Men of the Year

by Colleen McMillan

  “Missed it. I had some things to go over from work.”

  “The people you work with are incompetent. You need a raise.”

  “I know. Anyway, are we still on for coffee today? I can come by your office this time.”

  “No sweetie I’ll come to you. It’s your birthday!”

  I can’t help but smile when she mentions my birthday. Hopefully she didn’t buy me a checkbook cover like she did last year. Leopard print isn’t exactly my style. Neither are checkbooks.

  “Thought you forgot,” I tease.

  “Never! How could I forget the day my baby was born? You’re less a pain in the butt now.”

  “Thanks.” She laughs and forgets how much she hates her job for a moment. I love it when she laughs. A huge guffaw of a laugh fit for a lumberjack. “I’ll meet you at the usual place. Around one thirty. Remember I have brunch with Dad today too.”

  “Of course.” Her laugh disappears.

  After my talk with Mom, my birthday went on without much to-do. Brunch pancakes with Dad hit the spot, coffee with Mom entertained (weren’t you supposed to be married by now? You were four years old when I was your age.) and my croissant with Justin and Kevin from work satisfied. At least they don’t ask for daily updates on my love life. Why is it that parents feel the need to meddle in love lives? Is it because their parents did? Were my great-great grandma’s mom and dad harping to marry Kerry O’Donnell from the next village over because he had the most sheep? If only it were as easy as exchanging livestock. These days you’ve got to date, and that’s one thing I certainly don’t do.

  It’s time for dinner and drinks with the girls. Alicia, Keeley, and Lindsey are a lot like me, as you’d expect best friends to be, but they’re also bogged down by things I don’t worry about.

  Alicia is mid height and blond, both frivolous and frugal. She once bought this insane blown-glass crane figurine from China and managed to talk the seller’s shipping cost down because she said the price was extravagant. She should have looked at the crane’s price tag. Could have bought a new bedroom set with that kind of money. She has three kids, a loving husband, and a cockapoo, all blond like her. Going over to her house is like walking into the Von Trapp house. She moved to the suburbs when her first son Mickey was born, so we rarely see her.

  Keeley is more normal than her name implies. She suffers from Idiot-Boyfriend Syndrome, but that can be said for a lot of women in this country. She’s tall, buxom (God I’d kill for her boobs) and sweet as chocolate chips. Last week her newest boyfriend dumped her because her thighs are too big. What the hell is wrong with men? She called me at three in the morning and sobbed for two hours about her bad luck and why does she pick guys like that and why can’t she just meet someone nice already? She’s two years younger than me, so she’s still an idealist. Can’t afford that on the dating scene. She’s easy pickings for the roaming bar hyenas.

  Then there’s Lindsey. She’s like my mother, divorced and quite happy, thank you very much. She’s five years older than Alicia and me, and she loves to regal us with war stories from her marriage. Her most memorable catchphrases include: “I should have dated more,” “why the fuck would I want to be seen with that guy?” and “let’s get the fuck out of here, I’m starving.” She likes to swear, says her husband never let her. Religious type. She’s the source our laughter, because honestly, who can resist a story about trying to get laid at a church retreat in the Boundary Waters? Canoes, God, and sex; what else do you need? Lindsey is rail thin and smokes more than anyone I’ve ever met.

  We meet at Brit’s Pub downtown, which is one of my favorite places. I lived in Europe for two years as a student and have yet to find a suitable American alternative to the British pub. Brit’s comes very close, but they don’t have real English beer on tap; just doesn’t taste the same. Alicia and I used to come here during our senior year in college, mainly for her to meet older guys. They were usually impressed with our knowledge of beers both local and imported. She lured more than one guy home by explaining the difference between ales and pilsners.

  We sit inside. The patio’s open, but I’d rather sit near the bar. It feels more authentic that way. And Lindsey doesn’t mind.

  “Four pints of something good and keep ‘em coming!” she yells as we sit down. Luckily, no one pays attention.

  “You don’t have to yodel. Someone will come by,” says Keeley. Lindsey waves her away and we sit.

