“When you put it like that, yes, take me now, Billy.” She giggles to humiliate him further.
“Why do you have to be like that?”
“Billy, when I walked to the booth, the first thing I noticed was the oil-stained jeans hanging halfway down your ass. When going out in public, put on a pair of jeans that fit and are worn specifically for socializing.”
“I had no idea you’d be here,” he says.
“You need to be prepared for anything. When I go out, I pride myself on carefully picking out the right outfit and embellishments. When you get more conscientious about your wardrobe, I may start taking notice.”
“You are just making excuses. I’m not a slacker. How do you know we wouldn’t hit it off?”
“I know this because I can barely stand sitting across from you. I can only imagine the ‘yuk’ of waking up next to your sweaty body and feeling those dirty fingernails digging around inside my panties. It’s enough to jumpstart the dry heaves.”
Billy has taken numerous hits from her over the years, but this particular disparaging remark seems to sting more than usual.
“You wanna know something?” Billy asks with a receding smile. “The outside of you doesn’t match what’s going on inside.”
This biting comment takes the wind out of her sails because she nearly said the same words to her ex-boyfriend the night before he stabbed her.
“I can’t believe you would make such a cutting remark at my expense,” Mandi says.
“It’s true.” From the increased redness in his cheeks, his face is obviously growing hot. “You look like a million bucks with your outfits and all your impressive curves, but you are tragically insecure. Look around at where you are! Most of the gorgeous guys around this town would only take you as far as their bedroom, but never to Sunday brunch with the family.”
I may have underestimated Billy. He usually takes it on the chin, but he’s retaliating with some backbone. Her backhanded comment about “digging around in her panties” may have killed his fantasy.
“You know it’s true,” he adds, his voice growing more irritated by the second. “The guys that are in-demand always trade up for a demure girl with a higher parent-approval rating. Don’t forget that we’re living in Wilkinson Creek; I wouldn’t exactly say you have a load of decent options. At least I have some ambition.”
“What a narrow viewpoint,” she says. This back and forth is normal, but she’s on the defense quicker than usual. I’m staying out of it! “Being single doesn’t always translate into entering a relationship simply due to a lack of quality suitors.”
“How does it translate then? Do you pass me over because I didn’t go to college?” He isn’t crying, but his eyes are getting bloodshot. “I am fine with dating a girl that is somewhat smarter than I am.”
“Well, that leaves most of the world for you to choose from.”
“Real funny. You’re likely to turn a guy into a misogynist.”
“Don’t pin that type of shit on me,” she says. “I’ve left behind some broken hearts, but none were bitter enough to despise anyone with a ‘y’ chromosome. Don’t take it so personally. You’re just not my type.”
“You feel that way because you’ve known me since I was wiping snot on my sleeve. Otherwise, you’d probably consider going out with me. I’ve seen the guys you usually go out with. They’re not any better than I am. Come to think of it, I don’t look that much different than most of them.”
“Maybe in the reflection of a funhouse mirror.”
Billy darts out of the booth and stands up. That jibe was apparently the last straw. He places both hands on the edge of the table, leans down, and gets about a foot away from Mandi. “You might be the bomb around here, honey, but one day you’ll be old and bitter. When you look back, remember that I once cared about you. You were just too full of yourself to notice a guy that practically worshipped you.”
“Jesus, relax,” she says, forcing an awkward smile. The sting of his comment seems to be reaching places she keeps deeply guarded. She has a knack of summing up a person’s entire existence in one or two cruel sentences, yet she is hypersensitive to any criticism that comes her way.
“Can’t you take a little razzing? You’re losing your sense of humor, young man.”
Billy turns and stomps off in the opposite direction. He climbs onto a stool at the bar, sitting with his back to us. He’s jotting something down on a cocktail napkin. It’s most likely the first verse of a future hit song about unrequited love. With all of Mandi’s snubs, he should be able to fill a double album with sappy ballads.
