphite or something. They were kinda expensive because of that.”). The temples were thin yet remarkably sturdy. Lynn was pretty active in intramural sports, so it only made sense she would take a spill or two. Stumbling and tumbling for a loose basketball. Colliding into clumsy volleyball partners. She even challenged the catcher in a few softball games. With all the contact she made, those skinny metal glasses were never in the risk of breaking. I was very surprised to never see them fall apart, especially for as frail as they looked. I always felt if her hair was a naturally dark color, it would appear that the frames rested on her nose without the assistance of temples.

The blue cat’s-eyes gave her the title ‘that cute freshman/sophomore’ in high school. The next pair, and her last pair before she opted for contacts, left all the eyeballing boys speechless. I used to call them her ‘sexy librarian’ glasses because… well, because it’s EXACTLY what she looked like when she wore them most days. During most of junior and senior year, she often dressed in a quasi-business casual turned trendy teenager style. Pinstriped shirts buttoned halfway up, revealing the black or blue tank top underneath. Whichever color matched the stripes that day. Tight yet comfortable pants. Cardigans and shells. Short, but not too short, skirts. When she dressed up, she went all out.

I wish she wore her hair up more often when she dressed up. It drove me crazy every time.

It often looked to me like she was interviewing for some random white collar job, or at least what she would look like afterwards. The show was over, and she unbuttoned and let loose to relax. Justin once told me a couple times her outfits looked like stripper costumes. Lynn the dirty secretary. Hot for teacher Lynn. Of course, he never said this to her. He wasn’t bright, but he certainly wasn’t stupid.

The ‘sexy librarian’ glasses were very sharp. The lenses were narrower than any of her previous pairs. They were peculiar. I was unsure of how the shape (small rectangles, almost trapezoids) would look on her. I have gotten used to them, and they really work in my opinion. To be honest, I don’t remember the color of the frames or anything. The only part that ever clicks in my mind are the small lenses. They just barely covered her eyes, but it gave her face a different appearance. I’m not sure how, but they did.

And I adored it. I adored her. Her glasses.

I guess that leaves me. I don’t know. I guess my cut my hair less frequently than I used to? I don’t know. I’m sure everyone else who knows me will have a whole list of things that are different about me. I just don’t see anything. It’s probably just hard for someone to look at themselves and go, “Oh yeah, I don’t do this anymore.”

“I guess that’s something I don’t do as often as I used to.”

“Wow… maybe I am an asshole.”

As far as I’m concerned, I’m exactly the same. The same old, same old. The same old that yawns like a girl. The same old loudmouth drunk. The same old that gets distracted easily and doesn’t pay any attention to his friends.

And that was exactly what happened. By the time the entire table tried to capture my attention, I had lost myself in observation of the entire bar. It wasn’t that their company was boring or uninteresting; I just had a massive habit of distracting myself by watching all of my surroundings. Of course, I blamed it on however many beers I had at that point. It only seemed natural.

Rough guess, I would say the men outnumbered the women three to two that evening. The total number of people was probably close to a hundred or so, most of them not worth the curious eyes. But if you weed out particular people, you get to the real entertainments figures in the Spur. Exclude the hot shots by the basketball machine, working for a round on the house. Cross off the tables of gabby girls (or gabby girls with a pair of their male friends?) reminiscing over a Rum and Coke/Midori Sour/Long Island Iced Tea/whatever. The barflies talking over the afternoon football games with one another or even worse, watching the tiny TV behind the bartenders with Sportscenter running with no sound? I’m sorry, you are dismissed. The tiny girl flirting with the tall bartender every two or three minutes he moves over to her side of the counter? Close, but you do not make the cut.

To the three ladies dancing shamefully close, yet no less arousing for it, to one another, I apologize.

To the five guys unobtrusively circling the skinny brunette wandering to every corner of the room, you’re not quite what I’m looking for.

The bouncer in either the shirt two sizes too small or with arms two sizes too massive, you were so close. Tossing out four unruly hooligans out on their ass was beyond hilarious, but I’m afraid I am looking for something else.

What I was looking for was something very stereotypical, but the fact that there are people that actually use them. Pick up lines, and bad ones. Of the few I could hear from my corner of the booth, amidst the conversation I should have been participating in and the assorted noise of drunken tomfoolery, I found myself disappointed by the crap I heard by these random guys.

Those pants look good on you, but I bet they look better on my floor.

The world is so ugly to me, but you are SO beautiful to me.

Your name should be Campbell, because you are mm-mm-good!

And those were just my favorites. Oddly enough, a good majority of what I heard surprisingly worked. Oh, alcohol. You are ever the level playing ground.

There was this one guy, however, that failed every time he tried. EVERY time. He was on his third or fourth trip around the bar as Lynn and Elaine tried to catch my attention. And God bless him for trying, because at this point I was kind of rooting for him. Kind of.

He couldn’t have been very tall. About half a foot shorter than me, I would guess. He did appear to have about ten or fifteen years on me though. Scrawny and very feeble looking, his tiny frame could barely hold up the heather grey shirt and khaki pants he wore. A black woven belt yanked tight around his weight was either keeping his pants from falling to his ankles or crushing his hips into powder. His look alone probably turned off any of the girls he asked, but it didn’t stop him.

Heather Grey was relentless. He approached a short-haired blonde by the bar for the second or third time, and flexed. He FLEXED. Well, he tried to. From what I could tell, the muscles in his arms failed to move. Like, at all. His arms were so fucking bony; he may not even have muscles. He flailed his arms up in a geometrically perfect pair of right angles, as his shirt dangled from his ‘killer biceps’ (I swear I heard him say that as showed himself off to the clearly unimpressed woman.). They almost appeared to drip or fall off his arms. The blonde was trying her hardest to humor him, but with her two girlfriends cracking up in various snickers and giggles, she inevitably broke out in a huge guffaw.

This happened at approximately the same time as Lynn snapped her fingers loudly in front of my face and said, “Wake up.”

I shot up straight and my entire back touched the booth cushion. “Huh? I’m sorry, what?” I said,

Anna and Justin laughed in unison at me, in very typical fashion. I hadn’t thought of how long my mind, eyes, and attention wandered off. It must have been for quite a while, especially judging by Lynn’s reaction and response. Her head was at a slight tilt, with her face appearing concerned, almost worried. “You alright, Nick? Have you already had too much?” she asked,

I scoffed and shrugged my shoulders. “Please! It’s gonna take more than…”

I had to scan the table for bottles, and then count one I knew I drank. One, two, three, it seemed. My pause was just long enough to cause a round of laughter from each of them. Except for Lynn, who smirked at me the way she always did when I joked around. “…three drinks to put me down for the night.”

“At any rate, sorry about that. Got a little distracted is all.” I said,

I noticed Heather Grey had moved onto another table of girls. A pair of Korean girls with three of their best gal pals. They very well may have been twins. Heather turned his attention to them, and grandstanded before them as animated as I had seen him be all night.

Come to think of it, for as crazy and outlandish as he had slowly become, I don’t think I saw him even hold a beer, let alone drink one to warrant his behavior.

“Well, no harm done if you can answer a question for me,” Anna said, swirling the straw around in her second Razer.

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you join choir in school?”

The question felt random, but it probably had more to do with me not listening in on the conversation. “Why would I? I don’t sing.”

“Oh bullshit,” she argued, “I know you do more than just lip-sync in your car, Nick.”

With the volume to eleven and the windows rolled up, there wasn’t a reason not to sing while in my car. A closed vehicle with a working radio or CD player was the perfect studio. The ideal karaoke bar. So what if passer-by drivers saw me on the highway, talking or yelling to myself as far as they knew? Chances are, I made a line or two of some random conversation and then all was forgotten. Unless one of those passer-by drivers happened to be a friend of a friend.

“Yeah, I sing in my car. That’s it.”

“Lynn’s told me otherwise.”

I knew she’d say that. There was no use in glaring over at her, but I glared anyway. “I wasn’t aware it was a secret, Nick.” She said seamlessly in between swigs of her beer.

Excluding my foolish childhood years, when I would sing to anyone with a pulse or anyone who put me in a school recital, I sang in front of no one. Not my parents, not anymore at least. Not my brother or sister, not for any of the teachers or the students. Not for anyone. Anyone except Lynn. I’m not particularly happy with how I sound when I sing, but I’ve never let that stop me. She’s the only person I’ve ever been around that I never felt as though she was laughing at me when I did sing in front of her.

And besides, a lot of her pieces for choir were duets. Her partners were often unable to rehearse with her on a regular basis, so she usually asked me to fill in just so she could keep in practice. I figured why not? It was either at her place, when her family was usually still out doing whatever it was they did at the time or mine. The only person I ever had to worry about at home was Sabrina, and I could deal with her if I needed to.

Yeah, I never did say to her that I didn’t want anyone to know. That didn’t mean I wanted it out there. I suppose she only told Anna, but Anna has loose lips. I mean hell, she did blab in front of Justin and Elaine. Who’s to say who else she’d tell after them?

“I don’t think that’s very fair, Nick!” Anna exclaimed, immediately faking a tear or two, “You never sing for me! Do you hate me?”

She would’ve been pretty convincing with her cry if she didn’t break into a chuckle in a matter of moments after.

“I figured you had Justin for that sort of thing.”

“Please, you’ve heard in him choir practice. The boy has no range! That and I can’t stand Dave Matthews.”

He choked on the last swallow, and turned to Anna when he finished. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Oh, I meant no offense, sweetie. Seriously though, you should quit while you’re ahead. You do a horrible Dave Matthews.”

His eyes stayed on her for four or five seconds, obviously peeved but knowing she wasn’t busting his chops just to piss him off. All it did was make Anna snicker while the rest of us sat there with wicked smiles. He broke from the stare and swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp. Slamming the glass down hard, he looked out towards the bar and said, “Okay, I think I’m ready for a real drink.”

Everyone but Elaine laughed, as she directed his attention to her bottle, still a little over half full. He took it from her as she turned to me and said, “How about a little sample, Nick?”

“What?” I asked, but it occurred to me what she was asking immediately after saying that. “No. Not in here.”

“Oh, why not? What’s it matter if it just in front of friends? Sounds like you’re a pretty good singer, so what’s the big deal?”

That drop-dead body of hers turned in ways that told me she meant business. She would not give this up, and I knew this. “I’m not gonna make an ass out of myself in front of a hundred people.” I said,

“Dude, who gives a shit? This is a bar. Chances are the people here are here to either see someone make an ass of themselves or to make an ass of themselves. That way, you’ll just be like the rest of us. Quit being such a puss!”

“I bet I know the problem,” Anna cut in, “He just doesn’t know a decent song to perform!”

“No, Anna. Just stop it. I’m not fucking singing anything.”

It was though she didn’t even hear me. She broke into a couple lines as I demanded her to knock it off. “I got chills,” she sang, holding ‘chills’ an extra second or two just as Danny did in the god damned musical. “They’re multiplyin’!”

I insisted, “Anna, stop. Please stop. Just stop.”

