Men of the Year

by Colleen McMillan

“The towel around your boobs comes off too you know.”

  “Shut up. I cannot believe this. I have no words.”

  “Apparently you have a lot of words.”

  “Why did you make me do this? Nothing good has come from it. I’m still single, I alienated Justin, I’ve been torturing myself for almost a year—”

  “Dating isn’t torture. You just treat it like it is. Some of those guys were great. Aren’t you still friends with number two?”

  “Tristan? The actor? I suppose. I went to see another one of his comedy shows a few months ago. But that’s not the point. All I’ve discovered is that dating is just as horrible as I remember. And let’s not forget my run-ins with Pete, where you and Keeley abandoned me. More than once.”

  This time, Lindsey hurls her towel at me. I catch it and watch the furious storm cloud descend her face. She points a finger at me and says, “That was her idea! She wanted you to face Pete alone, because if we took care of it, you’d lose strength of spirit or some stupid shit. I wanted to kick his ass back to junior college, but part of me agreed with Keeley. Pete stole your strength a long time ago. It was nice to see you get it back.”

  “And why didn’t you write me a letter at the beginning of all this?” That question has been nagging me for a while. Why didn’t Lindsey put in her two cents like Alicia and Keeley? I thought it was because her heart wasn’t really in the extravaganza, but now she’s talking so passionately.

  “What?”

  “Keeley and Alicia both wrote down their reasons for pushing me into this farce, but there was nothing from you. I figured you’d let me bail out halfway through if things weren’t working out, but then you let me down again! You were supposed to let this thing drop.”

  “You don’t know me very well then.” She watches me pout for a moment, and I’m glad no one else has wandered in on our spat. Two grown women wrapped in towels, otherwise naked, yelling at each other. “Cassie, I didn’t write a stupid letter because I knew you could do this. You didn’t need encouragement. I’d rather use the whip than the carrot anyway. I’m not the softest person in the world, but I do know a little about love.”

  “So, you think.”

  “I was married a long time. I know the ins and outs of a relationship better than any of you. Alicia’s never divorced, and Keeley’s never been married. You and I are the closest, because we’ve both had our hearts crushed by the men we loved and tied ourselves to. I admired how well you did after Pete left you: you got back in shape and worked even harder at your job, but along the way you forgot one important thing.”

  “How to love somebody?”

  “How to love yourself. You run away from your problems, literally. You work yourself so much that you’ve forgotten your writing. And you can’t let anyone in because you’re too afraid of losing yourself in someone again.”

  “Aren’t you?” I feel tears forming and let them trickle out like water from a blocked faucet. She moves over beside me and rubs the tears from my cheeks. I try to push away, but she puts an arm around me. “Of course, I’m afraid. Why do you think I sleep around so much?” We laugh, and the door swings open. Three older women march in, strip their towels away, and parade by us, naked glory swinging. That’s our cue to leave.

  “Seriously,” says Lindsey as we leave the steam room and shut the door firmly. “Those old bags should warn a girl before they do that.”

  “It’s natural and beautiful.”

  “My ass is natural and beautiful. That was just frightening.”

  As we’re leaving, she takes my hand and spins me around. “You’re almost done, Cass. Just two more guys to get through. I wish this had worked, but I don’t know if these last two will crash and burn or be The One.”

  “Come on Linds. You and I don’t believe in that crap.”

  “A girl can dream,” she says, and we head for our cars, the air warming as the sun peeks out from under its cloudy blanket. Maybe spring is finally here. Time to tan up this pasty pale skin a bit.

  Just so we’re clear, tanning up entails rubbing odd-smelling tanning lotion all over my body and hoping that it works. Being pale is the redhead’s curse, but we rarely get skin cancer if we take precautions. Like not using tanning beds or an SPF under fifty.

  I run to the drugstore near my apartment and stock up on a few different lotions and bronzers. Just because I can’t crisp in the sun doesn’t mean I can’t fake it. The clerk eyes my purchases, her brown skin clashing with peroxided hair. She either has no idea that she’s doing irreparable harm to her hair and skin, or she can’t be bothered. She looks like Paris Hilton after a bender. “Does this stuff even work?” she asks, gum bobbing on her tongue.