“Oh, that was real mature,” I scold, giving her a mock round of applause. “Why do you feel the need to treat the poor guy like that?”
“I’ve been busting Billy’s balls since senior year. I get a rush out of taunting him. He needs to come to terms with his limitations. Seriously, putting us together would be like Kelly Bundy dating her brother Bud.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to be nicer to him. He’s too fragile to be the target of your derisive jabs. He would have bought us top-shelf drinks all night.”
“An expectation comes with accepting free drinks—even from Billy,” Mandi says, rolling her eyes. In the past, she has treated a complimentary beverage as a contract to get fingered by a guy. Considering she works in a bar, she should be numb to the unsolicited come-on.
“Billy would have been satisfied with a nice squeeze on his leg.”
“That’s how it starts. Next thing, he will start making me laugh. Naturally, I’ll flirt back because the alcohol is playing tricks on my good judgment. Then, I’ll find myself having another whygasm.”
“A what?”
“A whygasm. It’s a term I recently coined during a night of self-reflection. Cute, huh? It’s that moment shortly after you climax when you immediately ask, ‘Why do I have such low self-esteem that I’d go and screw this dork?’ or ‘Why don’t I have enough self-control to keep my jeans buttoned?’ Tell me you haven’t silently asked yourself questions like that.”
“Back when I was single.”
“Don’t erase the not-so-distant past. You were single not so long ago, my dear.”
“I’m not anymore.” She is very bitter that Nick came into my life and I’m no longer her on-call wing-girl. She doesn’t think Nick is all that handsome, but I beg to differ. “That all feels like a distant memory that I’d prefer to forget.”
“Well, I’m tired of feeling indignity before even taking the walk of shame. I’m done with the whygasm; I’m holding out for someone classier.”
Good luck with that!
“A guy like Billy is seeking a relationship, not a single night of passion,” I remind her. “Compared to some of the men you’ve been involved with, he’s practically the prince holding the glass slipper.”
“If I agreed to a date, he’d be proposing marriage three weeks later,” Mandi declares. Sadly, she’s probably right. “That’s a conversation I’m not ready to have with anyone just yet. I can’t even commit to a bedspread pattern that I’d be happy with for more than a year. Whenever I let a guy into my life, I find out what they’re really about by the two-month mark. If and when I ever do get married, it will be for life—not necessarily by choice. The way things have been going lately, affording a divorce won’t be in the cards. Billy would be a starter husband, at best. The only solution is to avoid ever going on a date.”
“I’m not talking about marriage. It wouldn’t hurt you to be consistently nicer.” I lean in and whisper, “Consider it practice, so you don’t accidentally mistreat one of your online customers.”
“That’s entirely a different monster,” she explains, rolling a strand of her hair with her index finger. “When I put on the wig, I transform into a different persona. My customers are paying down some of my debt, so I have no problem humoring them as long as the clock is running.”
“I’m glad you can differentiate between the two acts.”
“Enough with the lecture. I c
ame here to tell you about my tumultuous day. I didn’t expect Billy to lust after me like a puppy with a stiff pecker. Since he’s sitting at the bar, I will give you the front page about the shit I’ve been dealing with.”
Forty minutes and several drinks later, Mandi revealed the events about her morning and the details about her nasty fight with Trudy. She is more concerned about being insulted by the woman from Leighton Publishing than she is about getting the boot from Trudy’s house. Her priorities need to be rearranged.
“So, what are you anxious about?” I ask. “Even if some conceited bitch takes a few cheap shots, why take what she said to heart?”
“I’m worried! Could there be a suppressed violent streak within me? I’ve been thinking about that all day. I wonder if ‘snapping’ might be built into my DNA.”
“If Willie happened to be your dad, I might be concerned. He’s only your uncle; that’s more removed than you might think.”
“But, we all have those instincts within us,” Mandi says, earnestly. “When I need to kill a spider, I’ll find a way to squish the creepy little fucker. I might cringe, but I get the job done. We all have rage that seeps out.”