It didn’t work, and I noticed a half dozen heads turn away from their drinking companions and towards her. Anna’s voice. That was one thing I forgot about. When she sang, she sang from deep within. Like VERY deep. As far into one’s diaphragm as one could possibly go without hurting themselves. Probably everyone in the fucking bar could hear her. To make things worse, she was two drinks in. The amount of alcohol she had affected the volume of her voice. And, when it came to drinking, Anna was a lightweight. She was bombed as far as I was concerned. The boom of her singing was concrete evidence of that.

I continued to try to get her to stop, and she continued to ignore me and sing a few more lines. It wasn’t until Elaine shouted, “Christ, Anna. You’ll wake the dead at this rate. Knock it off. Besides, I highly doubt he digs that crap.”

A half dozen heads became a dozen turned to us. Some people from far corners of the room were approaching us, just to see what the hell was going on. I watched each of them come closer, not pleased with the sudden attention we received. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I’m too occupied to see Anna frown, with everyone staring at us. Still, I barely hear her say, “Grease is a masterpiece. It’s not crap…”

“I know a song. We’ve sung it a hundred times together.”

If anything could have broken me away from the incoming lynch mob. This unruly mob, with their readied boos and insults. The proverbial rotten tomatoes and eggs. If anything would have turned me to something else, it was Lynn saying that. She sold me out. My eyes shot to her, and from what I could tell, so did everyone else’s at the table.

“Is that right?” Elaine said,

“Lynn, no. This is not the place.” I said, practically pleading.

“Oh, what’s the harm, Nick? It’ll be fun, I bet!”

Lynn smiled at me, knowing exactly what I was thinking. She betrayed me. Maybe it wasn’t that drastic, but she knew what she was doing. If she was for it, she knew I wouldn’t say no. I’m a sucker, and she knew it. She trapped me… I trapped myself. She sipped quickly and cleared her throat as I once more begged, “Not here, Lynn. Please, not here.”

“I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me,” she began,

I sighed. It was all I really could do. Anna’s eyes grew the moment she recognized the tune. “Oh, I love this song!”

Neither Justin nor Elaine had any idea what it was. Of course, I knew. Like Lynn said before, we had practiced this song many, many times. I tried to hold my ground by simply keeping my mouth shut. It didn’t work. She went on, “And if we go some place to dance, I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me,”

“Alright,” I tucked my hands by my legs and gave in, “you win.”

“And afterwards, we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two,”

Both Justin and Elaine laugh and cheer, but both are drowned out by Anna, who yelped and cried, “That’s the spirit, Nick!”

Lynn chuckled quickly and went into the next line. I joined in with her, and the line carried more with the two of us singing it, “And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like ‘I love you’,”

I noticed more people looking our way. However, it didn’t appear unruly. They were curious, and hopefully not annoyed.

Lynn said, just before the next line, “You come over the top,”

I can see it in your eyes you still despise the same old lines you heard the night before,

“And now me,”

We switch roles and I took the secondary vocal. Anna, much too excited over the matter, was whooping and cheering. By now, the bouncers have approached, but are simply monitoring us. The entire bar was watching.

And though it’s just a line to you, for me it’s true and never seemed so right before.

“I practice everyday to find some clever lines to say to make the meaning come true,” I continued. About mid-way through, I realize Lynn wasn’t accompanying me. For half a moment, literally a split second, I thought she left me out in the cold. I suddenly would have to carry this entire episode by myself. And I would’ve buckled. I would’ve stopped, with everybody glaring at me.

But right then and there, I saw Lynn hold her hand up to me. She wanted the next line on her own. I think I blushed in embarrassment for roughly a beat, and luckily I don’t think anyone noticed. Maybe Lynn, but I don’t know.

“But then I’ll think I’ll wait until the evening gets late and I’m alone with you,”

From what I could tell, the crowd was actually enjoying themselves. There were the majority of onlookers still thinking, ‘What the hell is going here?’, but some were admiring the performance. I noticed a handful of people, nearly all of them women that shot Heather Grey down at some point that evening, mouthing the words Lynn and I sang. Somewhere in the second or third row of gawkers was the head of some ignorant asshole. I couldn’t hear him, but by his lips I could tell that he was asking who I assumed was his girlfriend, “What song is that?”

Or something to that effect.

She told him, stretching up to his ear so he could hear her amidst the ruckus. He looked down at her, overly confused by the answer.

“Who the fuck is Frank Sinatra?”

Or something to that effect.

The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red and oh, the night’s so blue.

Lynn pushed her left hand out to the center of the table and winked at me jokingly. I knew what she had in mind. Always one to make a scene. I put my hand over hers, to which she instantly turned hers in order to grab mine. The rise it got out of everyone was rather predictable, but funny nonetheless. Justin bellowed in a laugh deep in his stomach. Elaine rolled her eyes, but I could tell she found the whole situation interesting at least. And there’s Anna, who I was convinced was absolutely trashed even if she only had two drinks. She shouted and carried on, and caused a rash of further hollering and excitement from the surrounding bystanders. Both Lynn and I nearly cracked up, but we held it together for the next line.

And then I go and spoil it all by sayin’ something stupid like, ‘I love you,’

Anna clapped her hands and hummed rhythmically, as though she were our personal instrumental. What surprised me more than that were the handful of people that accompanied her. A few people laughed at the scene. A few that weren’t either Justin or Elaine, although they too were very amused. The commotion had gotten so loud that I figured Lynn couldn’t hear me, so I said in hopes she could read my lips, “This was pretty cute,”

She looked at me with an unsure expression on her face, but it meant mostly that I should repeat myself. I did, and she just smiled at me and said, “I told you this would be fun, didn’t I?”

“I guess so, but let’s just never do this again.”

She giggled and broke her hand away from mine. Anna’s little number was almost done, so Lynn tucked her hands back under the table. “I think we’re up again,” She said,

The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red and oh, the night’s so blue. And then I go and spoil it all by sayin’ something stupid like, ‘I love you,’

I love you…

I love you…

I love you…

We were slowly drowned out as half the bar applauded and whooped at us. Lynn had turned to everyone looking at us to accept the audience’s appreciation.

“I love you,” I continued, not realizing she had already stopped.

MAJOR weight off of me. Thank goodness.

I apparently need to split this in two parts for the lj, as it's too large. Wow.

dusk_wip @ 2005-05-20T19:53:00

2005-05-21T01:53:12Z

Thanksgiving, 2003
-----

We arrived at the Spur approximately fifteen minutes after we picked Elaine up. I would’ve expected the drive to take twice as long, as the snow refused to let up. However, I forgot the city usually plows the main roads the instant it begins to look a tad too messy. It’s funny, considering that the city could give two shits about residential roads. My street and every other street a couple miles away from City Hall won’t see a plow for another two days.

And unfortunately, the tiny bar parking wasn’t going to see a plow for three days. When clean, there were only enough spots for about twenty, thirty-five cars. With the lack of visible parking lines and the fact that inclement weather seems to reduce the intelligence of the average driver, there was just enough room for seventeen vehicles. Lynn managed to park her Corolla between a large black pickup and a hatchback sitting diagonally over two spaces.

I got out of the car before anyone else had managed their seatbelts off, and I opened the rear passenger door for Elaine and Anna. Next to exit was Lynn, who peered over the roof of her car at me. “Ever the courteous one, Nick. You’re such a gentleman.”

“You’re probably just mad I didn’t walk around to open your door for you.” I said,

“Oh nonsense!” she responded, hand shot to her hips, “I don’t need a man to open doors for me!”

“Well I, for one, do not mind it,” Elaine said, motioning for me to take her hand while she stepped out of the car, “I appreciate it immensely, Nick. Thank you so much, kind sir.”

Before I said anything, I made sure I saw Lynn respond somehow. Roll her eyes. Mouth ‘oh my god’. Pretend to gag or vomit in disgust, anything. She sneered and scoffed, not letting me down in the least. “The pleasure is all mine.” I added, just to rub it in a little more.

“Hey, man. The courtesy is fine and all but try to tone it down a little bit.”

Out of the rear driver’s side door came Justin. “Some of us can’t be expected to live up to the expectations you set.”

I met Lynn by the front of her car as Anna teased, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. We all know there’s no way you could live up to anyone’s expectations.”

“Of all the places, you had to pick a cowboy bar.” I whispered to Lynn,

I wasn’t sure if she heard me, with the remarkably steady holiday traffic streaming by and Anna and Justin fussing at one another.

“I can be courteous!” he argued,

She scoffed and jabbed my side, “A bar is a bar is a bar, Nick. More importantly, a bar with Budweiser on the cheap is a bar with a seat for me.”

Elaine crept up from behind me, completely to my surprise. She hooked her arms through my right arm and clung to me like she had to. The last chance for salvation or a square meal. That’s me, alright. To be honest, she probably took a hold of me because she was freezing. Sure, it has been established how piss poor the weather is. Nonstop snowfall, coldest Thanksgiving in three years, so on. She didn’t seem to know that, at least it seemed so by how she was dressed. Elaine had a long black coat buttoned up to just below her neck, but it couldn’t possibly have kept her very warm. Even with on my own jacket preventing any real feel, I could tell it wasn’t all that thick. It fell only to the knees, of her black pants, also incredibly thin. She shivered briefly before clinging tighter to me. “I wouldn’t be too concerned about that anyways,” she said, “The Spur’s been under new management for the last year or so. Guy’s been cycling all that cowboy shit out. He just can’t be asked to change the name. Oh and there’s still the line dancing thing. They do that every…”

Another quick cold tremor from her arms. “Thursday. Lucky us. Shall we?”

Anna and Justin’s exchange had by then come to a head and a shared laugh. The both of them were ready to go. I glanced at Lynn, mostly to have her lead the way. That she did, turning the corner from the lot to the street. About fifteen or twenty feet down, away from where the driveway into the lot intersects the snowy sidewalk, the plain entrance awaited us. If it weren’t for the fact we knew it was the Spur, we would have been hard pressed to figure it out on our own. It didn’t, at least to me, look like a door to a bar. This was the entrance to a pawn shop or a hobby store. A convenience store, but without the gasoline and optional carwash with the brushless system designed to be safer on vehicles. If I didn’t know better, I would have stepped through the door in the pursuit of porno and stroke mags, as opposed to Heineken and shots.

Lynn held the door open for everyone, and she made sure to jab me in the side with two fingers. Even with the freezing Elaine hanging from my right arm, she managed a clean shot to my ribs. Being as ticklish as I am, I darted a short distance away from her, tugging her arms along with me. She let out a quick yelp, and turned to see Lynn grin at the both of us. In I went, just beyond the door to allow everyone else to huddle inside.

To my horror, I’m assaulted by some random country song. That normally would have sent me out of the door, but Anna and Justin blocked my only escape. And despite the awful fiddle solo and the crowd in the far corner of the bar hot-stepping on a small square wooden platform, the Spur actually wasn’t all that cowboy themed. I suppose Elaine was right after all. The crowd represented a little bit of every possible character type. Well dressed college students. The hip-hop outfitted wisenheimers embellished in many silver and gold chains. The unwashed masses in assorted bike rally and NASCAR t-shirts and mucked blue jeans. The amazingly gorgeous women who clearly spent more than an hour to get ready.

