Well-Behaved Monsters: chapter 43

By jasonmcgathey | Jason McGathey | 25 Nov 2025

Amid this flurry of activity, some previous rituals have fallen by the wayside. First and foremost, none of us have visited Triads Lounge in weeks, which has probably left an asteroid sized crater in their expected revenue. Pete has still never brought his girlfriend Kathy around — then again, who can blame him — and the likes of Phil, Robby and Aaron are suddenly not glimpsed in over a month. Though I would have not so long ago characterized Joe as my closest friend, even he is threatening to fall into that abyss. Nearly that much time has passed since my last night out drinking with him and Shoniqua and Maggie, after all, while Dylan has barely interacted with that whole crew, period. And if I didn’t work with Marvin, our interactions would closely resemble a flatline as well.

Many of these points converge during a planned group outing, which at this stage has already begun to feel like a heavily orchestrated playdate, our schedules bandied around and ironed out, even though we are mostly all just in our mid-twenties, none are married, and some not yet out of college. And this is merely for a regular old Saturday night out at Triads, one that’s likely only happening in the first place because this is shockingly somehow already Christmas break, mere days after the holiday itself, otherwise half these people would probably claim they were too busy.

A regular outing, yet exceptional enough to some extent that I’m taking it more seriously than usual. As much as someone can say this, anyway, while keeping a straight face, as he has dressed as some character from the 1800s. Inspired by this gold plated time piece that my grandfather has given me for Christmas — which he once used, as a wee chap himself — this unexpectedly spurs the next costume laden twist, albeit one even Dylan chuckles at and fails to pursue. He doesn’t have much to say about it, is only breezing through the house quickly himself, to hastily get ready, tasked for some reason not only with picking up his sister Cassie but then swinging by to get Joe as well. So it’s possible this is time crunch related and not a total dismissal.

But in a nutshell, if the whole Boot Hill gunslinger getup hadn’t quite worked for us, this latest one evokes a similar era in slightly less ridiculous fashion. This is what I’m telling myself, anyway. As in, not so much the dusty chapped cowpoke riding a horse into town at high noon, but more the mining town banker instead. What this means is dark brown corduroy pants, shiny dress shoes to match, and a thin dark green vest atop a white dress shirt, the most shocking element of which is that I already possessed all these items and had to purchase nothing. Further accented by gold in the form of my round, seldom worn, metal frame glasses, and then this time piece, which is clipped to a belt loop, chain dangling at my left hip, with the device itself dropped into that front pants pocket. Assuming I am not extracting the time piece to consult the hour, that is, for it truly is a splendid accessory, its gold plated flip open top engraved with a striking image of a bald eagle. And therefore the urge to gaze upon it, aye, ’tis a strong one indeed.

My appearance tonight features another strange accoutrement, too, though accidental as it is mysterious. Yesterday I went to the barber and somehow at one juncture his electrical razor left a burn mark on my neck, which has never happened before, whether trimming up myself or paying someone else to do it. Though stinging for a second at the time, I don’t think anything else about it until arriving at work this morning…at which point various people begin razzing me about what looks like a small hickey.

“What you got there, cap’n?” Marvin even asks, grinning slyly, the first moment I see him. By this point, I’ve already heard it from a couple others and stroll down to the restroom to have a look myself.

“Eh, I don’t know, that happened at the barber shop yesterday. His electric razor must have hit me funny.”

“Mmm hmm,” Marvin says, with a knowing smirk, before he walks away.

Once again I have somehow beaten most of our party in arriving here at Triads, despite learning about it damn near last, and in this instance even expending considerable time and mental effort in assembling my outfit for once. Marvin has met me here, at least, but we are initially the only ones, at least until Shoniqua shows up with Maggie and some other girl I’ve never even seen before. We are simply standing, beers in hand, within arm’s reach of the bar, but these ladies decide to commandeer a table in the middle of the room instead. As we’re doing so, Shoniqua stands near me ordering a drink.

“So…!” she says, beaming over at me with curious energy of the someone told me a rumor variety, which I’m pretty sure is going to be about that threesome with Debbie, “I heard last time we were here, you were putting the moves on Maggie? You invited her to come home with you?”

