Our antics have us feeling bulletproof. With only the landline that we have a policy of never answering, forcing someone to leave a message — or else call and call and call and then leave a message. On our old school machine with the volume cranked up, so that we can hear from anywhere in the house. One which we are confident enough to continue terrorizing with increasingly zany greeting recordings, like where I claim this is the Ohio Department of Transportation that they have reached, and reciting our business hours, in unimpeachably straight, deadpan fashion. Or another personal favorite, which Dylan and I formulate while brainstorming in a grocery store, picking up a few late night snacks, which finds us doing nothing more but recreating this segment near the beginning of Frank Zappa’s Return of the Son of Monster Magnet — a two tone whistle followed by a scream, then another instance of the same. And that’s it, nothing else said. Please respond with your opinion of this and/or us at the beep, thank ye kindly.
We even, however accidentally, develop this ritual for going through the messages, at least when it’s both of us returning to the house at the same time — like for example after closing time at the bars. One night, we arrive at this magical oasis once more, this hallowed dais of a simple little wooden stand in our kitchen, where the eternally inextinguishable resource of the phone and the answering machine await, discovering that as almost always, the little red light is blinking and another burst of tantalizing missives await. Spying a guitar pick that was for whatever reason casually set aside on the stand, Dylan grabs it and, launching into a Townsend windmill action with his strumming arm, brings the pick down on the PLAY button. At which point I improvise some vocals.
“Teenage delete-laaaaaaaand,” I warble, doing my best approximation of a Roger Daltry high-pitched croon. And from this point forward, this becomes our tradition.
“You would have to be drunk to think that’s funny,” is Pete Ravage’s take on the situation, when we tell him about it later.
I see where he might believe that and all, but no, there are plenty other times where I find this funny, too. Like just thinking about it at work, for starters, which always brings a smile to my face if not a chuckle frothing at the lips. And why not? I do consider us hilarious, I’ll be the first to admit. The farther we pull away from these females, the more they are hunting us down, and it’s a number that ever so steadily grows over time. Dylan has had still more, fleetingly brief playthings, as have I, ones who are blips that don’t even rate a mention, some of which were even fairly hot. His latest, for example, is this somewhat large yet facially cute blonde, a total moped to cite some outdated parlance, named Jessie. When on the outs with Miranda, he has Jessie stop by and blow him, nothing more — they’ve never slept together, and Dylan admits he kind of likes the oddity of this situation.
I continue to bang the nympho cougar Tina when I can, although this situation is “compromised” in that it’s hard to track her down. Yet these efforts merely bolster our theories about the merits in pulling away. Though calling her once, and even swinging by her apartment unannounced at 2am the exact same number of times, neither of these approaches worked. She answered the phone in the first instance, was purring and pleasant, but admitted to already having company. On the uninvited pop-in, she wasn’t even home, likely for similar reasons. And she never dials my number at all. Therefore we are literally down to my bumping into her at Triads every once in a great while, at which point it is on again. Though initially finding the arrangement somewhat irksome, I later course correct and realize, wait a second, dude, are you crazy? Is this not fucking ideal?
Our dreams of an effortless stable are panning out even better than we envisioned. The only random manure blemishes in this otherwise pristine straw concern Dylan’s efforts with Miranda. Their time together thus far has been rocky, to say the least. It’s astounding to me that he has hung in here this long, considering the degree to which she has him in knots. Trying to come to grips with her drug consumption and manic lifestyle, vexed beyond belief during the patches where she’s blowing him off.
One afternoon I arrive home from work and am cracking open the day’s first ice cold beer when he tells me, “well, Miranda stopped by earlier with some more of her wild tales.”
“Oh really?” I reply, anxious already to hear the next wave of lurid details.
“Yeah, she’s telling me all kinds of crazy shit. First it’s a speeding ticket, then she says she lost her wallet, then she tells me this friend that was supposed to move in with her left town instead. So now she’s freaking out about the rent and thinks she might get evicted.” He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and does the whole exhale-laughing bit before adding, “you know, I’d like to tell her, hey, stay here a week or two until you get straightened out, but then I’m like, oh hell no! I wouldn’t worry so much about her — but all her fucked up friends are a different story. We can’t have all those fuckin weirdos comin in n’ out of this place. Can you imagine?”
“Yeah really,” I agree.