Elaine unbuckled from me and removed her coat to reveal that she was one of those many ladies. She wore a cream colored halter top, which seemed even lighter than it was over her surprisingly tan skin. I don’t recall her ever being quite that dark. I figured she fake tanned, but all the salons I knew of were in the boonies. With the weather as bad as it was all week, I would assume she wouldn’t chance driving way the hell out there. Then again, if she would gussy herself as wonderfully as she had that night… for a seedy juke joint, then it wouldn’t surprise me. Elaine was looking far too pretty for the Spur. I mean way too pretty. She was fucking gorgeous. I got a much better look at her after she folded her coat over her right arm. I didn’t even notice how she had done up her hair until then. It would explain why we waited an additional ten minutes for her at her house. She did pretty good work, as far as I could tell. Every bit and strand held magnificently over her ears. Nothing at risk of tangling in her black wind chime-like earrings. Nothing preventing the view of the herringbone necklace that sat just above her breasts.

They were nipping. Like I needed another reason to stare at her tits.

“What do you all want?” Lynn asked,

At least, I think that’s what she asked. It shocked me how loud banjo and acoustic guitar can sound over what I figured was a fairly cheap sound system. I suppose the random chatter and merrymaking of forty to fifty drunks may have had something to do with the overall noise level. At any rate, all I heard afterwards was what I figured was everyone (First Anna, Elaine, and then Justin) calling off their drinks of choice. I figured I had a smaller risk of getting some girly drink I wouldn’t be fond of, so I said I’d have the same as Justin.

The country song at last came to an end, with a disappointing amount of people in the rear of the bar shouting, applauding, and wooing. Once the cheering died down, the something a little heavier and a little less bumpkin blared from the multiple speakers bolted in every corner of the Spur. Fuck if I knew what song it was, but it ultimately made me feel better about the place.

“Lynn,” Elaine turned to her and said, “You see that bartender?”

I kept eyeing her, and with additional attention now that I had something new to gawk at. The small of her back was bare, which explained the shivering outside. I didn’t approve of the overly trendy tattoo, typical tribal curls spreading out from the tear-shaped jewel in the center. I think it was a topaz, but I can’t remember her birthstone.

I don’t know if it’s because the music has been become so loud or if the crowd has picked up a few decibel levels, but I can’t hear a goddamned thing being said by either Elaine or Lynn. They were only a matter of feet from me and I could only pick up the odd word here and there. I suppose I’m nosy, considering they were talking to me, but there really wasn’t anything else to listen to.

Something something something tell him Elaine something something. He’ll know what something something something something blah blah blah. Dum de dum de dum over at that booth over there.

Elaine swung her arm back towards me, but beyond and behind me to the open booth. I didn’t look, as I was still admiring Elaine. Admiring her skin. Admiring the semi-profile she formed into from turning to point at our seats. Admiring the fact she wore those pants that night.

Maybe that was why I could hear what she was saying.

Something something something? Elaine asked,

I guess Lynn answered her, but I didn’t hear anything. Perhaps she nodded or gave a ‘mmhmm’ response that in no way was going to resound in the bustle of noise.

By then, I had moved on from her tattoo to her heart-shaped ass properly fit into the rear of her thin black pants. She absolutely knew what she was doing when she dressed into that pair. No pockets, no panty lines, just a perfect—

“Hey,” she said to me, accompanied with a sharp whistle. Elaine had completely turned around by then, but my eyes shot up to her face immediately.

“Eyes up here, sweetie.” She grinned at me and pinched my cheek.

Lynn didn’t notice, as she had long walked off to the bar to get our first round. I could hear Anna and Justin snickering behind me, but I could deal with that. Lynn would have been a completely different problem, and one I would have massive trouble dealing with.

“Was your birthday this month?” I asked, pretty much in as blatant a tactic I could come up with to explain my perverted eyeballing.

She cocked her head, confused.

“That birthstone on your back. November, right?”

A junior high mineralogy class I managed to not fall asleep through was saving my ass from further embarrassment. I had never loved school as much as I did that very moment.

“Yeah, on the seventh. You didn’t come to my party.”

“You didn’t invite him.” Anna noted, breaking from the little chucklefest she was celebrating with Justin.

“That right? Well fuck,” she said, followed by a quick yet present pause, and then continued, “Yeah, it was this month.”

“That’s what I thought. I was pretty sure that was supposed to be a topaz on your back. It looks really nice.” I said,

In the clear, I thought. Well, half-heartedly. I’m fucking ignorant if I thought that really worked. She did, however, have me fooled for a second when she said, “Why thank you, Nick!” with a convincing full smile and what seemed to me to be a minor blush coming across her cheeks.

And then she said, “But in my opinion…”

She grabbed my right arm again, and my left as well. A tug on them both brought my ears close enough for Elaine to talk into them. Even then, she leaned forward on the tips of her toes. If she wanted to, she could have rested her chin on my shoulder.

“In my opinion,” she repeated, but in a whisper. With as close as she was, the noise didn’t matter. On the other hand, it felt like the sound level in the bar dropped just for her sake. “You were staring low to be checking out my tat.”

To me, all the noise around us just dissipated. The Spur had become silent, and everyone was listening. They were doing their thing, bullshitting with one another, drinking their assorted mixed beverages, but they could hear everything. And they were listening. It sure felt like it. I felt like I was thirteen, getting scolded for hiding a dirty book under my mattress.

And this wasn’t even the start of my troubles.

“It’s not like I’m mad about it, Nick.” She said with a light giggle, “It’s kinda cute of you to be checking me out like that.”

“Well do you blame me?”

Surrender and confess. It’s about all I felt I could do.

She stood flat on her feet again, still looking at me. Her eyebrows were sharp and the smirk on her face forced a stupid-face grin out of me. “Hell no! I’m fucking hot, sweetie. It was inevitable, if you ask me!”

We shared a laugh, but I cut it short to see where Lynn was. At the counter, she was speaking to the bartender Elaine directed her to. She fumbled through her small handbag, searching for her ID. “Just promise me one thing, okay?” I asked,

“Shoot.”

“Don't tell Lynn anything about this, alright? I’ll never hear the end of it from her.”

Another giggle, but at least she agreed. “Secret’s safe with me, kiddo. Scout’s honor. How about a seat?”

A seat is exactly what I needed. I nodded to her, and followed her to the booth behind me. I have no idea why nobody had taken it in the time I stood there, about ready to piss my pants, but it remained free for us. About halfway to the booth is where the sound returned. I took to the booth side facing the rear of the Spur. The dance floor was hidden from my view, thanks to the counter. It didn’t stop the commotion and noise from that end of the room, however. Anna shuffled into the seat across from me, with Justin sitting right next to her. Elaine boxed me in and grinned with the hope that she could squeeze a humiliated smile out of me. I had already gotten over and past that awkward situation. All I wanted at that point was random banter to go with the music and however many beers as it took for me to require help walking to the door. About a minute later, Lynn returned with both hands loaded. The left pinching the longnecks of three brown bottles. The right hand face with two small glasses resting in her palm. I’m not very familiar with mixed drinks, so I’ll be damned if I knew what they were. They both appeared to be the same. Both were clear. Both had tiny red straws up and down between ice cubes. Both were probably the same thing. Either way, both were drinks I would never order for myself. She stood at the edge of table, setting down everything one at a time. The beer first, freeing that hand to allow her to pick the glasses out of the other. Lynn slid Justin one of the glasses before turning to me. “Bud Light work for you?” she asked, “I didn’t think you cared for girly drinks, so I got you that instead.”

It didn’t even occur to me that one of the glasses may have been mine, not even after I saw the first of two passed to Justin. It figures, really. That’s what I get for assuming. That’s what I get for staring at Elaine’s ass and not paying attention.

Speaking of her, I lied. I snuck a peek of her stomach while she occupied with trying to grab her beer from the far end of the table. No success, however. Lynn was stretched in front of the bottle preventing Elaine from any easy access. She was lean, but by no means was she skinny. Usually, girls who dare to bare their tummies under such tiny tops have a bit pudge. Nothing too bad, at least most times. Just that cute baby fat the majority of guys dig. The sort of cellulite that women traumatize themselves over until they’ve found some way to get rid of it. Not Elaine. She was hunched over, but no part of her spilled over the waistline of her pants. She was as perfect as anyone could get.

She was fucking gorgeous.

“Works for me,” I said,

Lynn slid the second glass to Anna, which didn’t surprise me. She and Justin were practically attached at the hip and did nearly everything alike. I figured it was just a matter of time before I heard one of them completing the other’s sentences.

She passed over two of the bottles. The first came to me and the second to Elaine, much to her relief. She took a seat next to Anna, and almost immediately we began talking. What about? Pretty much whatever. First things first, we started with what we usually begin with: our high school days.

Personally, I didn’t get to know any of them, except for Lynn of course, until mid-sophomore year. I got my license about four or five months before Lynn, and she often needed rides home from choir. I never minded. It wasn’t like I ever had anything pressing to do immediately after school anyway. Not in my sophomore year, at least. She only had to stay an extra 30 minutes, sometimes 45 to 50 minutes, after school on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I usually just wandered the hallways or dinked around in the library until she got out. I eventually just waited for her in the classroom, watching most of her choir practices that year. I wasn’t heavily impressed. Well, with the song selection at least. Show tunes. Songs selected exclusively by her dingbat of a music teacher from many a Broadway musical. Guys and Dolls. Oklahoma. The Sound of Music. Godspell. Miss Saigon, My Fair Lady, Annie, and Joseph. Him and his amazing Technicolor dreamcoat. More often than not, I’d catch a song from Cats or Grease.

Oh god, Grease.

Summer lovin’, having a blast.

Summer lovin’, happened so fast.

I met a girl crazy for me.

Met a boy cute as can be.

Summer days drifting away, to oh oh the summer nights.

I’ll never forget that damn song and it’s all that fucking teacher’s fault. Damn her and those three weeks of nonstop rehearsal of that song and a couple others.

I suppose I’m just not cultured or something. If you ask me, none of those songs did anything for Lynn or for anyone in the class. I know she can sing. And good lord, can she ever. But the selections didn’t do her voice any justice. She couldn’t stand out, and it’s a shame. Luckily, there were days when everyone in the choir was allowed to perform a song of their choice. If everyone enjoyed it, most importantly if her instructor approved, then they would be asked to sing it during the spring concert. Almost every student presented two songs by the last few weeks before the recital. Lynn only had the opportunity to sing once. She caught the flu the first time around, and was out of school for a week. Her name came up in the rotation roughly a month and a half later and she was healthy as can be.

I missed the first couple of hours of my sister’s birthday to make sure I was there when Lynn had to perform. I felt I needed to support her as much as possible. And it’s not like I minded. As I said before, I know she can sing. I know she can sing well. Beautifully.

And that day was easily the best I had ever heard from her. She chose “Last Dance, a Donna Summer song. Admittedly, I may have heard the song maybe a handful of times before then. After Lynn poured all she had into it, it became one of my favorite songs. Seriously. Bought the Greatest Hits CD, downloaded it to every computer I’ve ever used. It was that good. No, Lynn was that good.

