“Well-Behaved Monsters” – chapter 8

A few nights later, as the weekend finally arrives, Joe meets Dylan and me over at my soon to be vacated apartment, and we can’t resist telling him about our findings. Though the purpose of this evening is for these two to help me move my heavy furniture over to the new pad, the first, most pressing conversational topic is naturally how these wedding rings are faring. As far as I’m concerned, considering the redhead Ann has called me once since that night we met, this is already irrefutable evidence. But it’s great to receive additional confirmation elsewhere — especially as I haven’t even gotten around to relaying that information yet.

“Man, I am telling you, there is no doubt in my mind that these things work!” Dylan marvels, once he arrives, selling Joe on the concept. The hour still relatively early, we idle in the living room, enjoying a couple pregame beers.

“Yeah, and how long have we been talking about this?” I add, “I’m glad we finally got around to trying it.”

“Nice, nice,” Joe nods in approval, eyes glinting as he weighs the possibilities.

Our secret is safe with him, and he would find this fascinating on many levels anyway, but Joe has some added incentives now for taking notes. That last night we ever glimpsed his stripper girlfriend, Angel, just about concludes his time with her as well. I had scanned a not the least bit amused, what the fuck expression surrounding his frozen smile, that night on the sidewalk, as she flashed her tits to everyone, and it turns out I was correct. He broke up with her the next day, over the phone, and they haven’t spoken since.

So tonight’s outing is a multifaceted one, apart from the obvious. I am paying them for their services in the form of a 12 pack in my fridge, and while attacking these, we begin toting out my living room set. At the conclusion of this moving odyssey, a celebratory barhopping excursion shall await us. More importantly, though, Joe is on the prowl again, and though he’s made a couple preliminary stabs in this direction, he figures an outing with us will get his efforts ramped up proper. Ergo, he is all ears and eyes, soaking up every aspect of how Dylan and I are faring with these wedding rings. To a man we can just tell, this is going to be one hell of a night. Encouraged by the early returns on our ten dollar investments, and looking forward to further research in this field.

After loading a bedful of stuff into Dylan’s pickup, and cramming any stray objects that might fit behind the bench seat, the three of us squeeze into his relatively tiny cab. As month’s end approaches, I’m greedily rubbing my metaphorical hands together, salivating over this major life change in my life. Even though downgrading in the quality of my digs. Though it costs a bit more doing things this way, I’ve always favored getting into the new place while still occupying the previous one, and giving yourself a full month to make the transition. Now the beauty of this decision is finally paying fruits as, once we knock out this and one more truckload, I can muddle through the rest with just a couple more leisurely trips in my car, between now and Monday.

Phil has not quite begun moving anything into the spare bedroom, but figures to start that himself in the coming week. As far as the apartment itself, we have rented a rundown, cut-rate two story townhouse, right behind my place of employment. Though occupying roughly the same space, less glamour and a slightly shadier neighborhood means paying only 2/3 of what I had in this last pad with Jenna. Run down or not, moving here is a thrilling prospect for me, if only because it represents a clean break from the past, from Jenna and our failed relationship, from everything.

“So this is it, heh?” Dylan says, pulling into the lot and following my directions from there.

“Yup,” I joke, “welcome to the ghetto!”

“Yeah, but at least it’s a high class ghetto,” Joe offers.

“High class ghetto,” I echo with a laugh, as we’re climbing out of Dylan’s truck, “that means they use better weapons to rob you.”

But maybe ghetto is not the right word. Perhaps inner city would better fit the bill, a part of town where the grocery stores keep cops on duty. At least it isn’t, say, south side, where those same kind of grocery stores make you flash ID to use their shopping carts. Semantics aside, the days of high class fun in suburbia are over. The ghetto is calling me, and retreating now is not an option. An overabundant fondness for randomness and general disinterest in doing things the right way, they travel still with me, and most of my colleagues as well. The only questions remaining are where this wayward path might lead us, in what form we might travel it.

For now, though, we are still getting around in Dylan’s truck. Before we forget or risk Joe changing his mind, having already sold him on the concept, our next move after dropping off this first load is to swing by the same department store where Dylan and I acquired our rings. Where Joe swiftly purchases his beauty of a specimen as well. This settled, we continue onward to grabbing the few remaining major furniture pieces, such as my TV, bed, and kitchen table, and as expected, nothing remains that I can’t handle myself at a later date.

