There Are No Men

by Carol Maloney Scott

  I try to get Bianca alone, but now she’s doing shots at the bar, and Max is laughing like crazy watching her get more and more wasted. Before I know it, I’m doing shots and I can barely stand up. I hope I don’t have to throw up because there is no way I am getting down those stairs in one piece. As I teeter back to the floor Bianca screams that I should take my shoes off. I look to the side of the stage and see a pile of poor footwear choices. Screw it, I’m doing it. I wander in that direction, holding my shoes. I hope no one steals them, but right now I don’t care.

  As I approach the side of the stage, I hear two voices. They can’t see me because there is a curtain hung up to create a makeshift stage. Even though the crowd is loud, I’m close enough to hear them because they are shouting to hear each other.

  “Wow man, that’s awesome! Congratulations! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I peek through the slit in the curtain and see Brandon shaking hands and hugging his bass player, Jon.

  “I know how you are with the whole baby thing and I didn’t know if you’d be into hearing about it, but Cassie and I are pretty stoked. A little baby rock star.”

  Jon punches Brandon’s arm. What does he mean—I know how you are with the whole baby thing?

  “No—don’t ever feel like that. I have my own opinions, but you and Cassie should do things your way. I’m really happy for you guys.”

  Jon picks up his bass and says, “Thanks. Pregnant women are totally nuts. The crying, the food cravings, and it’s only been two months.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll get a great kid out of it. Who doesn’t want to be a dad, right? But you know I just…”

  I drop my shoes in the pile and take a deep breath before taking off to rejoin Bianca and her friends in front of the stage. I don’t care anymore if he overheard me. Who doesn’t want to be a dad, right? Lots of men, Brandon. Men who do important work. How does he think he could support a child anyway?

  I return to the jumping and gyrating carousers, and now that I can move around unencumbered by stilts, I shake my ass off. A good time is had by all, and as the night draws to a close, I realize that I have had a wee bit too much to drink. Again. And I even ate before coming here. Why was the room not spinning when the band was playing? It’s like Brandon’s voice saying “You guys want one more?” triggered a case of severe dizzies and a realization of how many I’ve had—drinks, not songs. Now in the hustle and bustle of the aftermath, everyone looks as horrible as I feel. Smeared makeup, disheveled clothing, discarded shoes—shit, I hope I can find mine.

  I don’t see Bianca, but I have no idea why I want to talk to her anymore. Right now I just want to get home and go to bed. Two problems with that. Really three. I need my shoes. I can’t possibly drive like this, AND Nathan is supposed to come over. It’s almost two o’clock, though. He can’t be planning on coming over now. Shit again. I think my phone was vibrating and I mistook it for the buzz of blasting speakers and blue drinks.

  I stumble over to the shoe pile, which is like a mass grave of bad decisions, and start sifting through all the stilettos and platforms. I think I see mine. Yep, that’s one. Damn it, it’s a little smashed. I think I can fix that. Where the hell is the other one now? I think I’ve spotted it. I can’t reach it so I lean forward and end up laying on the pile. I did not fall! I simply placed myself in the cradle of leather and bling, which is not entirely uncomfortable. Maybe I could climb inside the pile and sleep awhile before the bouncers see me.

  “Jesus, Claire. What the hell are you doing?”

  Why does this man keep catching me doing stupid things?

  I turn over and realize that my halter top has shifted and it is possible a boob has escaped. Not that it would be any great big flopping display, but there’s enough to identify it as an actual boob. As I try to adjust myself, Brandon looks away, shaking his head and offering me his hand.

  “I can’t find my other shoe.” I stumble forward, unable to articulate any more words, like “I’m sorry” or “the show was great” or “your beard looks really good.” It’s probably a good thing the stupid thoughts in my alcohol soaked brain can’t find their way out of my dry, disgusting mouth.

  Brandon grabs a chair, seemingly from thin air, and pushes me down into it. He asks one of the guys to stop breaking down the equipment and watch me for a second. “Hey, man, could you just hold her in place for a second. I need to find her goddamned shoe.” The guy mumbles something I can’t make out. “No, she’s not my girlfriend. I’m not her type.” More mumbling. “Right, I know man…a handful…just want to get her home…thanks.”