Everyone else was there as well. For Anna and Justin, things were pretty much the same then as they were at the Spur. The two of them lived some five or six houses apart since pre-school. Oddly, they shared nearly every class from Kindergarten on. Justin joked about how Anna freaked out and cried for the first week of fourth grade because it was first time she didn’t get the same teacher as he did.

“In my defense, Mrs. Herbert was the creepiest teacher ever!” Anna explained, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was one of those weird old ladies with two hundred cats or something. I’ll be damned if I know how she got a teaching license.”

By the time they reached high school, they shared one more elementary class, and a hefty majority of their middle school classes. It only made sense they would have the same extracurricular activities, and they both decided to take choir that year. They clicked with Lynn almost immediately, and once I started waiting for her after school they took to me just as quickly. They’re good people, even if the two of them together talk more than it is humanly necessary about… well, about anything. Anna is mostly to blame, but Justin is her catalyst. Whenever she loses any steam, a quick tease or an extra detail to her finer points of conversation will kick her back into gear. It’s always been like that. She’ll talk, stop, and Justin will chime in for no more than a few moments. Like that, she’s good for another fifteen minutes.

Personally, I was never really all that impressed with how they sang, but it was never my place to tell them how awful they sounded. Well, it wasn’t awful. It just wasn’t good. Justin sang a couple really terrible renditions of Dave Matthews Band songs. I figured his performance tanked each time because he was adamant on trying to sound exactly like the artist. And when it’s Dave Matthews? That suicide no matter how you look at it.

I don’t remember what Anna performed. I guess that just shows how forgettable they were.

And then there was Elaine.

As far as I can remember, Elaine didn’t even seem interested in choir. Yet she was there, performing whichever song was to be rehearsed at the time. I honestly don’t know what her singing voice sounds like. Either she was meek and soft-spoken in comparison to the rest of the class whenever they sang or she cruised through each practice by mouthing every word. Now that I think about it, she always had an excuse to not perform when her name came up. Maybe she didn’t really do anything.

Even if that was so, she and Lynn got along. Every other week or so, Elaine would ask if I could give her a ride home as well. Those days were quiet ones for me. Normally, Lynn and I would ramble on about whatever occurred during the day. When Elaine came along, it was all Greek. Apparently, she knew more about those silly songs than she let off. She knew all about the musicals. The writers, the most prominent performers of the Broadway productions, the off-Broadway productions, the movie adaptations. She knew it all, and it intrigued Lynn greatly. So greatly, that it would be all I ever heard them talk about. Being completely out of my league, I simply drove both of them home and kept my mouth shut. She lived about 20 minutes further out than Lynn and I did, but I always dropped her off first. It’s hard to be present in a conversation you can contribute absolutely nothing to. Believe me, I’ve tried. The one time I mentioned anything, I got a lengthy complaint about how the term ‘show tune’ was an insulting and demeaning to works as impressive as musicals were.

And it worked. I never say ‘show tune’. Not to her, at least.

Thinking of Elaine in high school reminds me how much we had all changed. Here in the Spur, she is absolutely dazzling. I easily cannot be the only one that has been staring at her since she walked in. She is just that unbelievable. Which is the most bizarre thing. I don’t recall ever being that floored by her in school. She wasn’t fat or ugly or anything. I would almost say she is exactly the same. Only not. Perhaps she’s just filled out in the last four or five years. Maybe she’s emitting some sort of aphrodisiac. I suppose it’s just me. I guess I could be coming to my senses, not realizing how sexy she is. She did have a boyfriend all through high school, after all. A new one every so many months, actually.

It could just be her ass in those pants. I really don’t know. Just something is different.

As for the rest of us, we had changed considerably. Anna, by most stereotypical standards and to any class act dickhead, was the ‘fat friend’ of the group. She had always been a fairly large girl. Large, however, is a bit of a harsh word. It wasn’t as though she was picked on in school. Not that I saw or heard, at least. Anna probably had a couple dress sizes on Lynn and Elaine, but so what? The two of them are as petite as they come. She was not. I suppose I’m making a bigger deal than she ever has. For as cheerful and in good spirits as she is, I guess she doesn’t let that sort of shit bother her. And with how she looked at the Spur that night, I would certainly hope she is still upbeat. Anna never made a habit of declaring her own personal achievements, but I could tell. She lost a significant amount in the last few years. And yeah, if she was placed side-by-side to Elaine and Lynn, she’d still be the ‘big girl’. Only now, she’s less of a fat big and more of a ‘curvy in all the right places’ big.

Justin’s changes since school have been more of a necessary alteration. If there was one thing he did, and did constantly for years, it was try too hard. As though puberty had just struck him, he vowed he would grow, and I quote, ‘the most bitchin’ goatee you’ll ever see’.

I’ll be damned if I know why. Probably some cool hipster on some random Fox drama inspired him. Unfortunately, inspiration did not lead to execution. Justin could grow a mean five o’clock shadow, but that was pretty much it. And then the day he tried to shave it down to a ‘goatee’…

It was as though he had a prickly pear for a chin. Even then, he paraded it around like his own personal badge of cool. I would have said something, but I had only known him for about two or three months at the time. Honestly, I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Well, not really. Truthfully, I didn’t want to come off as an asshole.

He gave up on the goatee early into the summer, but all that meant was he had something else in mind for junior year. The new idea? Sideburns and not just overgrown sideburns from missing a regular visit to the barber shop.

“Some real slick looking ones, man.” He told me when he first devised the plan.

He mentioned a few of the styles he had in mind. Elvis style. Big thick pork chop sideburns. If all went well, an Abraham Lincoln chinstrap. Personally, I would have to try to not laugh at him if he grew any of those. I would’ve had to try VERY hard. Lucky for him (or maybe lucky for me), what he wound up with didn’t even remotely resemble what he had in mind.

And I didn’t laugh at him. I couldn’t. I felt so sorry for him; I couldn’t manage even a brief chuckle. His sideburns were so uneven and lopsided; I would’ve guessed he tried shaving blindfolded or something. He sported them for about five weeks or when he finally had enough of the varsity football team giving him shit. Whichever came first. Justin wasn’t finished, however. He returned to school following Christmas Break with his next experiment: hair color.

The first attempt actually wasn’t all that bad. It took a few days for my eyes to adjust to his going from a dark brown to a dirty blonde, but it worked for him. He would’ve been fine, had he just stuck with it. But no, the moment his roots revealed their true color was the moment he dyed his hair some other color. He changed it maybe a half dozen times, each color choice becoming gradually more and more heinous. Bleach blonde. Pitch black. Blonde highlights. Deep red. Finally, something that can only be described as green leopard spots.

I want to say that was the end of it, but he didn’t come to his senses until about a year before this particular Thanksgiving. When he’s not out to impress, he makes his best impression. I am, however, still opposed to the ridiculous pirate loop on his left ear. He’s had that damn thing for years. Actually, it may be the only vain fashion decision he’s ever stuck with. I suppose there’s a little bit of sentimental value there. I still think it looks fucking stupid, but that’s not my call.

The transformation Lynn has undergone has been mostly frosting. She’s always been beautiful. The sort of changes she went through were subtle things that the average dunce would not notice. A little polish to her shine. About five years' worth of polish. She’s a natural blonde, with the sort of bounce that defied all logic. Even when it was short through all of middle and high school, her hair had a sort of pizzazz to it. A sort I made a habit of complimenting. What the hell did I know about hairstyling? Nothing, but I couldn’t help but notice. Notice… something. Her hair, the short cut of her school years to the sudden drop of locks that dangled to the middle of her back around the time she turned twenty, framed her face unbelievably well.

Her delightful face. Those thin pink lips that covered teeth made for full smiles. A small, cute nose. A pair of sly, almost tricky eyes. Those eternally cheerful eyes…

Which reminded me of how she used to wear glasses.

Lynn usually had a new pair of glasses approximately every three or four years. She told me about the first pair of glasses she got. She was six or seven at the time. In typical fashion, her first pair was gaudy monstrosity only a thrifty mother could love. The lenses, she said, were gigantic shields designed to stop small passenger planes. The frames were a grimy off-color plastic. The color of murky aquarium water. She couldn’t stand them, but she wound up wearing them until she was ten. Lynn often remarked that in the school photos she took in the years she wore them that they made her look like her grandmother.

Having seen her student pictures from kindergarten on to fourth grade, and having met her grandma personally, I couldn’t help but agree.

At least the next couple pairs made up for the horror of the first. For six years, she donned one of two pairs of cat’s-eye frames. I don’t recall ever seeing the first set, but from what she had told me on many occasions, they were the ‘cutest things in all of existence.’

“They were white,” she once said, “but not like a white white. I mean they weren’t a plain white. Kind of a shiny white or a glimmery type of white. A pearl white! Yeah, they were a pearly white. But that wasn’t even the best part!”

On both of the temples were ‘masterfully’ painted stars in black and blue. Large and bordered in fine gold lines closer to the lens, the stars shrank and ran down each temple in jaggedy patterned lines until there were mere paint speckles.

“They weren’t all boring or anything. Not some lame crap like a straight line of stars, but like shooting stars flew from my ears and making their way outward. Oh Nick, they were absolutely adorable!”

Adorable they may have been, but permanent they were not. Within a year or so, she told me that she rubbed the paint off almost completely just from taking them off and on every night. Her very own pair of Haley’s Comets came undone from under her own fingers. She tried to restore them for a short while, taking some of her father’s acrylic paints and retouching the fading stars with the smallest paint brush she could find.

“It was a disaster, sorry to say,” Lynn said, looking almost ashamed or embarrassed from even trying to revive the gold, black, and blue streaks, “Each time I tried, they came out less like stars and more like some sort of microscopic creature. Amoebas and that sort of shit. Even when I did get them to how I liked, it was a waste. Sweat from gym class or rain caused the damn things to bleed all over my face.”

Her little sister told me she took a picture of Lynn several years back with black paint lines running down the side of her face like deformed sideburns. Unfortunately, Lynn had the evidence long destroyed.

Her second pair, the pair I remember her wearing more often, were pretty sharp in their own regard. No shooting stars. No pearly white temples. No bleeding repaint jobs, just a deep blue metal frame (“I think they were graphite or something. They were kinda expensive because of that.”). The temples were thin yet remarkably sturdy. Lynn was pretty active in intramural sports, so it only made sense she would take a spill or two. Stumbling and tumbling for a loose basketball. Colliding into clumsy volleyball partners. She even challenged the catcher in a few softball games. With all the contact she made, those skinny metal glasses were never in the risk of breaking. I was very surprised to never see them fall apart, especially for as frail as they looked. I always felt if her hair was a naturally dark color, it would appear that the frames rested on her nose without the assistance of temples.

The blue cat’s-eyes gave her the title ‘that cute freshman/sophomore’ in high school. The next pair, and her last pair before she opted for contacts, left all the eyeballing boys speechless. I used to call them her ‘sexy librarian’ glasses because… well, because it’s EXACTLY what she looked like when she wore them most days. During most of junior and senior year, she often dressed in a quasi-business casual turned trendy teenager style. Pinstriped shirts buttoned halfway up, revealing the black or blue tank top underneath. Whichever color matched the stripes that day. Tight yet comfortable pants. Cardigans and shells. Short, but not too short, skirts. When she dressed up, she went all out.