Upon dispensing with these, we dip into a Mexican restaurant, to fuel up for the wild night we’re anticipating. Joe is especially amped, and continues glancing at this shiny golden band, wiggling his fingers as though they too might be a mirage. Dylan, who has worn Carhartts to combat the winter bluster, needs help yanking them off, as they are half frozen to his jeans beneath. In the parking lot, with Dylan still seated and turned toward us, Joe and I each hold and yank on a bottom cuff while he wiggles free from the top half. He straps his boots back on and we breeze in to grab a corner table.

After ordering some drinks, while waiting on our food, we happen to notice that these two cute girls seated at a balcony table keep looking down at us, which leads to a reciprocal effect. Encouraged by their blatant interest, their naked, undivided attention, I wave to them a wordless two finger gesture that says, “come here.” Joe flashes his brand new wedding ring at them, but they remain unimpressed.

“You know what would be funny,” Dylan speculates, “remember how you used to stick your finger in the drinking fountain at school to splash someone? I should stick my boot in that one over there,” he points to a frothing, much larger, shopping mall type fountain in the middle of the restaurant, “and have it spray them.”

After Joe and I start cracking up, encouraging him to do just this, Dylan adds as an aside, “I don’t know why I think destruction is so funny.”

“Destruction is funny,” I opine, “I kinda like taking things that are really organized and structured, and fucking them up. Destruction fits in with that.”

As does our insistence on tinkering with the very fabric of society most people take for granted. You don’t pretend you’re married just to pick up chicks, but we are…and have now added a third accomplice, in what is still the early stages of this deranged spree.

“Yeah,” he summarizes, “destruction is funny.”

Following dinner, we arrive back at my mostly cleared out, suburban apartment. I still have the desktop computer among the scattered remaining items, and to kill time, after rejuvenating ourselves in the form of another cracked open beer, we huddle around and look for some quality free internet porn sites.

“Hey, that sounds like a good one,” Dylan says, pointing at an especially intriguing search result. “Bondage, S & M, CBT…”

“Wait. What’s CBT?” Joe questions.

“Cock and ball torture,” I nonchalantly explain.

Joe whips his body in my direction with a gasp and asks, “dude, how did you know that!?”

“It says it right here,” I explain, and point at the description below.

“Oh. Whew,” he says, wiping his forehead for dramatic effect, “you had me worried for a second there.”

Upon scouring a few intriguing candidates, and sampling their wares for inspiration, I leave these two to conduct additional research while I hop in the shower. During this time, they manage to polish off what remains of the 12 pack. But it has served its purpose, lasting exactly as long as needed, for we are ready to begin our adventure in earnest.

“Okay, boys,” Joe announces, as we are preparing to leave, eyeing a bourbon bottle sitting on the breakfast nook, beside my landline telephone. “We each need to do a good ol’ shot of 8 Star before we head out.” Pouring the first of these, he looks over his shoulder to ask me, “you got any other beer to chase these with?”

“No, but I have some paint thinner.”

“You guys go first,” Dylan advises, “I gotta take a leak.”

Offered the first shot, I sniff it — for whatever insane reason, as though unfamiliar with the taste and as though this ever helps matters — slug it down, then gasp for air. Joe soon does the same.

“That is the rankest shit ever,” he declares.

“Yeah but at least we’re all primed up now to hit some bars, meet some ladies,” I announce, bringing my hands together in a light clap and rubbing them together.

“It’s time to make that change,” Joe agrees.

“Yeah, you know, I’ve been looking at my life, and I realize I need to make some changes,” I joke, albeit in the driest manner imaginable.

Right at this moment, Dylan reenters the room and marches over to the 8 Star bottle, fills the shot glass for himself. He drinks a lot of Jim Beam and doesn’t seem the least bit fazed in slugging this bourbon belt. Joe has thrown his own head back, laughing hysterically at what I just said, while Dylan somehow thinks that this is some well-known quote that I’m repeating.

“Who said that? When was this?” he wonders, smiling in quizzical fashion.

“Me. Just now.”