  “Happy birthday, chica!” she says, slapping me on the back. “Have a good day so far?”

  “Of course, she did,” says Alicia. “Cassie has the best birthdays.”

  “Same old, same old isn’t good enough for our girl. She needs adventure!”

  The bartender sees us and brings over our usual drinks. He’s really young so Lindsey watches his ass when he saunters away.

  “I have plenty of adventure: just look at the in-tray in my office,” I say, sipping the Smithwick’s the bartender brings over. He knows my preferences.

  We’re soon surrounded by beer and pub food, and that’s when the conversation really gets started.

  “So, Cass, anything new going on in the single life?” asks Alicia who stirs her beer’s head with a cocktail straw. She never asks me about guys, so I’m instantly suspicious. Keeley and Lindsey glare at her, and Alicia coughs into her fist. “It’s just I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Nothing’s changed.” Which is true. The last male encounter I had was at the New Year’s Eve office party when Kevin and I sang a Sonny and Cher song together, both incredibly drunk with tinsel wrapped around our shoulders. And he’s enormously gay, so I didn’t have much of a shot.

  “Boring’s what you are,” says Lindsey and she downs her beer. “You need to get out more.”

  “You could come dancing with me,” adds Keeley. “Work’s all you ever talk about.”

  “It’s all I have to talk about. No one’s interested in my cat’s daily escapades.”

  “You can’t live alone all your life. Look at Brian and me,” says Alicia. “We’re perfectly happy.”

  “Nobody who lives in the suburbs is happy,” burps Lindsey, and she rises to get another round from the bar. “I hope you’re ready for a long night.” She pats my shoulder and leaves. “Don’t tell her without me.”

  When she’s gone I turn to the other girls. “Tell me what?”

  “Nothing, it’s nothing,” says Keeley who nearly chokes on her drink. “A surprise birthday present.”

  “You didn’t get me one of those weird vibrators again, did you? Try explaining that to my mother.”

  “You weren’t supposed to show her,” Keeley answers. “They’re not for old people.”

  “Old people like to get off too.” Lindsey’s back with four frosty mugs and passes them out. “She mention the vibrator incident?”

  “She always does.”

  “You need to get over that, Cass. It’s not like your mom knew what it was.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “So what? Your mom knows you have sex. Big freaking deal. My mom had the sex talk with me when I was four.”

  “And you married a pastor,” laughs Alicia.

  “Don’t remind me. Five years of the missionary position will make a girl buy ten vibrators.”

  Lindsey mocks her terrible relationship decisions with such eloquence. Her former husband and pastor is a sweet guy, but there’s no way he could keep up with Lindsey. Their marriage was a mystery from start to finish. None of us could imagine the pastor with Lindsey’s legs wrapped around his head, and apparently, after five years, neither could he.

  “Here’s to you, you dirty bitch! Happy birthday!” Lindsey cheers, and we clink mugs and drink. I wish I could chug beer like in college. The best I can manage now is about half. I’m grinning when I set my mug down, happy that my birthday has gone so well, all according to plan. But the girls are all looking at me, a hungry gleam in their eyes, like a French chef ogling a rising soufflé.

  �
��What? Is there foam on my lip?” I wipe my upper lip but find nothing. Maybe there’s a booger in my nose.

  “We have a proposition for you,” says Alicia, suddenly in let’s-make-a-deal mode. Her tone fits a power suit more than her jeans and sequined top.

  “More of a bet, you guys said it was a bet,” says Keeley in a much more anxious voice than Alicia. There better not be a male stripper waiting at my apartment building when I get home. Hopefully they didn’t shave my cat like last Fourth of July.

  “You’re such an ass Keel,” says Lindsey, in no way helpful. “She won’t win anything if she does it.”

  “Oh, she’ll do it. She’s curious already.” Alicia’s grinning now too, but I feel my smile fading. It’s like I’m in front of a court-marshal hearing.

  “What did you do?”