I wish she wore her hair up more often when she dressed up. It drove me crazy every time.

It often looked to me like she was interviewing for some random white collar job, or at least what she would look like afterwards. The show was over, and she unbuttoned and let loose to relax. Justin once told me a couple times her outfits looked like stripper costumes. Lynn the dirty secretary. Hot for teacher Lynn. Of course, he never said this to her. He wasn’t bright, but he certainly wasn’t stupid.

The ‘sexy librarian’ glasses were very sharp. The lenses were narrower than any of her previous pairs. They were peculiar. I was unsure of how the shape (small rectangles, almost trapezoids) would look on her. I have gotten used to them, and they really work in my opinion. To be honest, I don’t remember the color of the frames or anything. The only part that ever clicks in my mind are the small lenses. They just barely covered her eyes, but it gave her face a different appearance. I’m not sure how, but they did.

And I adored it. I adored her. Her glasses.

I guess that leaves me. I don’t know. I guess my cut my hair less frequently than I used to? I don’t know. I’m sure everyone else who knows me will have a whole list of things that are different about me. I just don’t see anything. It’s probably just hard for someone to look at themselves and go, “Oh yeah, I don’t do this anymore.”

“I guess that’s something I don’t do as often as I used to.”

“Wow… maybe I am an asshole.”

As far as I’m concerned, I’m exactly the same. The same old, same old. The same old that yawns like a girl. The same old loudmouth drunk. The same old that gets distracted easily and doesn’t pay any attention to his friends.

And that was exactly what happened. By the time the entire table tried to capture my attention, I had lost myself in observation of the entire bar. It wasn’t that their company was boring or uninteresting; I just had a massive habit of distracting myself by watching all of my surroundings. Of course, I blamed it on however many beers I had at that point. It only seemed natural.

Rough guess, I would say the men outnumbered the women three to two that evening. The total number of people was probably close to a hundred or so, most of them not worth the curious eyes. But if you weed out particular people, you get to the real entertainments figures in the Spur. Exclude the hot shots by the basketball machine, working for a round on the house. Cross off the tables of gabby girls (or gabby girls with a pair of their male friends?) reminiscing over a Rum and Coke/Midori Sour/Long Island Iced Tea/whatever. The barflies talking over the afternoon football games with one another or even worse, watching the tiny TV behind the bartenders with Sportscenter running with no sound? I’m sorry, you are dismissed. The tiny girl flirting with the tall bartender every two or three minutes he moves over to her side of the counter? Close, but you do not make the cut.

To the three ladies dancing shamefully close, yet no less arousing for it, to one another, I apologize.

To the five guys unobtrusively circling the skinny brunette wandering to every corner of the room, you’re not quite what I’m looking for.

The bouncer in either the shirt two sizes too small or with arms two sizes too massive, you were so close. Tossing out four unruly hooligans out on their ass was beyond hilarious, but I’m afraid I am looking for something else.

What I was looking for was something very stereotypical, but the fact that there are people that actually use them. Pick up lines, and bad ones. Of the few I could hear from my corner of the booth, amidst the conversation I should have been participating in and the assorted noise of drunken tomfoolery, I found myself disappointed by the crap I heard by these random guys.

Those pants look good on you, but I bet they look better on my floor.

The world is so ugly to me, but you are SO beautiful to me.

Your name should be Campbell, because you are mm-mm-good!

And those were just my favorites. Oddly enough, a good majority of what I heard surprisingly worked. Oh, alcohol. You are ever the level playing ground.

There was this one guy, however, that failed every time he tried. EVERY time. He was on his third or fourth trip around the bar as Lynn and Elaine tried to catch my attention. And God bless him for trying, because at this point I was kind of rooting for him. Kind of.

He couldn’t have been very tall. About half a foot shorter than me, I would guess. He did appear to have about ten or fifteen years on me though. Scrawny and very feeble looking, his tiny frame could barely hold up the heather grey shirt and khaki pants he wore. A black woven belt yanked tight around his weight was either keeping his pants from falling to his ankles or crushing his hips into powder. His look alone probably turned off any of the girls he asked, but it didn’t stop him.

Heather Grey was relentless. He approached a short-haired blonde by the bar for the second or third time, and flexed. He FLEXED. Well, he tried to. From what I could tell, the muscles in his arms failed to move. Like, at all. His arms were so fucking bony; he may not even have muscles. He flailed his arms up in a geometrically perfect pair of right angles, as his shirt dangled from his ‘killer biceps’ (I swear I heard him say that as showed himself off to the clearly unimpressed woman.). They almost appeared to drip or fall off his arms. The blonde was trying her hardest to humor him, but with her two girlfriends cracking up in various snickers and giggles, she inevitably broke out in a huge guffaw.

This happened at approximately the same time as Lynn snapped her fingers loudly in front of my face and said, “Wake up.”

I shot up straight and my entire back touched the booth cushion. “Huh? I’m sorry, what?” I said,

Anna and Justin laughed in unison at me, in very typical fashion. I hadn’t thought of how long my mind, eyes, and attention wandered off. It must have been for quite a while, especially judging by Lynn’s reaction and response. Her head was at a slight tilt, with her face appearing concerned, almost worried. “You alright, Nick? Have you already had too much?” she asked,

I scoffed and shrugged my shoulders. “Please! It’s gonna take more than…”

I had to scan the table for bottles, and then count one I knew I drank. One, two, three, it seemed. My pause was just long enough to cause a round of laughter from each of them. Except for Lynn, who smirked at me the way she always did when I joked around. “…three drinks to put me down for the night.”

“At any rate, sorry about that. Got a little distracted is all.” I said,

I noticed Heather Grey had moved onto another table of girls. A pair of Korean girls with three of their best gal pals. They very well may have been twins. Heather turned his attention to them, and grandstanded before them as animated as I had seen him be all night.

Come to think of it, for as crazy and outlandish as he had slowly become, I don’t think I saw him even hold a beer, let alone drink one to warrant his behavior.

“Well, no harm done if you can answer a question for me,” Anna said, swirling the straw around in her second Razer.

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you join choir in school?”

The question felt random, but it probably had more to do with me not listening in on the conversation. “Why would I? I don’t sing.”

“Oh bullshit,” she argued, “I know you do more than just lip-sync in your car, Nick.”

With the volume to eleven and the windows rolled up, there wasn’t a reason not to sing while in my car. A closed vehicle with a working radio or CD player was the perfect studio. The ideal karaoke bar. So what if passer-by drivers saw me on the highway, talking or yelling to myself as far as they knew? Chances are, I made a line or two of some random conversation and then all was forgotten. Unless one of those passer-by drivers happened to be a friend of a friend.

“Yeah, I sing in my car. That’s it.”

“Lynn’s told me otherwise.”

I knew she’d say that. There was no use in glaring over at her, but I glared anyway. “I wasn’t aware it was a secret, Nick.” She said seamlessly in between swigs of her beer.

Excluding my foolish childhood years, when I would sing to anyone with a pulse or anyone who put me in a school recital, I sang in front of no one. Not my parents, not anymore at least. Not my brother or sister, not for any of the teachers or the students. Not for anyone. Anyone except Lynn. I’m not particularly happy with how I sound when I sing, but I’ve never let that stop me. She’s the only person I’ve ever been around that I never felt as though she was laughing at me when I did sing in front of her.

And besides, a lot of her pieces for choir were duets. Her partners were often unable to rehearse with her on a regular basis, so she usually asked me to fill in just so she could keep in practice. I figured why not? It was either at her place, when her family was usually still out doing whatever it was they did at the time or mine. The only person I ever had to worry about at home was Sabrina, and I could deal with her if I needed to.

Yeah, I never did say to her that I didn’t want anyone to know. That didn’t mean I wanted it out there. I suppose she only told Anna, but Anna has loose lips. I mean hell, she did blab in front of Justin and Elaine. Who’s to say who else she’d tell after them?

“I don’t think that’s very fair, Nick!” Anna exclaimed, immediately faking a tear or two, “You never sing for me! Do you hate me?”

She would’ve been pretty convincing with her cry if she didn’t break into a chuckle in a matter of moments after.

“I figured you had Justin for that sort of thing.”

“Please, you’ve heard in him choir practice. The boy has no range! That and I can’t stand Dave Matthews.”

He choked on the last swallow, and turned to Anna when he finished. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Oh, I meant no offense, sweetie. Seriously though, you should quit while you’re ahead. You do a horrible Dave Matthews.”

His eyes stayed on her for four or five seconds, obviously peeved but knowing she wasn’t busting his chops just to piss him off. All it did was make Anna snicker while the rest of us sat there with wicked smiles. He broke from the stare and swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp. Slamming the glass down hard, he looked out towards the bar and said, “Okay, I think I’m ready for a real drink.”

Everyone but Elaine laughed, as she directed his attention to her bottle, still a little over half full. He took it from her as she turned to me and said, “How about a little sample, Nick?”

“What?” I asked, but it occurred to me what she was asking immediately after saying that. “No. Not in here.”

“Oh, why not? What’s it matter if it just in front of friends? Sounds like you’re a pretty good singer, so what’s the big deal?”

That drop-dead body of hers turned in ways that told me she meant business. She would not give this up, and I knew this. “I’m not gonna make an ass out of myself in front of a hundred people.” I said,

“Dude, who gives a shit? This is a bar. Chances are the people here are here to either see someone make an ass of themselves or to make an ass of themselves. That way, you’ll just be like the rest of us. Quit being such a puss!”

“I bet I know the problem,” Anna cut in, “He just doesn’t know a decent song to perform!”

“No, Anna. Just stop it. I’m not fucking singing anything.”

It was though she didn’t even hear me. She broke into a couple lines as I demanded her to knock it off. “I got chills,” she sang, holding ‘chills’ an extra second or two just as Danny did in the god damned musical. “They’re multiplyin’!”

I insisted, “Anna, stop. Please stop. Just stop.”

It didn’t work, and I noticed a half dozen heads turn away from their drinking companions and towards her. Anna’s voice. That was one thing I forgot about. When she sang, she sang from deep within. Like VERY deep. As far into one’s diaphragm as one could possibly go without hurting themselves. Probably everyone in the fucking bar could hear her. To make things worse, she was two drinks in. The amount of alcohol she had affected the volume of her voice. And, when it came to drinking, Anna was a lightweight. She was bombed as far as I was concerned. The boom of her singing was concrete evidence of that.

I continued to try to get her to stop, and she continued to ignore me and sing a few more lines. It wasn’t until Elaine shouted, “Christ, Anna. You’ll wake the dead at this rate. Knock it off. Besides, I highly doubt he digs that crap.”

A half dozen heads became a dozen turned to us. Some people from far corners of the room were approaching us, just to see what the hell was going on. I watched each of them come closer, not pleased with the sudden attention we received. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I’m too occupied to see Anna frown, with everyone staring at us. Still, I barely hear her say, “Grease is a masterpiece. It’s not crap…”

“I know a song. We’ve sung it a hundred times together.”

If anything could have broken me away from the incoming lynch mob. This unruly mob, with their readied boos and insults. The proverbial rotten tomatoes and eggs. If anything would have turned me to something else, it was Lynn saying that. She sold me out. My eyes shot to her, and from what I could tell, so did everyone else’s at the table.