Regarding this business with the landline telephone, it’s true that I am still one of these holdout weirdos who have not just failed to get rid of it, but also refused to spring for a cell. Part of it’s cheapness and part of it’s a reluctance to have people contacting me constantly. Speaking of which, as we are rustling up our coats and shrugging into them, regarding one another in the distinct singular manner of northerners steeling themselves to dip out into the all too familiar cold, this phone suddenly erupts to life. Thanks to the caller ID, I can see that this is Ann.

This conversation will progress in a manner very similar to the previous one. Though pretending I’m married has been, to my mind, an irrefutable success, it has nonetheless only replaced one question with another: okay, what now? I can’t seem to figure out what it is she really wants, or where to take this next. She’s a young girl, so I’m already aware it’s going to involve a lot of work, that she’ll want to talk endlessly about everything in her known universe. Beyond that, though, there’s still a ton of improvising on my end, coming up with these lines while the camera is rolling.

Last time, she did ask, “so do you have a girlfriend, or…something…?” And as I had spent approximately zero minutes plotting out what I might say should this moment happen, her forthrightness threw me for a small loop. “No, huh uh,” I recovered quickly enough to reply. In a disbelieving voice, she then shot back, “you don’t have a girlfriend, or…anything?” And when I insisted this was true, she changed the subject, launched immediately back into bubbly, chatty mode.

The weirdest aspect to this, though, is I had the distinct impression she didn’t believe me — which is obviously a good thing. I’m maintaining whatever mystique is making this interesting to her in the first place. So that’s working out just fine. But the problem that night, as it’s proving again right now, is that I can’t seem to find a toehold, at least not yet, for taking this anywhere. Whenever I suggest we get together, she glides right past it without answering. As she is at this moment, after I tell her that a few of us are getting ready to step out.

“You ladies should meet up with us,” I tell her.

“Nnn…can I call you back later tonight?”

“Uh, well, like I said, we’re seriously walking out the door here in a minute. And I don’t have a cell phone. You and your friends should meet up with us.”

“I’ll call you back later,” she says.

“I won’t be here.”

“It’s okay. I’ll call you back later,” she concludes, and hangs up.

Moments later, we step outside once more, static palpable in the frozen air. Still, for a January evening in Ohio, it’s not ridiculously cold. Therefore, in light of not just what we’ve already drunk but how much more we are likely to, the three of us decide to just traipse the couple of blocks over to Triads Lounge.

“Whew! I’m already about…half shitfaced. No, three quarters,” Joe announces.

“Ready to make it…um, four fifths? I question.

“Seven eights?” Dylan tosses in.

Along the way, we are discussing not just his breakup with Angel, but mine and Jenna’s recent falling out, and to a lesser extent Aaron’s old bitchy girlfriend, developments which have left every last one of us single in a month’s time, like a flash fire sweeping through a forest. Also, in passing Triads’ side wall of picture windows, we can see that it’s somewhat dead in there right now. This makes it an easy decision, with very little discussion, to continue onward to a seldom visited pool hall, Sticks, the next building over.

“I think it’s hilarious how Jenna moved out and you’re basically like eh, whatever, dude, you could not give a fuck,” Joe notes with a laugh.

“Well I mean it was cool and all, while it lasted,” I observe, “but I have to say, it didn’t, like, totally break my heart when it ended.”

“Dude, I have been there before!” Dylan says, as it’s now his turn to laugh, “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle, “don’t get me wrong, I loved Jenna and everything. But it’s like I just can’t bring myself to chase after someone and beg them to be with me or whatever. I don’t know what the deal is. I just can’t do it.”

Though at least half of Sticks’ space is dedicated to the billiard tables, they do feature a decent sized bar area up front as well. With its shiny, pine looking wooden paneling and soft amber lighting, the atmosphere is a warm, somewhat classier one than found at Triads. But of utmost importance, even though this isn’t our favorite place, it figures to have a better female selection than the paltry offerings just glimpsed next door. We figure to hang out here for a while and then maybe see if things pick up over there later.

As we don’t feel like ponying up for pool at an hourly rate, mostly because this sounds like too great a commitment and way more work than we’d like, the other diversions here are somewhat lacking. The electronic dart board is already claimed, nothing of interest grabs us on the few televised sporting events. This therefore leads to something none of us have tried before, at least not as an ensemble, which is grabbing one of those trivia gadgets and attempting to play along, with the game in progress on one of the screens.