  “You’d be surprised,” I say and beat a hasty retreat.

  I have a date tomorrow with Howard Hansen, and I’m not sure how it will go, especially after Mateo showed his true colors and fled like a little girl from my bloody chin last month. I thought the full moon brought out the animalistic fearless side of people. Guessed wrong. Howard suggested seeing a movie, which I find odd for a first date. At least I won’t have to talk to him if he’s boring. The movie will take care of that. Maybe he picked a movie for the same reason. Women can be just as tedious as men.

  I reach my apartment and fling the plastic drugstore bag near the sofa. I’ll need it later. Walking around naked in one’s apartment is perfectly acceptable, as any self-tanner applier knows. The trick is to watch out for the ankles and the elbows, and the feet rarely take on as much color for some reason. My stomach is the worst, a milky white expanse. It can blind onlookers if I’m not diligent with the tanning lotion. And don’t put it on your face. It never comes out the way you planned, and sometimes it burns.

  Before applying, I open my laptop and type up the conversation I had with Lindsey at the gym and consider why men don’t pick up women there. It’s a place where you can almost see the body for what it is. I suppose they’re too focused to notice the hotties with okay bodies that saunter around the track in sports-bras and shorts. I prefer to stay covered, at least a t-shirt and yoga pants. Maybe the lack of variety has stunted their sex drives. They’re tired of cute girls running around in spandex. Right.

  I call my mom and get her voicemail, and it’s the same with Dad. We need to plan my birthday, as both expressed desire to throw me a thirtieth party. Can I get both to commit to one party? Perhaps now that they both have significant others I can force them together for one day. I’ll get Alicia on that.

  I can’t believe that thirty came so quickly. It snuck up on me like a cheetah hidden in tall grass, and age is just as speedy. My poor little antelope body can’t outrun it forever. I remember to ask Lindsey how turning thirty felt and smile. She’ll hate me for acknowledging her own impending birthday. Thinking of Lindsey at forty makes me feel much better about turning thirty. Much, much better.

  A theater downtown shows grainy classics like Casablanca and Gone with the Wind. I’m expecting one of those kinds of films when I walk up to the steps and look at the marquee. I nearly lose my fabulous Indian dinner. Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Is it at least the old one? Of course not. Can you have an anniversary screening for a movie that only came out a few years ago? Maybe it’s older than I think. Why would this awesome theater show something like that? Horror Movie Marathon! screams a sign near the entrance. Dammit ladies, I said no more surprises! I suppose I could have looked up the information online, but I had no idea this theater showed shit like this. I enjoy horror movies, but only in the comfort of my apartment, where I have a cat to cuddle and don’t mind if I spill popcorn and where the floor isn’t sticky.

  “Hi!” says an excited voice in my ear. I jump a few feet and cover my ear. “I didn’t mean to scare you!” He giggles and does a small jig. What the hell? Who is this character? He resembles a former classmate of mine: about five-seven, brown hair, freckles but not pale, shining eyes looking for trouble. Hey…is he the guy from my sophomore year? Jumping around like that he might as well be
a happy little elf.

  “That’s okay. I was checking out the movie poster.”

  “Scary right? I haven’t seen this one in a long time. It was awesome back then, so no reason it should suck now, right?” Why did he add “right” after every statement?

  “Sure. Do you want to go in?”

  “Yeah! The movie starts in five minutes. I like to cut it close. I hate the commercials that come on before the movie. It’s like a conspiracy or something.”

  “The theaters have to show commercials to get funding. People don’t go to as many movies anymore.” Cowed by my information, he nods and loses some pep. He gets it right back when we go inside. The foyer is filled with plastic movie monsters and cardboard cutouts. Maybe the horror movie marathon could have been held in October? Just a suggestion.