“Is that right?” Elaine said,

“Lynn, no. This is not the place.” I said, practically pleading.

“Oh, what’s the harm, Nick? It’ll be fun, I bet!”

Lynn smiled at me, knowing exactly what I was thinking. She betrayed me. Maybe it wasn’t that drastic, but she knew what she was doing. If she was for it, she knew I wouldn’t say no. I’m a sucker, and she knew it. She trapped me… I trapped myself. She sipped quickly and cleared her throat as I once more begged, “Not here, Lynn. Please, not here.”

“I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me,” she began,

I sighed. It was all I really could do. Anna’s eyes grew the moment she recognized the tune. “Oh, I love this song!”

Neither Justin nor Elaine had any idea what it was. Of course, I knew. Like Lynn said before, we had practiced this song many, many times. I tried to hold my ground by simply keeping my mouth shut. It didn’t work. She went on, “And if we go some place to dance, I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me,”

“Alright,” I tucked my hands by my legs and gave in, “you win.”

“And afterwards, we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two,”

Both Justin and Elaine laugh and cheer, but both are drowned out by Anna, who yelped and cried, “That’s the spirit, Nick!”

Lynn chuckled quickly and went into the next line. I joined in with her, and the line carried more with the two of us singing it, “And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like ‘I love you’,”

I noticed more people looking our way. However, it didn’t appear unruly. They were curious, and hopefully not annoyed.

Lynn said, just before the next line, “You come over the top,”

I can see it in your eyes you still despise the same old lines you heard the night before,

“And now me,”

We switch roles and I took the secondary vocal. Anna, much too excited over the matter, was whooping and cheering. By now, the bouncers have approached, but are simply monitoring us. The entire bar was watching.

And though it’s just a line to you, for me it’s true and never seemed so right before.

“I practice everyday to find some clever lines to say to make the meaning come true,” I continued. About mid-way through, I realize Lynn wasn’t accompanying me. For half a moment, literally a split second, I thought she left me out in the cold. I suddenly would have to carry this entire episode by myself. And I would’ve buckled. I would’ve stopped, with everybody glaring at me.

But right then and there, I saw Lynn hold her hand up to me. She wanted the next line on her own. I think I blushed in embarrassment for roughly a beat, and luckily I don’t think anyone noticed. Maybe Lynn, but I don’t know.

“But then I’ll think I’ll wait until the evening gets late and I’m alone with you,”

From what I could tell, the crowd was actually enjoying themselves. There were the majority of onlookers still thinking, ‘What the hell is going here?’, but some were admiring the performance. I noticed a handful of people, nearly all of them women that shot Heather Grey down at some point that evening, mouthing the words Lynn and I sang. Somewhere in the second or third row of gawkers was the head of some ignorant asshole. I couldn’t hear him, but by his lips I could tell that he was asking who I assumed was his girlfriend, “What song is that?”

Or something to that effect.

She told him, stretching up to his ear so he could hear her amidst the ruckus. He looked down at her, overly confused by the answer.

“Who the fuck is Frank Sinatra?”

Or something to that effect.

The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red and oh, the night’s so blue.

Lynn pushed her left hand out to the center of the table and winked at me jokingly. I knew what she had in mind. Always one to make a scene. I put my hand over hers, to which she instantly turned hers in order to grab mine. The rise it got out of everyone was rather predictable, but funny nonetheless. Justin bellowed in a laugh deep in his stomach. Elaine rolled her eyes, but I could tell she found the whole situation interesting at least. And there’s Anna, who I was convinced was absolutely trashed even if she only had two drinks. She shouted and carried on, and caused a rash of further hollering and excitement from the surrounding bystanders. Both Lynn and I nearly cracked up, but we held it together for the next line.

And then I go and spoil it all by sayin’ something stupid like, ‘I love you,’

Anna clapped her hands and hummed rhythmically, as though she were our personal instrumental. What surprised me more than that were the handful of people that accompanied her. A few people laughed at the scene. A few that weren’t either Justin or Elaine, although they too were very amused. The commotion had gotten so loud that I figured Lynn couldn’t hear me, so I said in hopes she could read my lips, “This was pretty cute,”

She looked at me with an unsure expression on her face, but it meant mostly that I should repeat myself. I did, and she just smiled at me and said, “I told you this would be fun, didn’t I?”

“I guess so, but let’s just never do this again.”

She giggled and broke her hand away from mine. Anna’s little number was almost done, so Lynn tucked her hands back under the table. “I think we’re up again,” She said,

The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red and oh, the night’s so blue. And then I go and spoil it all by sayin’ something stupid like, ‘I love you,’

I love you…

I love you…

I love you…

We were slowly drowned out as half the bar applauded and whooped at us. Lynn had turned to everyone looking at us to accept the audience’s appreciation.

“I love you,” I continued, not realizing she had already stopped.

Within moments, the group dispersed and returned to their tables or sections of counter to make their own shenanigans. Once the girls finished admiring Lynn’s voice (“That your boyfriend? He’s not too bad either.”), the guys were through with giving me shit (“Nice performance, Blue Eyes,” followed by a quick handshake or a tap to my shoulder with a closed fist.), and Elaine had coerced enough free drinks out of bystanders, the only person left by our booth was Heather Grey.

I saw him all around the Spur that evening. Except by us. I guess he realized he missed a few. He brushed at his shirt repeatedly until everyone had gone back to their own matter. Maybe he was agitated and uncomfortable or just itchy. Either way, Heather didn’t appear to enjoy being in the middle of such a large mob of people. Now that it was gone, I could see a gradual change in him. A return of the confidence I saw him project for the last few hours. He was collected, cool, and perhaps only in his mind, charming.

If anything, he grew back the brass balls he had been toting around all night.

Heather flashed his horrible smile at us, each tooth as yellow as corn and between dry, wrinkled lips. Those were details I fortunately missed when watching the guy from a distance. Details like those and the crook in his nose. How his glasses sat slanted on his face. The ripped left earlobe.

When Heather is across the way from my table, I don’t notice how his mess of hair has enough gray to place him in his late 30s at best. More like his mid-40s.

“That was a pretty amazing show you put on,” he said, directed at me for some odd reason,

I thanked him, but he had already turned his attention to Lynn. It made sense to me, as there was no way he came over to us to talk shop with me. “You have a pretty voice. It’s almost as pretty as your eyes,” he told her,

Heather’s voice, whiny and childish in tone but clearly aged, couldn’t in any fashion sell that line. I stopped myself from doing so, but I was positive at least Anna and Justin rolled their eyes.

“I’m Gordon, but for the sake of our conversation I am all yours,”

That time, I couldn’t help but laugh. Luckily, everyone else at the table reacted a little more boisterous than I did. We almost attracted a crowd yet again, but it ended only in the barflies turning their heads to us and then turning them away. Heather… I mean, Gordon didn’t seem to notice. “And you are?”

I don’t know how she managed to compose herself so quickly, as the rest of us were still cracking up, but Elaine immediately replied.

“She’s lover boy’s little companion. I don’t believe he appreciates you flirting with his lady.”

Anna and Justin burst out even louder in laughter as Lynn and myself immediately fell silent and glared over at her.

“Is that so?” Heather asked,

Elaine just nodded, not only in response to him but to answer Lynn and me as well, both of us sending her sharp stares asking the exact same question.

I sensed him sizing me up, and nearly instantly stiffen up. “My mistake, my fellow man. Didn’t mean to take away this lovely sight from you.”

“All is forgiven,” I said,

“I, on the other hand,” Elaine said, while primping herself ever so subtly, “am pleased to meet you and would like to get to know you a little better.”

“You what?” Everyone said,

“You what?” Everyone said, including Heather. He cleared his throat and continued, “I mean… is that so?”

“Absolutely, Gordon. Do me a quick favor before we finish our introductions, though.”

The brass balls melted away and it was clear to us all that Heather and melted right before us. Goo. Wet putty in Elaine’s hands. “Absolutely,”

“I am just parched. Would you be a dear and buy me a drink? It wouldn’t be fair to drink in front of my friends—“

“It’s done! Consider the next round on me!”

Our eyes grew and everyone beamed. Well, I didn’t. I kind of felt like I could have ruined the deal. I held a bottle with about a couple sips remaining inside. Gordon didn’t seem to notice. Elaine lightly pinched at his cheek, and lightly winced with the feel of oil and sweat from his half-shaven face on her fingers. “You are just a doll, Gordon!”

“And another thing,” she noted, “It must be really hot in here. You seem a little disheveled. Go and clean up your do a little bit,”

She ran the same fingers that touched his greasy face through the bush of bristles he called his hair. I couldn’t imagine how gross it was, but the looks of disgust and minor nausea that blinked in between the lovey-dovey faces she made at Heather gave me just a brief hint.

“How about you tidy up a little in the restroom? Y’know, freshen up a bit.”

Before Heather could say anything --and he would’ve in his state of shock and apparent victory-- Elaine stood up from her seat and spoke into his ear. I couldn’t quite tell, but I was fairly certain she wiped off her hand on her pant leg as she leaned over to Gordon.

“And wait there. I’ll knock on the door three times. When I do, we can talk in private. Sound good?”

At this point, all of us have no idea as to what the hell Elaine was plotting. I sat back and finished the last of my current bottle. We had the next one on the house, after all. Justin followed suit, but he opted to suck the leftovers out of all the empties we had accumulated. Lynn and Anna watched Elaine, their heads cocked to the side and their minds probably thinking, “What in the fuck are you doing?”

Gordon stepped back to look her in the eyes, and evidently was convinced by Elaine’s doe-eyes. He beamed at her, displaying that mouth of butter yellow kernels.

“I’ll have those drinks brought over shortly. I’ve gotta go for now, but I’ll talk to you all soon.”

Heather smiled again at Elaine, who tried to not look too repulsed by his dirty teeth. “And I’ll talk to you even sooner.”

We all knew it was a charade, but only then when she responded bluntly with, “Make sure you get Bud Lights. There’s five of us,” was it obvious.

I guess she could only fake that false infatuation for so long. Her voice was flat and fed up, that ruse must have taken a toll on her. Even with her cutting the act, Gordon just nodded and took to the bar. He began talking at the counter, motioning various things with his hands. He pointed to us, said something and held up an open palm in the bartender’s face.

He continued talking, and then ran his hands over that broom head of hair of his. He scuttled away in a sad, bullied shuffle. The bartender glanced over at us briefly, specifically at Elaine. With what Heather rambled on about to him, and then with a wink from Elaine, he knew exactly what had actually happened and laughed as he waved back to her. He turned around, and would have our free round to us shortly.

“Okay, what in the world was that?” Lynn finally asked,

“That was an act of charity,” Elaine said as she scraped any remaining essence of Heather’s face or hair off her hand on the table, “Trust me, honey. Gordon would’ve stuck around yapping at you until last call if you let him. Knowing you, you’d probably ask him to give us a ride home by night’s end.”

“He may be…”

“Creepy?” Elaine said,

“Weird?” Anna added,

“Odd?” Justin chimed in,

“A possible sex offender?” I replied,

She cleared her throat and finished, “He may be a little strange, but you didn’t have to lead him on like that! What about when he comes back? Now he’s just gonna be all over you instead.”