“Conversely, most of us feel love, empathy, and regret. I’ve never seen you react in a manner that has scared me. You’ve refrained from strangling Trudy all these years, so your violent side must be pushed down enough to remain under control.”
“I’m not so sure that it is,” she reveals. “It took all of my willpower to keep from kicking the shit out of that woman today.”
“You wouldn’t be human without the instinct to defend yourself from a callous verbal attack. My dear, you’re sitting here telling me about what you felt like doing. There is a big difference between acting on an impulse and holding back.”
“It seems like the only women that get ahead are impertinent bitches like that. They sit in cushy offices deciding which of us they’ll hire based on unrealistic criteria. Too many unworthy assholes are the gatekeepers in this country. Maybe I need to start being cold and disconnected.”
“That has sure worked out for Trudy,” I remind her. The last thing Mandi needs is to develop a mean streak. Her smart mouth gets her in enough trouble. “Don’t allow yourself to become hard-hearted over a series of missed opportunities.”
“I’m just growing tired of the game,” she says, downing her third shot. “I spent the majority of my life dreaming about moving to the other side of the county, but I still can’t make enough bank to do shit about it. And I refuse to end up as a farmer’s devoted wife. I’m not wired to be Susie Homemaker until he wanders back in at dusk. I can’t get comfortable with the idea of waiting around all day for anyone. I don’t like the odor of a farm as it is, and I surely don’t want to be with any man reeking of shit when he glides in the door. I’ve tried that. My nostrils did not acclimate to the stench.”
She loves to play the “farmer’s wife” card. Plenty of available men don’t live in the sticks. “Not every guy around here thinks you are bad news. Don’t become cynical in the area of love.”
“A cynical outlook adds a layer of protection around your heart,” she says.
“I used to think all gloomy like that, but then I let Nick into my life. I was fortunate I took the chance.”
“The guys in Wilkinson Creek are shitkickers or too buttoned up,” she states. “Sure, I miss having a pair of arms around me at night, but they need to be the right arms for it to count. You know, I long for the surprise of feather-light fingertips gliding gently along parts of my body that are typically ignored. Guys give me the full treatment until sex becomes an expectation rather than a gift. Then, they pass over any part of my body that doesn’t get damp regularly.”
“You need to train a man.”
“I don’t have time for that shit. I want him to instinctively know what to do and thirst for every inch of me. I’m not going to find that so easily. In the meantime, I could settle for Billy or one of these degenerate drinkers. Why just go through the motions with someone that will barely hold my interest? It’s hard to cut it off when the other person cares about you. I lack the zest to play games like that.”
Yeah, right . . . since when? She is the queen of head games. She comes on hot and heavy in the beginning, applying the brakes before the light even turns yellow.
“I know what you’re looking for, and there are only so many Keith Urban look-a-likes to go around. You might have to lower your standards just a tad.”
“Lowering my standards isn’t working either. They all love what they see, but no one has ever loved me. It just felt like passing time between some decent sex.”
“Quit jumping in the sack so fast,” I state. “You need to get to know someone before giving it up.”
“That was the old me,” she says, slurring. The tequila is beginning to wrap its frosty fingers around her tongue. “I’m not letting loneliness control my decisions anymore. It’s important to have people telling you the way things are.”
“Some of us have tried,” I remind her. “You just weren’t zeroing in on the important words.”
Upon finishing my sentence, Robbie Woodbury walks through the front door. Of all the damn luck! I heard a rumor that he was being released this week, but I hoped it was bullshit. His early parole should prohibit him from frequenting bars, but that mandate may only apply to leaving the state. After her painful morning, I don’t want his unanticipated arrival spoiling what’s left of her night—it now seems unavoidable.