  He races to the ticket counter and says, “Texas Chainsaw Massacre for one!” One? Is he not going to buy my ticket? All right men, listen up. Women may believe in equal treatment of males and females, but this belief does not include the first date. At least for me; call me old-fashioned. Some good-natured bickering over the check is fun, but I’m not one to argue when a guy reaches for the tab. The parties involved thereafter can determine the second date, but the first date is the man’s chance to show courtesy. By not buying my ticket, Howard condemns himself permanently. I almost turn around, but the girls would want me to try, so I buy my ticket as well.

  “Are you two together?” asks the ticket seller. He lifts an eyebrow, and the stupid red velvet cap rises on his forehead. I make a “thanks for reminding me” face and turn to follow Howard.

  “Where should we sit?” he asks, frantic. He procured a box of popcorn from nowhere and is munching on it. It doesn’t look like the kind they sell here, so where was he hiding it? “I like the middle, smack dab in the middle. How about you?”

  “The middle is fine—”

  “Great! I’ll go save the seats!” He runs ahead of me and into the dim theater, almost knocking over two teenagers. Why are there always teenagers around on my bad dates? They’re everywhere, waiting to mock my misfortune.

  “I don’t think we’ll have trouble finding spots,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. He ploughs forward and gets the two seats directly in the theater’s center.

  “These look good,” he says and plops down, some popcorn flying. “Want some?”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I snuck it in,” he whispers and grins, ecstatic that he got away with it. I doubt the guy at the front cares enough to stop him from eating his own food. I wave the popcorn away and wrinkle my nose. I don’t like to eat mysteriously acquired food. “Suit yourself.”

  He doesn’t say much before the curtains part and show the huge screen, but he whoops and hollers when the lights go out. “This is so awesome!”

  “How old are you?” I ask, but he doesn’t hear.

  The previews fly by with his added commentary: “OOOO I want to see that so much!” “Oh my God that looks so freaking wicked! Spielberg is a genius!” “That looks like crap, why would anyone want to see a movie like that?” “How did that get greenlit?” And so on, ad nauseum.

  I can’t enjoy the movie, even though it’s pretty terrible, because he won’t stop whispering. I try to tune him out, but if he thinks I’m not listening he pokes my shoulder and asks if I heard him.

  “I’m watching the movie,” I say, and shush him. This doesn’t work. After a few moments, he’s back to nattering on about whatever. The teenagers behind us say, “Shut up!” That’s the final insult: when a teenager has to tell a grown up how to behave in public.

  “I have to use the restroom,” I whisper. He nods and refocuses on the screen, amazed that a movie’s playing.

  I go out the doors and march past the ticket counter, where the clerk smirks and tips his hat to me. I scowl and run outside. There’s no way Howard’s getting a second date.

  “And now Alicia says he won’t stop emailing my account, saying that I hurt his feelings by leaving. She doesn’t answer him, but the emails are escalating. Apparently, he threatened to turn me in to the website’s managers. What the hell could he say?”

  “Can’t you get kicked off the site?” asks Mom, sipping her coffee.

  “Who the hell cares? Maybe it would be for the best,” I sigh, faking concern.

  We sit outside Minnie’s, the café from my morning runs. Mom skipped the latte and went right for a red eye, a shot of espresso and dark roast coffee. She drank half of it quickly, and now sits nursing it, teasing out the last drops.

  “Long night?” I ask.

  “Why yes, but we were talking about your problem.”

  “Don’t worry. All Alicia has to do is send copies of his emails to the administrator. Howard will be the one kicked off for harassment.”

  “What a shame. All he wants is to find love.”

  “With his manners, I’m surprised he hasn’t been booted yet.”

  The café owner comes outside and checks her flowers. Even while digging in the potted soil, she wears a light cashmere sweater, fitted khaki capri pants, and adorable ballet flats. She nods at us, and we smile, toasting her with our ceramic cups. She smiles and winks then goes back inside.

  “I suppose Attention Deficit Disorder doesn’t show in writing.”

  “In handwriting it would,” I mutter, gloomy that we’re still discussing my date.

  “Don’t be so maudlin. Isn’t that a fabulous word? I heard it on Oprah the other day.”