“He’s not coming back.”

We had every reason to believe Elaine. The five of us had only been old enough to drink for a few months, but already she had racked up enough visits into the local bars. The makeshift dance clubs, the pool halls, the juke joints, and of course the dime-a-dozen shitholes like the Spur. Between her first legal trip into a bar (and I can’t stress this more, just because she was just twenty-one didn’t mean she had no idea what the inside of most of the town’s bars looked like) and Thanksgiving, she will have been barhopping more than the rest of us will have for entire first year as legal drinking Americans.

In just the five or six months that she had caroused in the bars, she had gotten pretty familiar with regular creeps. She had a knack of getting friendly with all the bartenders and bouncers, so in exchange for a free Long Island here and there, they provided her with advice on how to avoid the freaks. One of those freaks was Heather Grey. Gordon. He was a pitiful fellow who made his rounds to each bar to make weak attempts at getting girls most likely half his age to sleep with him.

“I figure he’s at least forty, but I don’t know for sure. None of the bartenders or waitresses know for sure. I guess he doesn’t tell anyone. Odd, considering how he doesn’t really hide it, appearance-wise.” She said,

According to Elaine, Heather only gets as far as the flirt. It was no surprise to any of us that the hunt was the furthest he ever managed to get. Naturally, most girls were disturbed enough by his unwashed appearance (“Now that I think about it,” Elaine said, “Every time I’ve seen Gordon, he’s always wearing that same ratty shirt. I guess it’s possible that he has a closet full of them, but that doesn’t make it any less freaky.”). However, the repeated rejections never appeared to affect him. If anything, it made him even more determined.

Semi=short addition. It's ALMOST done. I mean it this time.

dusk_wip @ 2005-05-17T12:58:00

2005-05-17T18:58:54Z

Thanksgiving, 2003
-----

The weather was shit, which was a bit of a surprise if you consider recent history. The last three or four years were tame. In fact, they were some of the mildest Novembers I had ever seen. Any snow on the ground was usually from a minor snowstorm from the week before. By each of their respective Thanksgivings, the snow had become dirty slush collecting on the street corners. You couldn’t make decent snowballs with it. Well you could, but for the safety of others it was not recommended. Enough gravel and mud would have combined with the remains to make very dangerous and very painful winter ammunition. The temperatures were still quite cold, but if you dared to, you could go the whole afternoon without a jacket and be considerably comfortable. Not exactly T-shirt weather but if you wore a decent sweater, you’d be set for the day. Three years back had a sharp, brisk wind that blew the entire holiday weekend. Enough to keep most people in their homes for the Thursday, but still not enough to keep everyone home for the beginning of the big shopping period. Adventurous moms and grandmothers layered up like Himalayan Sherpas and braved the winds long enough to get themselves through the department store doors.

This year was a completely different animal. It was nasty as all hell. No wind, but there was plenty of snow. Plenty really understated it. It must have fell for days. From the Monday of the holiday week to just settling down by Turkey Day. My home managed a lovely five foot drift by the driveway. At least the snow remained pretty soft for the inevitable shoveling that was had. Even then, it involved me getting up at nine in the morning to shovel the cars free so that somebody could do last-minute ingredient hunting for the festive supper planned for the late afternoon. Lucky for my mom that a corner store was open for a few hours. Unlucky for me, as I had to drive through the poorly plowed roads to pick up what she needed.

The afternoon was pretty plain. I regained sensation to my fingers and toes while watching football games between teams I could care less about. My brother Gabe came home for the week (he fortunately came into town before the shows came in), so he spent majority of the day talking shop with my father. ‘Shop Talk’ being boring conversations involving the same shitty online game both of them played. Turned out good for me, as I took pride in joking and insulting them in their stupid chats about their brainless adventures slaying dragons and casting thunderbolts at one another. My sister Sabrina was unfortunate enough to get stuck with assisting my mom with most of the dinner preparation, but she found some time to break out some old board games. No one else would play her, so I wound up in a two hour marathon of Yahtzee, Trivial Pursuit, Clue, Life, and other that I can’t even begin to remember. She can get pretty fucking foul when she’s beaten and even worse when she’s beaten with absolute ease. I don’t remember knowing that many obscenities when I was fifteen.

“You motherfucking cheater! You only had a fucking Small Straight!” she yelled at me.

My father was paying just enough attention to tell her to ‘watch her fucking mouth’, but immediately went back into his explanation of how the economy of his game has vastly improved since they decided to nerf the high level arcane spells. Or something.

At least once five o’clock rolled around, things really picked up. Mom had just finished setting the table, every thanksgiving-themed platter and dish she had made its way out of the china cabinet and onto the table. The giant turkey platter. The turkey gravy boat. Four separate porcelain containers, each with god knows how many turkeys chasing one another around the bowls. They complimented the cranberries, yams, sliced ham, and green bean casserole quite well. Octagonal plates with elaborate cornucopias engraved into each corner. She sat a beanbag plush of ‘Gobble’ the Turkey next to its murdered brethren, as a sort of centerpiece. No one was really a fan of the damn thing, but every year my mom will say, “I want to find something a little fancier, but I never remember until it’s too late.”

By this year, she had forgotten six times. Maybe seven.

We try to entertain a few guests a year, but even with the snow falling like it was, we hosted more than we ever had. Coworkers from the hotel my mom worked at arrived at our door just before the top of the hour. Three Asian ladies, each shorter than the last that walked through the door. They had a habit of speaking a language I knew fuck all about. Embarrassing really, because it’s my mother’s native tongue. Shame on me for not learning anything. Like the last couple of times they visited, everyone just left them and my mom to their own devices on the corner seats while everyone else watched movies in the living room. One of my father’s ex-military friends came over at about a quarter past the hour. She had a long, somewhat of an archaic name, but I’ll be damned if I could recall it. No one called her by it, anyway. To any and everyone who knew her, she was ‘Duke’. I met her for the first time when I was twelve, and she was introduced to me as such. Duke worked for seven or eight years with my dead on the Air Force Base near our home before he retired. Before he left the service, he often commented how hard a worker she was. Since then, you can tell my dad had grown particularly annoyed of her. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t approve of her calling everyone in the house by whatever clever nickname she had come up with for each of us. If you catching him at just the right time, you will see him sigh dejectedly every time Duke would call him ‘Pops’. No one else seemed to mind, however. Not I (Nick-Nick). Not my mom (Moms). Not my sister (Breenie) or my brother (actually… I think he’s the only one that did receive a fancy alias. Poor him?)

Half past the hour brought all of Sabrina and Gabe’s friends.

A parade of bubbly freshmen girls trotted through the front door. It was though a fucking Old Navy commercial entered my house. Performance fleece. Pastel winter beanies. Padded snowboard jackets. Studded belts with trendy buckles that say things like “Princess”, “Spoiled”, and “Girls Rock”. Flared stonewash jeans. Only things missing were the low budget set decorations and Morgan Fairchild. Five of Breenie’s best friends piled into two cars and drove through the week’s accumulated mess with what I felt was the sole purpose of causing blood to seep from every orifice in my face. I wonder briefly why any of their parents would allow them to drive with the day as crap as it was. Their learner’s permits, in all likeliness, were freshly minted. I suppose they were either too rich to care if their Suburbans were at risk or too sleepy from their turkey intake to realized their vehicles were missing.

But once I saw Gabe welcome his buddies into the living room, I parted ways with the Tiger Beat party. He used to work at the Base Exchange, sort of a department store for military personnel. Majority of his coworkers were younger than him, military brats that needed a decent part-time job to go to after school. A couple others were the wives of airmen and sergeants just looking to get out of the house. Either way, most of Gabe’s people were people that I could converse with. Hell, the two guys he invited were about a year younger than me. I had a couple courses during my senior year with them. I don’t remember which ones exactly, but that may have been because of the fact I slept through most of high school.

They too were into that bullshit game Gabe and my dad played, so they could easily join on whatever topic there were in the middle of. I sat in on the conversation, in the hopes that either one of his friends would go off on a tangent and start talking about something else. Preferably about a game I have played or would want to. Unfortunately, both of them just rambled about the lotting policies of their guild (I suppose it was natural for my brother, his silly ass friends, and my dad to all play the game together) needing some sort of retooling and modifying. I sat bored and uninteresting, throwing a joke at Mark, the younger yet taller of Gabe’s friends, and his mullet whenever I had the chance. I didn’t even bother with the ladies he invited, as they just joined in on whatever important topics were being discussed by Mom and her housekeeping friends. At least that meant that more of their discussion would need to be in English, and I could understand what they were saying at long last.

By quarter till, everyone had had their fill on Thanksgiving dinner. Except for me. I didn’t feel like eating all that much. A couple slices of ham. A splatter of mashed potatoes. A slice of pumpkin pie. There would be plenty of time to eat later. Besides, I was waiting for the top of the hour.

At six, I had already grabbed my jacket and gloves. I sat on the loveseat and glanced out of the living room window every other minute. Nobody knew what I was waiting for, but nobody said anything. About five minutes into the hour, my mom finally asked me, “Where do you think you’re going?”

And almost as though to answer the question for me, someone rang the doorbell. Sabrina answered the door and yelled up the stairs, “Nick! You have people at the door.”

I would’ve asked who it was if I didn’t already know who it was. “Let them in.”

It was Lynn McCallen and a couple other friends from school. I knew the other two fairly well, but Lynn and I go way back. We were in the same fourth grade class together, but we didn’t really know each other until just after middle school. She was a mutual friend of a friend of Gabe’s, and we started hanging out a little more regularly until she headed off for college. She was only here during the holidays as part of her break from school. About a day or two before Thanksgiving, she had asked me if I wanted to hang out with her after all of my family festivities were done. No real plan, other than to bullshit and have a few drinks at The Spur. Naturally, I said yes. I hadn’t seen her in three years, so I welcomed any opportunity to catch up.

I waved at her friends and motioned them to sit down as I approached Lynn and hugged her. “Long time, no see.” I said,

It figured I wouldn’t say anything remarkable.

“Definitely,” she said as she stepped back and tapped my shoulder with a closed fist, “How have you been, Nick?”

“Can’t complain. Same old, same old. How’s school?”

Before she could answer, Mom called from the dining room. After everyone had a little to eat, her conversation circle gravitated to the dining room. The hotel ladies, Duke, and Gabe’s female coworkers. “Is that Lynn?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” She answered, “How are you, Mrs. Clarett?”

I stepped to Lynn’s side to allow my mother to hug her. “Just wonderful. Everything going well for you, I take it?”

“Oh yeah. Classes are going just fine.”

Mom turned to me. “You should’ve gone to college like she did, Nick.”

She never wastes an opportunity to tell me that I should have attended college once I got out of school. It’s not like I passed up college on purpose.

But anyway… I just rolled my eyes and watched Lynn chuckle at my expense. She smirked at me, and jabbed, “Yeah, Nick! What’s taking you?”

“I’m working on it.” I said with my hands stuffed in my pockets.

She giggled again at me and stuck her tongue out.