The main impetus for this is that we’ve observed a handful of tables occupied by nothing but girls, and that this is what they’re doing. It could prove just the icebreaker needed, assuming these wedding rings don’t bedazzle them. Even if we are attempting to beat them over the head with our statuses, not just clinking them against our bottles and making sure to always wave or signal with our left hands, but also in selecting our six character name for the trivia, HSBNDS.

“You think that’s laying it on a little too thick?” Joe questions, even though his demented brand of genius came up with it.

“Whaaaat? No I’d say that’s pretty much impossible, isn’t it? It’ll be fine,” Dylan insists.

Maybe the other participants are wasted, or only half paying attention, or maybe we’re just getting lucky. But even though handicapped by having missed the first few questions of this round, we soon charge our way into first place, and hold onto this position. It’s great and all, although even we have to kind of check ourselves, and remind one another of what the objective is here, to not actually get wrapped up for real in this game. Or perhaps it’s just that I do.

“Dude, you should be on Jeopardy,” Joe tells me, “how do you even know some of this shit?”

“Yeah, really, man,” Dylan mutters, shaking his head.

“Yes sir, let me tell you, this obscure trivia has really gotten me far in life,” I joke.

Thankfully, these other two remain a little more committed to the true task at hand. Glancing around the room, rating the options like tennis announcers covering a match, discussing various potential tactics and conjecturing about where we might make a move. All the more crucial considering that out of five occupied tables, we are somehow the only males over here.

“We should approach one of them,” Dylan suggests, “tell them we’re having trouble figuring out how to use these things.”

“We’re in first place, but can’t figure out how to use the machines,” I cackle, though with laser focus intent upon nailing the next question.

“Eh, fuck it, it’s worth a shot,” Joe surmises.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Dylan says, “like what about these two right over here?”

It’s only now that I actually look over at that table for the first time and give its occupants a solid once over. Although possibly a self-fulfilling prophecy, creating good fortune simply by believing that I’m on a roll, I do feel that this is undeniable here for the past couple of weeks. That this has represented ever so slightly a miniature hot streak. While the first handful following the Jenna breakup were undeniably rocky, even those somewhat darker, bumpier days were nonetheless filled with the kind of curious optimism the newly single experience. It’s as though this heavy atmosphere surrounded your every step, and that the instant your relationship crumbles for good, this air is lifted. So no matter how saddened, or possibly even depressed, if nothing else you have this. You might not possess the first idea what your next steps should or will be, but at least you can move and breathe again.

Monstrous to admit or not, this is truly what it has felt like since she left. In particular these last two weeks, as golden as the glint from these phony circles around our fingers. And in a twist that indicates a possible continuation of this micro rally, upon glancing over there, I’m as surprised as anyone to recognize those two females, sitting side by side in the nearest booth, against the wall with just a table between us.

“Ah hell na!” I blurt out with a chuckle, “I know those girls. Or I’ve met them, anyway.”

It’s the chubby blonde and her diminutive friend, whose vague acquaintance I made maybe ten days ago, that night over at Triads where Robby and I read the paper and Like A Virgin graced the jukebox speakers. Yet I never caught their names, as they just kept breezing past us and we exchanged wisecracks, without ever introducing ourselves. Nonetheless, emboldened by even this flimsy connection, Dylan feels brave enough to call over to them. Unfortunately, it would seem, he has somehow chosen the exact moment where these two are sliding out of their booth.

“You two should come over here and help us with this trivia!” he shouts.

His signaling has at least initiated a slight course correction, as they make puzzled, if friendly, expressions, and drift our way. This seems as good as time as any to play the weak trump card, as I add, “hey, weren’t you at Triads the other night?” In response, while the shorter blonde furrows her brow and attempts to recall this moment, her heavier sidekick goes as far as to offer a headshake. She does have a cute face and a winning smile, though, readily offering both even in refuting my claim. “Yeah, you were playing Like A Virgin for your friend here, because she’s a virgin…?” I blurt out.

As the friend in question quite visibly blushes, the chubby one brightens and says, “oh yeah! I remember you now!”

She has no sooner shouted this out before a mild dread kicks in, however, as I realize that the wedding band had not yet reared its head that evening. This could threaten the entire enterprise, and it might have been better off not to dredge up that memory. Yet it seems that these girls were not really paying attention to much back then, or else are maybe just a wee bit tipsy tonight. Of course, it’s equally likely they really aren’t dedicating a ton of thought to us, period.

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