That’s my take on the situation, too, that a few drinks might help the situation. Regarding Big Phil’s assertion about the impact of drugs, eh, not so much, for it seems mighty obvious how that’s working out. A radio is just barely audible in his room most of the time, and his truck is here, so it’s a safe bet he’s present, an identical state for umpteen consecutive days and nights now. However, this is precisely the current dilemma. If I had to chart his trajectory, though unconfirmed, I would theorize it went from him driving around buying drugs with that Jen chick, to him driving around buying drugs without that Jen chick, to him just lying around in his room all day doing drugs.
So with Joe mostly asea in his early relationship tour of duty, and Pete, despite his own girlfriend, as always good for exactly one night a week of subdued beers with us fellows at some chill bar, Dylan has turned into almost a roommate by proxy, my default comrade for the more outrageous outings. He and I were always the only two getting seriously behind these prop based shenanigans anyway. Of which the latest Pardners outing is long overdue, one which finds him dropping by late afternoon, having already been given a key to the place, before I’m even home from work.
A somewhat strange scene awaits me as I do, however, for in opening the front door, I am greeted by my first Phil sighting in over a week. What’s disturbing though is that he is in the living room, technically, albeit behind the front door after I swing it open — as in, wedged in the sliver of land between the door and the wall, peeking around the corner at me. Laughing maniacally and, I must admit, looking a little green around the gills.
“I’m starting to worry about Phil,” Dylan tells me, from the kitchen, long after the subject has fled upstairs without a word said to me, “he’s acting weird.”
“I think he’s on drugs. Although I’m not sure what, exactly. But that’s the first time I’ve actually seen him in I don’t know how long.”
With unexpected, unimaginable swiftness, Dylan soon glides from my proxy roommate into a real one. Two days later, I return from work and immediately notice that Phil’s living room stereo is missing. Further investigation reveals that the washer and dryer, which were his, are absent also, and that upstairs, his entire bedroom has been gutted. Once I manage to track him down, a few days farther down the road, from his parents’ house where he has temporarily gone to regroup and get better, he is effusive and apologetic, though I insist I really don’t care about the money or anything, I’m only hoping he is able to get straightened out.
Dylan was already contemplating a move like this, and the vacancy gives him all the impetus he needs. He is fully moved in before the month is even finished. Then the next weekend arrives and we are heading out in his truck to — where else — our favorite hitching post, Pardners, to celebrate, having by now adopted a much more streamlined version of the cowboy gear, which only really involves the shirt and the pants. Except that at the last minute he decides to throw on his off-brand Stetson, which does act as a good luck charm, at least for tonight.
The blonde in the white cowgirl hat is singing here again…except tonight she has inexplicably either forgotten or just decided not to wear her trademark lid. She has a pleasant if somewhat unremarkable singing voice, and also picks songs that mostly range from solid to non-terrible. When she happens to drift near us, sitting at the bar in our usual karaoke judging chairs, we tell her that she sounds great, as she introduces herself as Ronda.
“Here, you need to wear mine, since you forgot yours,” Dylan tells her, slapping his hat atop her head.
Once again singing what is apparently her personal theme, Nobody, it becomes borderline surreal to watch her doing so while wearing this joke of a prop, this visual, palpable extension of our latest kooky pickup scheme. A sight made infinitely more authentic by her petite cowgirl boots, the flannel shirt and tight jeans she fleshes out all too well. And then when Ronda returns, as this night is drawing to a close, she doesn’t just hand his hat back to him, she flops down into the next seat. Dylan, perhaps emboldened a smidge by the rum and Cokes he’s been pounding, not to mention his success up to this point, playfully suggests she ride back to the apartment with us.
“Sorry, I don’t come home with guys the first time I meet them,” Ronda says.
Except then she does just that. Despite not coming off as a slut, an impression enhanced in that we haven’t seen her with any other dudes during our previous visits, half an hour later she’s squeezing into the middle of Dylan’s truck cab between us. After which almost immediately heads upstairs with him, into his room, where he winds up banging her.
Ronda is not just a slightly chubby blonde who looks amazing in jeans, she has a smooth, pure white, unblemished face, too, bracing blue eyes, and overall I’m mighty impressed by his score. It also demonstrates for the first time, unless maybe counting Helena unknowingly glimpsing us in such, an actual definitive success with this frontier horseshit. For his part, Dylan is also grateful to have physically moved into this apartment, because if forced to pull out the couch bed or something, or suggest she drive clear up to his old place, then this possibly doesn’t happen. When he returns from driving her home the next morning, then, it’s only natural that we compare notes, while he offers me a play-by-play recap, and we discuss its potential ramifications.
“The only thing I didn’t like…well, I guess I should say it sucks but in a way I kinda like it, too,” he laments, “is that she insisted I wear a rubber. It’s like, it’s cool and everything…but at the same time, God I hate that.”
I know exactly what he means, and concur with him. We are in agreement that this concept of rampant STDs is mighty overblown. Or maybe these things just move in cycles, and we happen to find ourselves in a fortuitous one. Whatever the case, almost nobody ever requests a condom, as both sides equally hate it, yet nobody ever seems to come down with anything, either. For that matter, the pullout method is alive and well, too, and thus far an effective birth control method for all parties involved.
This could be the reason he is lukewarm on whether he’ll hook up with Ronda again, I’m not sure. No specifics are ever given, and it’s unclear which side this originates from, yet their encounter will prove to be a one and done.
I consider Phil the first casualty this apartment, if not this broad banner of concepts we are bandying about as a whole, has produced. And in that respect it’s arguable that this cowboy gear is one as well, another body churned through, along this path toward enlightenment. For although we discuss wearing the cowboy getups to totally normal bars, neither of us ever do. We just can’t bring ourselves to take that dramatic final step, the equivalent of barging through swinging saloon doors with six shooter holsters on your hips and both hands at the ready. And so these costumes are soon chucked aside, as Dylan and I have developed a fresh new angle we wish to pursue.
In other news: order the complete novel from my official site and save a few bucks, on the exact same versions, versus what the big mean corporate ogres at Amazon are charging:
Well-Behaved Monsters paperback
Thanks and have a great week!