  “It’s really awesome! I think it’s a really good idea! Lindsey and Alicia thought of it.”

  “Great, so what is it?” The music changes to the Dropkick Murphys’ thudding beats, and I notice how many people are in the bar. A public place. Somewhere I can’t lose it and scream at them. “What is it?”

  They all talk at once, cutting each other off.

  “Don’t be mad—”

  “Who cares if she’s mad, she’s doing it—”

  “It was a good idea, right?”

  “Enough you guys!” I pound the table with my mug, sloshing beer. It spills on my hand and I reach for some napkins. “Did you get me something stupid like a pony?”

  “You wish,” says Alicia.

  “It’s better than a fucking pony.”

  “It’s a boyfriend!” Keeley’s exclamation startles me. She covers her lips with her fingers. “Sort of…”

  “Not very easy to wrap,” I say and cross my arms over my chest. Please not a blow-up doll, please not a blow-up doll, not in front of all these people.

  “It’s not the sort of thing Macy’s gift-wraps for you with a sprig of mint or whatever,” says Alicia as she waves her cocktail straw back and forth in a motion that suggests scolding one of her children. “We got you something thoughtful this year. Something you actually need.”

  “I need a new loofa,” I mumble. And maybe some nice bath soaps. Is it too much to ask for nice bath soaps? Maybe honeysuckle-scented?

  “Stop bitching and listen,” says Lindsey. “Alicia, Keeley, and I got together and really thought this through. Step one: you need to stop moping about dating and just get on with it, or ‘get it on with it’ if you will, you’re not getting any younger or thinner.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  She ignores me and goes on, “Step two: stop whining about your job and get a better one.”

  “She means start writing again,” whispers Keeley, trying to sound supportive.

  “So basically, what you got me is an inspirational rant from a divorcee whose sole purpose in life is to sleep with as many men as she can before her vagina falls off.”

  “Ha ha. Listen. We signed you up for an online dating service.”

  “You did what?” I seethe, wishing steam could pour from my mouth and scald them. “You’re joking, right?” Shit, please be joking. My friends would never meddle in my love life. Keep repeating that Cassie, and this will all go away. We’ll drink a few more beers, grab cabs and go home.

  Are my hands shaking? Do I normally blink this much?

  Keeley shakes her head and leans closer in excitement. She’s been keeping this a secret for a long time, and I can tell, because her skin is shining and she’s clenching her fists. I haven’t seen her this antsy since she met my favorite of her ex-boyfriends. He turned into an immense ass like the rest.

  “No, it’s for real! You’re going to meet someone I just know it!” She sounds like the heroines in the books I edit. All hope and no brain.

  “It’s planned out,” says Alicia, very self-satisfied. “We’re taking care of everything.”

  “We wrote you a profile and paid for it and found some interesting prospects,” Keeley lists, ticking items off on her fingers. “And we’ll even pick the dates for you!”

  “I don’t understand.” It’s all I can say. I’m sure Alicia and Lindsey will explain it differently than Keeley, but it’s going to come out the same way: they’re all dirty, trampy, horrible, soon-to-be-ex-best friends.

  “Shut up Keel,” says Lindsey, taking over. “It’s not as terrible as you’re thinking, and I know what you’re thinking, because your face looks like a knife. We’re trying to help—”

  “You can help by staying out of my business.” Keeley recoils from the table and looks sheepish, but Alicia and Lindsey stare with flinty eyes. I try another tactic. “You know I don’t date.”

  “Not since Pete, we know,” says Lindsey, but not harshly. She reaches out to touch my hand, but I pull back. I can’t believe she mentioned him.

  “It’s been three years,” says Alicia and she smiles sympathetically. “It’s about time you tried dating again.”

  “Give some other guy a go at you,” says Lindsey.

  “You make her sound like a mechanical bull,” says Keeley and scrunches her upper lip toward her nose like she smells rotten onions.

  “I heard that’s what she’s like.”

  “Thanks, bitch,” I say. Lindsey smiles and takes a sip of beer.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. If she’s swearing at me all’s forgiven.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “No, you’re not. Can’t you just listen to our plan?” asks Alicia.