  “It’s a great word. I’m not being maudlin. Yesterday was a long day. I got all fake-tan-lotioned up and it didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in me at all. He just wanted a human wall to throw words at. He must get that a lot.”

  “Don’t be mean. Were you this judgmental about the other men you’ve been seeing?”

  “Mother…”

  “You know what I mean. Didn’t we agree that you needed to work on that?”

  “Sometimes snap judgments are correct, and you should go with your gut.”

  “Yes, but you do it so often. Do me a favor, the last man, be kind to him. See where that tactic gets you.”

  “Fine. Any thoughts on my party?”

  “Tons! I have loads of ideas! Your father and I were conferring on a venue.”

  “Dad? And you? Conferring?”

  “Don’t be like that. We get along like adults when we need to.” Since when? “We thought the party might be held at his new place.” New place? “He moved to Sandy’s apartment and her building has a lovely outdoor area, perfect for parties. In late May, the weather should be divine!”

  “Dad moved? He didn’t tell me!” Mom looks flustered, and she moves her cup back and forth in her hands. I glare at her until she looks me in the eye. “When did this happen?”

  “Two weeks ago. Don’t be angry. He didn’t want to burden you.”

  “He’s not a burden!”

  “You are so busy with your work project and dating, he didn’t want to pester you.”

  “This is her doing, I know it. What a bitch!” I stand and turn to go, furious at both my parents but mostly with Sandy. “I’m going over there.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “No, but you must, since you’re all cozy planning my party.”

  “Cassie, stop it. This is unbecoming of a lady.”

  “I’m not a lady, and neither are you, Mother!”

  She clinks her cup down gently and stands up. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry—”

  “No, you’re not. I try with you Cassie, but I never succeed. Can’t you be happy that your father and I can be in the same room again? I’m happy for him and Sandy, and he’s overjoyed that I found Gideon. We’ve moved past our bitterness. It’s time for you to move on as well.”

  She leaves, heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk. A busser comes outside and clears our dishes as I stand with my mouth open. Did Dad not tell me about moving because he thought I was
busy, or did he know I detest Sandy and wouldn’t agree with his decision? I’m guessing the latter. I made my own dad set me aside. Wait, he didn’t set me aside. He made a choice. He knew Sandy and I couldn’t get along, so he separated those parts of his life. I don’t want him to have to do that! He’s my dad! I’ve been so selfish.

  I can fix this!

  I run after Mom, my purse flying behind me, flip-flops slapping the pavement. She didn’t make it far, and I spot her ambling down the street with her hips swinging. She’s pissed. I can tell by the swagger.

  “Mom!” I yell, and she turns. She sees me but keeps going. “Mom, wait!” She doesn’t pick up speed, so I catch her, but she ignores me when I close to her side. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not leading you to her house. She’s done a lot for your father, and she doesn’t deserve to have you belittle her in her own home.”

  “That’s not it. I want to make things right. She annoys the hell out of me, but I haven’t spent enough time with her. Maybe I can grow to like her.”

  “Your father is in love with her.”

  We both stop. I’m breathing hard and Mom’s eyes are glassy.

  “In love?”

  “Yes. And I’m in love with Gideon, and we both love you. That should be enough love to hold this ramshackle family together.”

  I reach out and pull her into a hug. She resists for a moment before folding into me. I pat her back and tell her it’s okay. I can handle Sandy if I have to, for Dad.

  “He needs you, Cassie. You’re his daughter. But parents need other kinds of affection too.”

  “I totally get it. No more lecture! I’ll call Dad and let him know that I’m happy for him, and whatever party you want to plan, go for it. I’d hate anything anyway, considering.”

  “Thirty is a difficult age to celebrate.” We laugh and pull apart, not caring about the staring passersby.

  “You’re right. There’s just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re right about Dad and Sandy, but you’re dead wrong about Howard. He didn’t even buy my ticket.”

  “On a first date?” I nod, and Mom looks shocked, as though I’d thrown cold water down her silk blouse. “Let us never speak of him again.”