Secretly, I find the tabloid juiciness of her exploits entertaining as hell, but then wonder if that makes me a bad friend. Although clearly you might say Dylan gets some vicarious thrill from them as well. Still, this internal tug of war does occasionally bother me, even when mostly keeping this information to myself. And there’s an even more extreme example one night when I’ve dropped by Millie’s place, both of us heading out to meet others for happy hour, when she casually asks Robby if he’s going over to Miranda’s later.
“Eh, I don’t know,” he says, tv remote in hand as always, not even glancing up as he continues his relentless flipping through of the channels.
I can’t decide whether this merits mentioning to Dylan or not, though eventually conclude it’s best to just stay out of it. Even while recognizing that if the tables were turned, Dylan or Pete would probably inform me. But I don’t know, it just feels like stirring up shit, and getting off on playing troublemaker, and I can’t bring myself to do so. It’s not my style and beyond that doesn’t concern me. The tiebreaker is concluding that you don’t know the intricacies of anyone else’s relationships (or lack thereof), and I wouldn’t want others meddling with my delicate house of cards, just because they think I’m more serious about some chick than I actually am and that they’re doing the right thing.
Otherwise, however, our drama free avoidance adventures continue unimpeded. And the most extreme example of how well this strategy is working occurs on a Saturday afternoon into early evening, where Dylan and I are stretched out on the couch watching football for hours on end, as the phone continues ringing and, in deference to the games we are attempting to hear while drifting in and out of naps, the temporarily lowered volume of the answering machine is just barely audible to us from the living room. Most of these messages reiterate the same recurring theme, occasionally replayed for comedic effect if one of us gets up for another beer or some snack, which is these females wondering where in God’s name one or both of us is at today. I guess it’s heartening to learn that they clearly aren’t stalkers, because a simple drive past our apartment complex would reveal that both vehicles are here. And the hilarity reaches a crescendo when Marvin eventually calls, explaining in a long-winded rant that some of these girls have been blowing up his phone, asking him if he knows where we are.
“Just wonderin where y’all are at,” one excerpt says, “these bitches are trippin out lookin for your scandalous asses! So holla back when you get this. Or call them. Somethin…”
Sprawled out on these perpendicular couches, our snickers turn into belly laughs, though we never do get up and never do call Marvin, or anyone else, at least not until that magical 11pm hour nears and it’s time to start putting together a nighttime strategy. It has truly turned into a veritable minefield of late. Chief among these latest concerns — if concern is the right word, though I suspect amusements or perhaps pastimes are possibly more apt — is how to navigate this tricky Debbie situation.
It’s not entirely accurate to say there’s no precedent whatsoever for this. A couple of years ago, on I think two separate occasions, Joe and Dylan double teamed one of Jenna’s friends, this pasty, large, bowl cut rocking, not the least bit attractive brunette named Sheila. The key difference here is that neither of them, to my knowledge, had any interest whatsoever in continuing things with Sheila beyond that pair of exceedingly drunken nights. In fact, those episodes are where that inside joke about do you know how to ski? came from, and also one of my many key evidence pieces to present, whenever Joe gets on this kick claiming he has really high standards or something. Because this chick was a hefty dog, no two ways about it.
But this Debbie situation is something else entirely. It does help a great deal that Dylan and I are on the same page, very non-jealous types who are interested in nothing whatsoever beyond maybe occasionally banging her. Still, the nuances of interaction required for maintaining your friendships are an unrelenting minefield…and this is with the people that you get along very well, for the most part. For everyone else who is not a close friend, it’s even worse.
The particulars of these incidents require close, case by case scrutiny, with plenty of detail to avoid falling into another attribution error trap. Because we all tend to tip these scales in favor of ourselves: it’s bullshit when one of your friends maybe sleeps with one of your exes, but it was really cool when the situation was reversed and you secretly did the same thing; if some couple you know hooks you up with one of their friends, and you bang her, it means you’re the mack daddy — but if you and your girlfriend fix a buddy up with someone, and he bangs her, it means you are a really super guy and did all the hard work and he just coasted into it; it was really swell that one time you watched your friend’s chick undress, but total horseshit to discover he once did the same thing with your girlfriend.
And so on and so forth. Regarding this Debbie dynamic, there is no precedent for two of us continuing to sleep with a chick, when neither has any claim on having gotten to her first. Initially nobody involved makes any move at all, for the first few weeks. Then Dylan kicks things off by inviting her up to some concert in Cleveland, after which they rent a room and fuck the night away. Although admitting, after he returns to town and is recapping the incident, that they suffered some second thoughts up there, that Debbie was wondering, “was this bad? Should we have invited Sid?”