  “This is so not funny. Please tell me you’re kidding. It’s funny to poke the dragon, but seriously. A dating service?”

  “An online dating service,” corrects Keeley.

  “You haven’t got a choice,” says Alicia, and she pulls a notebook from her purse. It’s purple and covered with intricate silver designs, faintly Indian-inspired. Oh shit. It’s a planner. Alicia organizes everything important in a notebook. She’s got loads of notebooks, ranging from home purchases to grocery lists. If she’s got a special notebook for this effed-up experiment I’m screwed. “We thought trying it for a year would be best.”

  “What? Wait just one—”

  “One man per month, no protests. We’re not going to line you up with perverts and uggos.”

  “No assholes, drunks, man-whores, slobs, smokers, teenagers, college students, lawyers, or professional emotionally unavailable fuckwads either.”

  “You want me to date a different guy every month for a year?”

  “That’s the gist.”

  “Are you all insane?” They look at me as if I’m the crazy one, as if this scheme is fricking brilliant, like their design for the Ark would have blown Noah’s plan right out of the proverbial and literal water. “I am not doing this. You can’t make me.” Now I sound like a kid who can’t have dessert because she didn’t eat her broccoli. “My life is not some stupid romantic comedy.”

  “We actually got the idea from one of your books,” says Keeley, perky once again. “I think it’s genius.”

  “I know what you think,” I snap. She’s stung, and I feel better. But Keeley’s not my main concern. “And you two need to cancel that subscription or whatever and get your money back. I’m not doing it. I’m happy right where I am.”

  “Honey, if you were, we wouldn’t have done this for you,” says Lindsey.

  What can I say to that? I’m shell-shocked, and I shouldn’t have to put up with that from my friends on my birthday. Surprise birthday presents suck. Couldn’t they have bought me crotch-less panties instead?

  “I’m not doing it.” I think my voice sounds firm, but Alicia smirks and says, “Wait until you get to work before you decline our generous offer.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  Still May

  Those bitches. They got to my boss.

  The morning after my birthday debacle, I’m off for a run then to work. I’m a junior editor at Weston’s Publishing Company. We have three offices in the Midwest and de
al mostly with local writers, a lot of wannabe Nora Roberts and Robert Ludlums from the Twin Cities, Chicago, and Des Moines. Sometimes we handle textbooks and other large projects, but it’s mainly fiction and nonfiction. I feel for the staff down in Des Moines, because they deal with Iowa Writers’ Workshop alums. Needier and whinier writers, I have never met. If they want instant approval, they should send their manuscripts to their mothers. Not to mine, though. She’s the meanest critic I’ve ever known.

  I’m in charge of new acquisitions after Kelly Riley, my boss, accepts them for publication. Reading other peoples’ “masterpieces” is both refreshing and dull. The editor in me wants to start correcting minor grammatical errors immediately, but the writer in me wants to enjoy the story first. If the manuscript has no punctuation problems on the first page, I read through to the end first then start correcting, but the instant I find one comma out of place in the first sentences, the red pen-wielding editor takes the wheel.

  I dreamt of writing professionally, but circumstances got in the way. In college I worked as a cocktail server and bartender, so the nights ran late, and I was too tired to write after work. Classes ran all day, so finding time to write during the day was also hard. I read a lot and tried to write a journal in between school and work, but nothing stuck. Now I’m focused on editing other writers’ work and have left my unfinished stories and characters by the wayside. What does that even mean, “by the wayside?” It comes from the Bible, but who thought of it? That’s one reason I love the English language. It’s constantly changing and mutating. Writers dream and imagine new words and someday they might join the everyday lexicon.

  I get to work at 9:00am every morning and greet Amy the receptionist. Her nails and hair are impeccable, and I wonder how she can afford to get French manicures every week. She’s a nice girl and eager to please; she also wants my job. Nothing like a younger, prettier, slimmer version of you to keep a work ethic strong.