  I accept my indirect scolding and try hard to stay put in the chair. I want to check my phone but it’s in my pocket. My jeans are so tight, and my movements so unsteady, I’m afraid I’ll fall on the ground if I try to retrieve it, and Brandon will leave me here in a footwear tomb.

  “I got it. Thanks, man.” The guy stops holding me and I immediately slump in the chair. I try to right myself and Brandon takes the other shoe out of my hand. He motions to put them on my feet, but examines them more closely and decides not to bother.

  “Claire, I’m going to take you home now.” He holds my face in his hands. “You should have some water and aspirin. I’m going to take care of you, but I need you to walk to the car with me. I could carry you—I’m a little stronger than you think I am, but I think if you just lean on me I can manage.”

  Even in my drunken stupor I am catching on to the subtle hints here. He heard me. Now I have to trust him to take me home. Hopefully he won’t dump me on my front porch or in the bushes.

  Brandon pulls me up to standing and leads me out of the bar. He’s fully supporting my weight, and I’m choking him with a death grip around his neck. He places me in the car and buckles my seatbelt.

  “Fuck, now I need gas!” He bangs the steering wheel and this causes me to jump.

  “I’m sorry, Claire. We aren’t that far from home and there’s a gas station right across the street. Maybe I can get you some water and those little aspirin packets they have. That’s what we’ll do. Just lay back and relax.” He reaches across my body to fiddle with the seat back adjustment, and his stubbly face lightly grazes my cheek. I hold my breath so he can’t smell my undoubtedly rancid breath.

  At the gas station, he reminds me that he’ll be back in a minute, starts pumping the gas, and disappears into the convenience store to get my water and aspirin. I make the mistake of turning towards the passenger side window and catch a fuzzy glimpse of myself. Holy crap—I look scary! What if Nathan is coming over? I have to get to my phone, but first I need to fix my eye makeup. I look like a crack whore coming home from a bad night on the job.

  He must have some tissues or napkins in the glove compartment. I fumble with the latch and the door pops open. There’s a lot of crap in here. I see some napkins buried under all these papers. Is that a lipstick? Maybe it’s just Chap Stick. Why do I care? Damn it, now my leg is vibrating. That’s my phone. I lean back and dig into my pocket for the phone, but now my legs are hitting the open glove box. Jeez, there isn’t much room in this car. I don’t care what he says, but a big man could not own this tiny car. I guess they needed his truck for the band equipment.

  I manage to grab the phone, but it slips out of my hand onto the floor, of course all the way in the corner. This is ridiculous. I still need the napkins, so I lean in to swipe a few, slam the glove box shut, stretching forward to grab my stupid phone, which is vibrating again. As I do this I hear Brandon returning to the car. Shit, I wanted to answer that.

  I start to sit up and realize my halter top is not only untied, but one strap is caught in the glove box! I drop my phone in my lap and begin to wrestle the strap, which promptly rips off. I can hear Brandon replace the gas nozzle and shut the gas cap. As I peek back and see him collecting his receipt, I attempt to tie my top, but now one string is longer than the other and my motor skills are significantly challenged. Dizziness has turned to double vision, and as two Brandons open the car
door and begin to present me with my bag of drunk girl remedies, I jump up holding each string straight up in air, as if I am surrendering to the authorities or creating a goal post with my arms.

  He throws the bag in the cup holder and jumps in the car, slamming the door.

  “What the hell happened now?” His angry eyes look dark blue, reflecting the gas station’s illumination and the moonlight. He sighs deeply and takes the straps from my hands, attempting to tie them. Of course he sees the problem right away, opens his mouth, presumably to ask how this happened, and gives up. He drags the one string far enough around to the side, so that he can make a tiny bow resting on my shoulder.

  “That’s all I can do for now. At least you’re covered up. Jesus. It’s a good thing I noticed you before we packed the truck. Are you going to answer that phone?” He points to my pulsating lap.