Though I laugh off this notion, Dylan does ask me point blank if their little escapade bothers me. “Nah, man, don’t worry about it. She’s fair game,” I tell him.
“Yeah, that’s pretty much the way I see it,” he concurs, with a nod, as we discuss these matters at the kitchen table.
But then the volley is returned to my court when, instead of calling, she emails me on an atypical warm and sunny winter’s day, asking if I might care to come over for a private little afternoon cookout. It’s just an otherwise normal Wednesday afternoon, and though I’m due in at five for a rare four hour shift, spending the lunch hour in this fashion sounds ideal. I don’t even bother responding, just hop in my car and drive over in the ballpark of the specified time. Knock, and when I don’t receive an answer, let myself in, then wander the house until I spot her out on the back patio, tongs in hand at the grill.
“I was wondering if you were gonna come over, ’cause I hadn’t heard from you. I thawed out some steaks, though, and kinda thought, okay, fuck him, I’ll cook out anyway!” she explains, chuckling merrily at this admission.
Everything on the menu here is looking quite tasty. This would include the ribeyes on the smoldering grill, as well as the Captain and Cokes she sends me inside to mix for us. But of course most of all my hostess this fine afternoon, who must be somewhat naturally dark skinned, or at least non-pale, and might even tan in the winter, when she’s not able to sunbathe nude in this fenced in backyard. Her hair is also bleached a lighter color than last time I saw her, which contrasts well against that skin. Meanwhile, in consideration of a local hard rock station she’s blasting out here, she turns the volume down somewhat so we can chat.
“I’m thinking about moving,” Debbie tells me, as I have settled into a nearby lawn chair. Sending a sly grin my way, she adds, “don’t get me wrong, a fenced in back yard has its advantages. But my sister wants to sell the place, and I’m not really interested in buying it.”
“You should.”
“Nah. I’m an apartment kind of girl.”
Once the steaks are done, baked potatoes and salads await us inside, as well as two more cocktails apiece. Lunch itself passes with few words, during which it occurs to me that we know very little about one another — and maybe she’s okay with that, she might possibly prefer such. As for me, even with close friends I usually change the subject as swiftly as possible, whenever asked a personal question, and that tendency is only heightened in the company of a casual acquaintance.
As much as you can term some woman you’ve tag teamed a casual acquaintance, anyway. And that last point does simplify matters, concerning the purpose of this quaint little tete a tete. Halfway through our third drinks, she gives me a tour of the place, one conveniently finishing in her bedroom. Where she now soundtracks our adventure with a Poison greatest hits selection, then without a word said rips off her shirt and bra off, flops down face first onto the bed. I take this as a shorthand code for requesting a back rub, and climb aboard to straddle her, begin doing just that.
“What’s up with this?” she eventually asks, craning her neck back at me, “you’re still fully clothed!”
I like her directness, which is the directness of a confident, slightly older chick, a forthrightness you almost never encounter in those church mouse quiet younger girls. Even when they might project a ton of brashness, it’s usually just a façade, especially regarding sex. With only maybe a couple major exceptions I can think of. On the flipside, with these older women, you are much more likely to hear slutty catchphrases, like what I’ve already determined is a personal favorite of hers, any port in a storm. And they commonly back these up with actual action. These slogans are a little cheesy for my tastes, but I suppose they come with the territory.
This applies to the one she busts out now, when we are in the middle of screwing. Eyes closed, she moans, “now I know what John Mellencamp meant by hurts so good.”
Recommended Book of the Day:
Two lost souls. One wracked with guilt. The other desperate for love.
Overwhelmed with guilt and feeling responsible for a tragic car accident that permanently scarred her older sister, Cassidy Ward has denied herself true happiness for years.
Theo Miller, ambitious entrepreneur and navy veteran who feels unappreciated by his business partner, is unable to convince Cassidy they deserve a future together.
Out of ideas and desperate, he issues her an ultimatum to either commit or call it quits. Can the bewitching spirit of Halloween in Cascade Springs, the wedding capital of Texas Hill Country bring her out from the shadows that have haunted her for far too long, or will these two lost souls remain apart, never fulfilling the promise of a joyful forever?
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