“What!?” I somewhat shriek, surprised by this on a couple different levels, “no. Oh no. No no no no no. That’s not what happened at all. If anything, I would say it was the other way around.”

Shoniqua roars with laughter, her top half bending slightly backward as she brings her hands together. Looks over at me as though considering this as now the all-time funniest joke she’s ever heard and can’t believe I’m keeping a straight face. Then, receiving her drink, saunters over to the table.

I mean, I get it and everything, and will in time understand even more about the Maggie mindset. This must surely relate to that weird convolution at the end of the night, me mentioning Captain Morgan and then Maggie twisting that around somehow as an invite. That is clearly something she has told herself in order to feel wanted, further bolstered by passing it around. With Shoniqua’s papal benediction merely the cherry on top. But the thing is, for the first handful of months that I knew her, Shoniqua was blatantly trying to bring Maggie and me together. If I were even remotely interested, I would have obviously just made some sort of move then. Or even not have done much of anything, merely gone along with whatever Shoniqua was concocting.

The major issue remains Maggie’s personality, that there’s a zero point zero zero zero percent chance you could hook up with this chick without her becoming majorly attached. A scenario I cannot run away from any faster, as anyone who really knows me will attest. And she’s not doing herself any added favors with antics such as this.

But, I’ll find a way to wedge my foot in and reopen that conversation, to set the record straight. Right now, trying to decide exactly how to handle this finds me stalling a bit, looking around the room while sipping my beer, although I do feel like a dork standing here by myself and eventually decide to just join them. Eventually, I find an abrupt entry point to introduce this topic.

“What’s this about you telling Shoniqua I was trying to go home with you? Or bring you home with me, whatever?”

We are configured in a U around this table that should seat eight, with Shoniqua at the far end, Maggie across from her, then this Alice chick who is apparently Maggie’s cousin, and Marvin next to her. I’m directly across from Marvin, which creates a somewhat awkward empty chair between me and Shoniqua, though I’ve explained this away as assuming Joe would want that.

Unable to conjure up anything smoother, I just blurted this out during a pause, which feels like shouting from this distance. Maggie smiles mischievously, eyebrows shooting up, regarding me only briefly before looking at Shoniqua instead. “Well, I mean, you gotta admit that was pretty weird. I wasn’t sure what you were getting at. And then,” she chortles haughtily, “you called to invite me to that Tool show!”

“Well yeah, because you pretty much begged us to get you a ticket! Remember that? You were jumping up and down and clapping your hands, oh, take me! Take me! Please take me! And made us promise to take you.”

“I don’t know, I’m just like, why is this guy calling me? That was really strange too…”

“Well, whatever. I actually called Joe first, asking him if he would make sure you were serious, or if we should get more. But he said he was too busy and asked me if I could just do it.”

These are just additional examples of things that have driven me bonkers about Maggie, or even that duo acting in concert, enough to where my caution flags have long since changed to a full stop. Something tells me it would be a huge mistake to get mixed up with this chick, moderately attractive though she is. And this latest conversation hasn’t changed that outlook any. Meanwhile, this poor Alice girl, who appears somewhat younger and whom I’ve only been briefly introduced to, nothing more, sits in the middle of the crossfire, wearing a weak smile and scared little mouse face, as silence descends over all.

Fortunately, though I wasn’t even aware he was in the mix for tonight, Pete shows up right after this. Sliding into the seat next to me, he nods at the ladies, shakes mine and Marvin’s hands. And then shortly hereafter, the final expected trio of Dylan, Joe and Cassie arrive, requiring us to locate one additional chair, at least until we splinter into other parts of the bar.