  I somehow find the silencer and press it, and scroll through my texts. I have received about twenty messages from Nathan.

  “I hope you’re having fun. Can I stop over?”

  “Sweetie, I would like to see you.”

  “A patient of mine died tonight. I’d like to see you and talk about it.”

  “Claire, where are you? You’re worrying me.”

  “Where the hell are you? I am calling the police if you don’t respond soon!”

  The messages are increasingly emotional, becoming angry. His patient died? Which patient? Maybe that’s what he was so grumpy about at dinner. Why are men so close mouthed about their problems?

  “Is the doctor worried, Claire? Frankly, he should be because I think you may have alcohol poisoning. Is he coming over?”

  I nod my head yes. He opens the bag and pulls out the water and aspirin, opening the cap and popping out the pills. I dutifully follow his instructions, gulping down half the bottle of water.

  “...and when you get home you should not go to bed right away. Drink more water. That poor bastard, you are going to be useless for a booty call tonight.” Brandon smiles.

  “Hey, it’s not a booty call! He isn’t that type of man!” My voice sounds strange and hoarse, even to me. Brandon flinches and blinks.

  “Now she can talk. You’re right. Most nice guys come over to see their girlfriends at this hour, after refusing to accompany them to a social event. That is completely normal and—”

  “SHUT UP!” My head bobs and weaves from the force of my words.

  Brandon glares at me, and backs the car out, heading towards home. We sit in silence the whole way. I want to tell him that I enjoyed the show and I’m sorry for my behavior, but now I’m too pissed off. This is not a booty call! Men like Nathan have probably never even heard that term, and he will take care of me. I don’t need Brandon’s medical advice.

  I am still seeing two of everything as we pull up in front of my house. I guess he isn’t planning on walking me to the door. He hands me what appears to be four shoes, and I slip them on my corresponding feet. I start to say something and he points towards the house. Nathan is on my front porch and walking down to greet me.

  “Thanks, Brandon. The show was great,” I whisper and get out of the car. Nathan waves to Brandon and starts walking towards the car, but Brandon pulls up his own driveway and into his garage, closing the automatic door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Here we go with the damn lawnmowers again. I know people have to mow, but why do they all have to do it at once? As I shift to an awakened state, my head screams in throbbing agony, and a deluge of last night’s events saturate my hung over brain. I gasp and flop my arm over to the other side of the bed. Empty. My front door slams and I hear footsteps on the front porch. Nathan? I fling my debilitated body out of bed, and peek out the blinds in the guest room across the hall, just in time to spot Nathan speeding away to the end of the cul-de-sac.

  I crumble into the chaise lounge next to the window and curl up in a ball. The house is chilly this morning, and I just want to grab a fuzzy blanket and stay here forever. I need Brandon’s afghan. Brandon. He was so mad at me and I don’t blame him. My behavior was disgraceful, and I wasn’t even nice to him while he was trying to help me. And poor Nathan. What a night. I don’t think we fell asleep until after six. I prop my head up and squint to see the clock on the end table. Eight forty-five. No wonder I feel like death.

  Just trying to sit up is agonizing. I need to take Dixie out but she hasn’t stirred. I stagger downstairs holding on to the railing. I need water desperately—my mouth is dryer than cotton. Cotton would be like a moist towelette compared to the barren desert wasteland that is the hole in my face. I must look like a puckered prune. I vow to avoid any mirrors for the rest of the day. Maybe the week, considering the severity of the situation.

  I locate a bottle of water in the fridge, which isn’t hard, given the sparse contents. It looks like a teenaged boy is in charge of my shopping. Only one with no money, car or knowledge of where to find a grocery store.

  Nathan practically carried me in the house last night. He asked a lot of questions about where I’d been and what I’d been doing. Obviously, he could see I was completely wasted. Like Brandon, he thought I might have alcohol poisoning and he wouldn’t let me sleep until I had consumed gallons of water. Miraculously, I have not thrown up once.