“So who are your friends?” Mom turned to them, “I don’t believe I’ve been properly introduced to you two yet.”

Lynn pointed at the girl in the Carolina blue jacket first. “This is Anna Clark,”

And then she pointed at the guy with the same haircut as my own. Only it he had a few more weeks of growth and was a lighter shade of brown. “And this is Justin Gray. They were in choir with me through school.”
“How nice! Pleased to meet both of you.” Mom said,

“Likewise.” Anna said with what I felt was an overproduced smile.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Clarett.” Justin nodded,

“How about a little dinner for the three of you then?”

“No, that’s okay. We’ve already eaten at Anna’s. I don’t think we could manage to eat anymore.” Lynn replied, and laughed as she continued. “Wouldn’t want to overdo, after all!”

“Very well then. Perhaps you’d like to stay for a couple movies then? Gabe picked up a few DVDs that we were going check out.”

“I don’t know about that. We were planning on heading out in a little—“ I announced, but Lynn cut me off.

“We can probably stay for one of them.”

“You sure?” I asked,

“Why not? Wouldn’t do us any good to go to the Spur at this time of day. It’s far too early.”

“We don’t have to pick up Elaine until 8:30, so we oughtta be good till then.” Anna added,

Mom smiled and nodded at both Lynn and Anna. “Perfect then! Go ahead and have a seat, and I’ll have Gabe start the first one.”

She left the living room for the dining room, immediately returning to conversation with one of her housekeeping friends. Lynn and I sat back on the couch behind us. I glared at her, not pleased that we had to stick around longer than I wanted. I just wanted to get out of the house already. She knew it, and that’s probably why agreed to stay here for a little longer. Although, she did pretend at first to not know why I stared at her.

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? You damn near well know what!” I told her,

She just giggled at me and leaned back on the couch. “Oh, what’s a couple hours? Besides, if we didn’t kill a little time here, we’d have to do so elsewhere.”

“I would’ve preferred elsewhere.”

Gabe switched channels on the TV and loaded the DVD into the player. I honestly don’t recall the movie, but knowing his tastes, it probably was whatever blockbuster action flick was big during the summer. All of Sabrina’s pals sat cross legged a few feet in front of the projection TV with her smack in the middle. My dad and Gabe’s cronies sat around the computer desk that separated the dining area from the living room. Duke, Mom, and the rest of the ladies paid no attention to the loading film. They just continued blabbing on about whatever.

“Hang in there, kiddo. We have to pick up Elaine at 8:30, so we’ll be out by then.”

Lynn sprawled her arms over as much of the back of the couch and rested her head on the rear cushion. She winked at me and continued, “You can sweat it out until then, right?”

I spent enough time at home that day, so I would’ve preferred to leave right then and there. Instead I sat back, resting my neck and the back of my head on the palm of her right hand. I turned to her and half-smirked.

“I guess I can manage.”

Anna and Justin, eyeing the entire exchange between Lynn and me, chimed in with a simultaneous “Awwwww…” I couldn’t tell if Lynn’s full toothed smiled was caused by them or myself, but either way I complimented hers with my own. She swung her left hand over her body and pushed her pointer finger onto the center of my nose. “Shut up and let’s watch the movie.”

In theory, it was a fairly decent suggestion. We even kept quiet for the first six or seven minutes, but as the night would have it, we rambled on through the remaining presentation. It was to be expected between a couple friends who hadn’t talked to each other in a few months. Especially since she and I talked a lot. Like a whole lot. I’m banned from making long distance phone calls at home because of the many, many 2 to 3 hour phone calls I had with her. I would’ve gotten a cell phone to talk to her if…

Well, if I wasn’t so lazy and could have bothered to get off my ass and actually go purchase one.

So we talked, and at length. Just like we always have. Not just by phone call, we had a knack of talking about damn near everything in every possible fashion. Before she moved off for college, we talked nonstop. Often after school, before her choir practices. We worked at the same place for a year or two, and on the off chance we had lunch breaks at the same time, we would bullshit. After the third or fourth phone bill totaling over two hundred dollars, we took our talks over instant message programs on the internet. Practically the same, but now with silly emoticons and stupid web acronyms.

Through the first act, we went over the comings and goings of our lives. School had been going swimmingly for her. She complained of the morning classes she had, but less for the difficulty of the courses and more for the fact that it was necessary for her to wake up at seven in the morning so she would have enough time to get ready. Lynn had a semi-regular study group, mostly of the girls that lived on the same floor of her dorm room. However, she was seeing any drastic change in her class score. It may have had to do with how they, more often than not, would distract themselves with whatever was on their minds. “Their attention spans are like this big,” she said, measuring roughly an inch with her thumb and finger,

And of course, she was never the cause of any study derailments.

And then, despite how much I loathed discussing it, we talked about what I have been doing. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t done anything since the both of us graduated high school. My three years out were as eventful as they could be. It’s just when I think of all the shit I’ve done in three years, and then I look at what Lynn has accomplished… I really cannot compare. She’s in the process of completing her third year of college in the same flying color she managed the two years before. That coming summer, she’ll be interning at a law firm twenty minutes from her dorm. And me? I’ve maintained the same job for the last three years after toiling through four jobs in two years before school. I’ve achieved a wage over ten dollars, thanks to all the schmoozing I did to managers, co-workers, and customers.

Whoopty fucking do.

And every time I get to explaining how I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, I am interrogated with the same questions. I promptly respond with the same answers. This is not just with Lynn. This goes with every instance this comes up when my mom asks. When my dad asks. When my sister asks when she pretends to be concerned.

Yes, I’m going to go college.

No, I haven’t saved enough money for it.

I understand I shouldn’t have waited as long as I have.

Don’t worry; I will eventually go to college. Within the year, I hope.

And it’s not like I’m trying to avoid it. I don’t even really remember why I didn’t try to attend school. I just didn’t. Maybe next year, I thought. And next year went on to the year after. And then the year after that, and there I was, explaining myself again. I fucking hate going over it each time. It reminds of truly little I’ve managed to do with myself.

No offense to Lynn, because she had zero idea how much I dislike talking about it, but I wish she quit after I went through my typical routine. Unfortunately, she was far nosier than anyone in my family was and will be about the school issue. She meant well, but all she managed to do with her line of questioning was destroy any semblance of a good mood that I once had. However, I am not a party pooper. I was not about to burst anyone’s bubbles, particularly because she had her friends with her, and declare that I did not want to go. So the movie ended and 8 o’clock rolled around, and I informed my parents I would be heading out with Lynn and company. Everyone said their goodbyes and I rode in the passenger side of Lynn’s car. I didn’t say anything other than when either Anna or Justin asked typical small talk questions. I was annoyed enough. I figured I could’ve only made it worse if I said anything.

Although my mood was going to get worse. I just didn’t know it yet. It was just a bar, how could I have known?

dusk_wip @ 2005-05-17T12:57:00

2005-05-17T18:57:44Z

Now-ish
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I decided to look back at everything I’ve done in the last year and a half. Every conversation. Every first impression. Every second glance. Each time I fumbled words and looked stupid in front of people I knew. The one time (well, maybe there were two or three) I said something incredibly brilliant.

Family related? Counted those. Cups of coffee with Mom approached the high hundreds. I estimated that my father pretended to listen to me bitch and complain about whatever was bothering me a dozen times every couple of months. There were plenty of fights, but most were shouting matches. I had a few gems with my sister. A few more with my parents, I’m sorry to say. There were a couple episodes of heavy shoving between myself and my brother. I punched him in the teeth once. Not enough to do anything besides make his canines bleed, but either way I did hit him. Although, now that I think about it, it may have happened before the time in question. I dunno, times runs together sometimes. That’s beside the point, however.

The coffee talks with old school hangabouts? Those are in.

Cigarette breaks with co-workers. Well, their cigarette breaks. I don’t smoke. I learned quite some time ago smoker were often the most conversational people I could meet in a span of a day. At least when they’re forced to hang out of the emergency exits of the places they work at. I suppose there’s nothing really else you can do in between drags. I can deal with second-hand smoke for a couple minutes if somebody has a silly ass story to tell.

Some high school kid found the need to hang his out of the passenger window of a stationwagon and point it in my direction. I believe it was around Homecoming week last year. His friends crowded the rest of the car and screamed, “WHOOOOOO!” at me and every other bystander walking that particular avenue.

All that, much more, and the unfortunate night where I threw up in my best friend’s lap. It’s been looked at, reflected upon, and considered for the current status of myself. And the end result? What did eighteen months of my life tell me?

I am a raging vagina.

Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself, but if you look back at everything I’ve done since November of ’03, you may think the same. But what, Nick? What would cause you to say such horrible things about yourself? A fucking piece of paper, that’s what.

My room is dull and boring, but I can figure where everything is in relation to me lying down spread-eagle on my bed. Looking straight up, I see the popcorn-flaked ceiling. I think I’ve spent many hours staring at it, identifying the imaginary creatures the odd textures form. Most times, I would just think about what to think about. Barenaked Ladies could sue me, but I’d like to think they find it more as respectful borrowing. Anyway, sit straight up and directly in front of me is my bedroom door and the dresser. There’s the “Alien With An Attitude” bumper sticker aligned top and center on the door. Don’t ask me, I didn’t put it there. Before it became my room, it belonged to my brother. He hasn’t lived here for about 2 or 3 years, but I can’t be asked to remove the damn thing. IN fact, most of his fucking posters and shit are still up. The gigantic Japanese robosoldiers fighting one another with pink and light blue laser swords and clusters of fifty or more missiles on a 15” by 22” backdrop of some unknown sector of space above the door. The cloth wallscroll of a quirky high school girl, a middle school boy with a jock strap on his head, and a robot with a small TV for a head standing in very dramatic poses before a setting sky (although I must admit, I do kinda like that one). Foot-tall bobbleheads of big breasted anime girls. The cardboard Yoda. Deck of cards for some silly ass game he played through most of his time in school.

They haven’t seen time out of their boxes for years, but they do, when set properly on my dresser, make a handy place to keep my wallet, car keys, and whatever crap I find in my pockets at the end of each day. Change goes in the big green jar on the left side of the drawers. My dad picked it up, along with other handy table pieces and trinkets when he spent time overseas. It’s chipped and not nearly as pristine as it once was, but it can hold hundreds of dollars in change and that’s all the counts.

And there it is, fold neatly and leaning against the jug of quarters and nickels. That fucking piece of paper.

So what’s so special about it? It’s a standard sized sheet of college ruled paper. There’s only a few things written on it. Six lines in my crappy handwriting. Not a whole lot, but it’s been the focus of my last year and a half. This paper has been the reason why I’ve come to the realization of how pitiful I am. Perhaps the thought of a man letting something as trivial as something written over a year ago bother him is evidence enough of my haplessness. Sometimes, you have to learn things the hard way. I’m very stubborn in that regard.

I suppose I should explain what is written on it. Where should I begin, really? Before I go on about when I wrote it, it is probably good to know where the idea of this sheet came from. I firmly believe that inspiration comes at its best when you’re at your lowest of lows. The best ideas come from the worst times of your life. For me, I found the finest time of the year to feel the worst I had felt in ages. Thanksgiving Day, 2003. Happy Holidays.