As expected, Joe slides into the chair to the right of me. He’s just gotten off work and is dressed sharply in a short sleeved dress shirt, dark slacks and a tie. Something about the seriousness of this uniform — as if my own ridiculous getup doesn’t provide enough contrast on its own — strikes an unexpected chord, making me somehow realize for the first time how the two of us are plainly moving in totally different directions. I’m well aware that many consider me a joke, and though they might experience a profound paradigm shift if discovering what I make, even so, it isn’t as though I would proudly wear my meat cutting getup into public as a badge of honor. I just don’t care enough about it. This isn’t my identity and, though taking pride in one’s work is inevitable, it’s otherwise just a means of paying the bills. Whereas with Joe, this is who is he now, he has a serious, well-paying job on the horizon, is in training to get his pilot’s license. I would imagine he’s got the pressure of a serious partner spurring him in this direction as well, but still, he is wholly invested in his own vocation, often thinks about and discusses little else. And rightly so, perhaps, yet I can’t even picture what job would ever make me feel that way.

“I love what I’m doing,” he tells me, following my simple inquiry, asking him how things are going. “I wouldn’t mind working there for the rest of my life.”

“You’re talking crazy, now,” I reply.

“I’m serious,” he chuckles, adds, “once I get my license, I can totally see myself doing that until I keel over and die. Or they make me stop.”

It isn’t just the degrees of seriousness with which we take our jobs, though. While thinking ourselves immune to the timeworn scourge of friends pulling apart, that particular bill collector is coming for us soon, for any number of other reasons. We are among the next households on his little clipboard. Pete has already begun counting down the days before he graduates college, and then moves south, hopefully with his current girlfriend that he’s wisely kept at arm’s length from the rest of us. Dylan, despite having already finished school and entrenching himself in a secure state job, is talking about possibly joining him down there.

But our chosen means of paying the rent are not the only ingredient clouding this picture, for where we’re all headed. One recent day at work I was thinking that us guys in our mid to late twenties, we are in a perfect spot right now regarding the ladies. In many respects, actually, but specifically pondering the ladies. Watching a couple of real life mother-daughter specimens within our store, I was thinking that we’re in this magical zone where the girls in their late teens and early twenties still look good to us, and are attainable…but their moms also check those boxes now.

So those are credits on our ledger, a positive to rally around for however long that lasts. On the expense tab, the depreciating assets we are also saddled with, the spotlights above the bar hit Joe’s face just right, at one moment shortly after we’ve concluding this discussion, to where I turn sideways and recoil in horror. He’s talking to Shoniqua, Maggie, and Alice at present, is no longer looking my way or devoting attention to our topics, and I can see he’s got a giant network of wrinkles going every which way around his left eye. This, coupled with the suddenly serious turn his comments have taken, fills me with a shudder, wondering what the hell is happening to us, and will continue to transpire across an even greater scale.

And it’s obviously not just Joe. Dylan is perpetually somewhat on edge, and is going prematurely grey to some extent, whether as a coincidence or result. I probably don’t rank among the most stressed out individuals in our group, or anywhere near it, and therefore maybe the wrinkles are not a problem, and I know that the grey is thus far not. Yet the hair up top is getting steadily thinner, a condition that Pete also shares. Although, and maybe this is just the positive spin guru within me leaping into action, I am admittedly somewhat relieved by this prospect — my haircuts have looked mostly stupid throughout the years anyway, and while I’ve tried the shaved head look, have not necessarily embraced it, it won’t bother me to reach that point where I have no other choice.

“Barry Bonds acts gay,” Joe abruptly says to me, a welcome diversion from this rare morbid morass I’ve stumbled into.

Alright, now this is more like it. The Joe I am accustomed to, a subject more in keeping with our lifelong trends. When I glance over at him with a perplexed grin, he nods upward in the other direction, toward a TV screen mounted above the bar. And I turn in that direction as well, where ESPN is airing a montage of old clips featuring the famed Giants slugger.

“Wha-ha-hat?” I question with a laugh.

“I mean, I know he’s got a wife and family and all that, but he does — he acts gay!”

“Okay, now you really are talking crazy,” I tell him.

Except just then, the next segment depicts Barry sitting in front of his locker after a game, a dozen or so microphones jammed into his face. Behind those he is smiling broadly as he speaks to these reporters, while wearing a red turtleneck sweater and a ton of bright gold jewelry dangling everywhere. We have no idea what Bonds was saying in this archived piece, but, I have to admit, if this were some random stranger on the evening news, I would probably guess that he…is bursting with fruit flavor.

“Uh…maybe you got a point,” I say.

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