Mandi and Robbie had a rocky relationship a little over a year ago; she has been working hard to bury those memories. He wrote nearly 50 apology letters from prison, but she only replied once to send the dickhead an official break-up letter. The knife wound she received had formally severed that relationship without the need to take pen in hand. He’s apparently still hot for her, but she doesn’t want anything to do with the prick—and for good reason. Rob’s temper, drinking, and piss-poor attitude caused them to argue every other day. Mandi’s drinking, flirting, and inability to let any comment roll off her back was the other side to that fighting. She can be quite the spitfire when provoked.
Robbie is one of those small-town guys that could have been successful in college football but didn’t get the chance to prove it to the world. Many high schools have a similar story about a promising athlete that sustained an injury that capsized his college plans. They write books and produce movies about the shattered athlete, while the locals tell stories that lament the tragedy. What they never talk about is what happens after the legend fades. In Robbie’s case, he found solace in Wild Turkey—lots of Wild Turkey. While some men become lucid after a half-dozen shots, he turns into an angry drunk—maybe the angriest.
His chiseled facial features and muscular body used to lure in the ladies, but those days are far behind him. The Frankenstein scars have faded around his knee, but his hostility over lost opportunity has swelled. When Mandi was living with him, she was continually on the receiving end of that anger. One time, she over-seasoned some walleye. He got so infuriated that he whipped the plate at her from across the kitchen. When I visited the next day, a piece of fish was still stuck to the wall. Fights went on like that for a while, gaining intensity with each passing month.
Now that he’s been released from prison, Robbie knows better than to bother her at work because Ray would run him off the property or beat him black and blue. Trudy wouldn’t hesitate to have him brought up on trespassing charges. If Robbie happens to catch her out in public, she will be fair game. He is too persistent to honor the terms of the restraining order. Of course, noticing her sitting in the booth isn’t helping matters. He takes a good look, smirks, and walks to the end of the bar. That smirk was dicey.
“I could really use a break,” she says.
With a heavy heart, I say, “I’m afraid you’ll need to reschedule that break for another night. Don’t turn around because Robbie just sauntered in.”
“Oh, that’s just fucking great. R
unning into the loser is the last thing I need right now. When the hell did the bastard get out? I knew it was happening soon, just not this soon!”
Aaron walks to our booth and serves Mandi another shot. He’s pretty good about keeping her glass filled. On his best day, he would be no match against Robbie’s 220-pounds of pugnacity.
“Do you want one more?” Aaron asks.
“Sure, one more. That will do it for tonight.” She reaches in her pocket, pulls out a $20, and hands it to him. “Do your best to keep Robbie away from our booth.”
“Thanks, darling. I will do my best. I’ve got a wooden club behind the bar reserved for special occasions.”
“Shouldn’t we leave?” I ask after Aaron returns to his perch behind the bar.
“Rob can lick my short and curlies,” she declares. “I’m not rushing out because he poked his oversized mug in here. My day has been a revolving door of assholes.”
“Well, I’m not hanging around. It’ll only be a drink or two before Rob works up the courage to confront you.”
“Are you’re gonna just leave me sitting by myself? I just ordered a drink.”
I try to convince her that we need to call it a night, but she hates wasting a premium mixed drink. I even offer her a ride home so she won’t have to walk to her door alone.
“I have my car here,” she argues.
“No way, Mandi. You might only be nine blocks away, but you’re going to lose your license if you get pulled over. You’ll never get out of this town if your insurance triples. You know the drill . . . hand over the keys.”
She grumbles and reluctantly slides her keys across the booth.
“Just have another drink with me—even if it’s just a Sprite or a cup of decaf,” she begs, slurring up a storm. “You know I can’t stumble in while Trudy is still awake.”
“I can’t. It’s a matter of principal. Life is too short to put up with Robbie’s bullshit. If you insist on staying, call me when you’re ready to leave. I have three loads of wash to do, so I’ll be up for at least two hours.”
I stand up, say my farewell, and stroll towards the door. It’s shitty to walk out on Mandi at such an unpredictable moment, but Rob is just too tenacious. The echoes of their quarreling would ring through my ears for days. I’ve been inside this damn bar for too long as it is.
In Dark Places Page 6