  We finally retired to my bedroom, where he tucked me in and laid down next to me. He even took care of Dixie. She had pooped on the floor because I was gone so long, but he didn’t even yell at her. He took her outside on her leash, brought her in and gave her a treat, and put her in her crate for the night. He kept telling her how silly and irresponsible Mommy was; his indirect way of sending me that message. That was all he said, though. I certainly deserved a bigger lecture.

  He began to tell me about his patient who died. Apparently she had heart disease and wouldn’t stop smoking. He had been treating her for the past year, and had grown fond of her. This lady, Nora, reminded him of his favorite aunt.

  “My Aunt Dolores lived with us. She was the only bright spot in my family. My mother was—I should say is—cold, and my father was controlling and demanding. Dolores believed in me. She took me to the playground, and she encouraged me to have fun and enjoy life. She was my only cheerleader and positive adult role model.”

  “What happened to her?” My words were faint and weak, muddled with sleepiness and intoxication.

  “She had a bad heart. Smoked. Ate bad food. Didn’t exercise. The usual.” He paused and wiped a tear from his eye and started rubbing my back. It took tremendous willpower to stay awake at that point, but I didn’t want to drift off when he needed to talk.

  He went on to explain how she died when he was fourteen and he was never the same after that. He didn’t feel like he had an ally in the family. His sister Barbara was his closest family member, but she was four years older and not the best influence.

  “Barbara was a nice girl at heart, but she was a wild one. She was promiscuous and a drug user—some of it was rebellion against our parents. They were so conservative, and Barbara drove them crazy.”

  I turned over slightly to see an amused grin forming on his face, and then quickly fade.

  “I started spending a lot of time with her friends, and they all thought I was cute. There was one friend, Janice, who was especially interested in me, if you understand my meaning.”

  I did, but I didn’t want to hear about this.

  “I wasn’t ready for that level of intimacy, not like that.” He shudders and continues. “She was an odd girl, but I craved the attention. It wasn’t a healthy relationship, but looking back, I don’t know if I would have avoided her. In the end she helped shape me, and got me through a bad period. When I went away to college I lost touch with her. She was older then and out on her own. I think the novelty of our game wore off at that point.” He sat up and rubbed my back more firmly. “And the rest you know.”

  I wanted to say that isn’t true at all. I know almost nothing about his adult life, but I’m grateful for what he has shar
ed about his youth. It explains why he was so upset at dinner, and why he’s been agitated since right after we met. She was my only cheerleader and positive adult role model. Nora was dying and he couldn’t save her, and that triggered his feelings about his beloved aunt and his difficult childhood.

  Maybe our relationship has him thinking about his early relationship with Janice too. There was one friend, Janice, who was especially interested in me, if you understand my meaning. I wonder what she did that made him shudder at the memory. Maybe she was just an older girl pushing a shy, inexperienced boy out of his comfort zone. She was obviously much too old for him—actually that was illegal, come to think of it. I think the novelty of our game wore off at that point.

  I continued to enjoy the massage and drifted off. The next thing I remember is waking up to the grass cutting concerto.

  I know he left so I could get some rest and he’ll check on me later. Even though I feel like total shit, I am so happy that he opened up to me. I can’t let him find out that I have high cholesterol. That will trigger more bad memories and fears. Enough with the psychoanalysis—I need more sleep and aspirin. I pluck Dixie from her crate, take her out (in the backyard!), and curl up with her on the couch for a long slumber.

  I wake up in the late afternoon, shower, eat a light meal of soup and some crackers, and pass out again until morning.

  I look and feel a little rough at work on Monday, but I’m holding it together.

  “You look like shit! What the hell happened to you?” Rebecca grabs me by the arm and drags me out of the lunch room into her office.

  “I need to get to work, Rebecca, and I need coffee!”

  “You don’t drink coffee!”

  I throw myself in her guest chair and wish we had elected to order the more comfortable ones for the HR offices. I proceed to give Rebecca a censored version of the weekend’s events, leaving out the parts about arguing with Brandon about the supposed booty call, and Nathan’s deep confessions.