Daddy Boss

by Claire Bishop

  Beer.

  I’ve never really understood beer.

  It seems to me that if you’re going to drink something with alcohol in it, you’d either want something that tastes good or something that gets you fucked up, maybe both. Beer always seemed to me to be neither.

  Still, I’ve watched enough television to know that when people are stressed and don’t know what to do, they drink.

  I can’t say that it’s ever really worked for me, but maybe I’m just not getting drunk enough.

  “Hey there, cutie,” Irene, Alec’s wife, coos drunkenly as she stands in line for the keg. She leans against me with what I can only assume is supposed to be a hug and says, “I’m going to do a keg stand in a second. Would you like to hold my legs? You’re the only one I trust.”

  “How did you know I was coming over here?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Well,” I tell her, “if you were already planning on doing a keg stand and I’m the only one you trust to hold your legs—you know what? Never mind,” I tell her as she attempts to stand up straight, but only managing what I can only describe as stumbling without moving her feet.

  “You’re so good to me,” Irene says, taking a long drink from her plastic cup.

  “Hey, I’m actually glad you’re here,” I start, but she thinks that’s the whole thought.

  “Oh,” she says, putting her arm around me again, “I’m really glad that you’re here, too. I’ve always liked you, you know. I don’t know what Alec tells you that makes it so seldom that we see each other places,” she slurs, “but I like it when you’re around with us here.”

  “Thanks,” I smile, “but I was wondering if I could get your advice on something.”

  “Anything you need, Errc,” she answers, spitting as she talks.

  “You know your friend, the one whose sister you gave my number to?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Irene says. “Her name is Jessica. She’s a very prerrty girl.” Irene leans toward me and, putting her hand to one side of her mouth, she says, “I think the two of you would make beautiffful babies together, mmm hmm.”

  She nods agreement with her own statement.

  “…thanks,” I tell her. “Well, I actually know her from somewhere else, only she doesn’t know that I’m the one that’s been texting her and that husband of yours—”

  “Alec!” Irene shouts, and while my little outburst earlier went largely unnoticed, Irene and her famous set of pipes bring everyone’s attention to our attention.

  Alec makes his way over, and Irene immediately slaps him across the face.

  “What did you do?”

  “Jesus!” Alec exclaims. “What was that for?”

  “Errerric here says that you did something, now what wasssit?” she asks. “J’accuse!”

  “Oh, God,” Alec moans. “Don’t tell me we’re back to that again.”

  “What did you do?” Irene asks.

  “I told Miss Davis—”

  “Miss Davis?” Irene interrupts. “Is that some sort of sexxx thing? Have you been stickin’ it in other people, ‘cause you know my rule about that.”

  “I know,” Alec says, “only if you’re there. But no, we’ve never done anything. Miss Davis, Jessica, she’s the one we were doing that store remodel for and Eric’s concerned that she’s not going to take him seriously.”

  “That’s not really my concern—”

  “Oh, Errerriac’s a good man,” Irene says. She turns in the direction of the greatest amount of people and loudly announces, “This right herrre’s a gooood man!”

  “I really appreciate that,” I tell her quietly, “but what we’re trying to tell you is that she doesn’t know that I’m the guy who’s been texting with her, and I don’t know if it would be such a good idea if she did now that your husband—”

  “I’m sorry I slapped you,” Irene interrupts, rubbing her husband’s face.

  At this point, I no longer have any impression that Irene’s going to be able to give me any usable advice here. All I can hope for now is that I can somehow convince her that telling Jessica who I am is a bad idea.

  “Just tell her how you feel,” Irene says. “I bet she’d be thrilled to know it’s you.”

  “Well, we’ve kind of had some problems in the past,” I tell Irene. “Things are getting better, but—”

  “Do you want me to talk to herrr for you?” Irene asks. “I’ll totally talk you up—I know! I’ll just tell her that you’ve got a huge dick. Women love that. You have a huge dick, don’t you Errkrr?”

  “I really don’t know how to answer that question,” I say, looking to Alec for guidance.

  He has none to offer.

  “Jessica!” Irene shouts.

  “Don’t,” I tell Irene. “I really don’t think that particular line of communication is going to do me any favors.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Irene says.

  I’m furiously trying to think of some way to convince Irene not to drunkenly announce to Jessica anything about what I’ve got in my pants. Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite comfortable with what I’m packing, but it’s really not my idea of small talk.

  “Hey Irene!” Jessica says and gives her a hug. “This is a great party.”

  “Isn’t it?” Irene asks. “I hear that you know my friend Eric, here.”

  Oh, God.

  “You know,” Irene continues, “there’s something about Eric that I think you should—”

  “Keg’s free!” I interrupt, and praise whatever deity made Irene an alcoholic because she turns on her heel, quickly hands Alec her cup of beer, and without prompting of any kind, two guys that I’ve never met in my life lift her into position over the keg.

  Irene drinks like a champ for 10 solid seconds, and when she’s the right kind of vertical again, she lifts her arms above her head and lets out a loud, “Woo!” to the cheers of the partygoers.

  “Damn, girl,” Jessica says. “You’ve got an iron gullet.”

  “Yerr dammn skippity I do,” Irene says. The smile drains from her face quickly, though, and Alec grabs his wife’s hand.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he says, “let’s get you to the bathroom.”

  “Do you think she’s going to be okay?” Jessica laughs.

  “Yeah, I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I tell her. “In the years that I’ve known the two of them, I’ve never even heard of Irene throwing up. If anything, they’re probably headed upstairs to—so, cool party, huh?” I ask.

  Jessica eyes me, saying, “Yeah, I guess. You know, it’s so funny that you should be here. I had no idea that Irene and Alec were married. The times that I’ve been around her, she’s never actually mentioned having a husband. In fact, and don’t tell anybody this, the last time we were at a bar, she picked up this guy, and—I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she says. “He’s your friend.”

  “It’s all right,” I chuckle. “They’re swingers.”

  “Oh,” Jessica says.

  “Yeah,” I smile. “Not really the kind of mental picture you want to have rattling around in your brain, is it?”

  “Not really,” Jessica titters.

  “So, who’s your friend?” I ask.

  “Oh, that’s my sister, Kristin,” Jessica answers. “We’re actually supposed to be meeting someone here.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Who are you looking for? I know most of the people here. I might be able to help you out.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she says. “It’s not really—I don’t know that I’d—”

  “Let me guess,” I interrupt. “It’s a guy.”

  There’s a strange apology on her face as she says, “Yeah.”

  “All right,” I tell her. “What’s his name? I’ll see if I can help you track him down.”

  “That’s kind of the problem,” she says.

  “Oh, blind date?” I ask.

  All right, this way’s more fun than just coming clean.

  “Something like th
at,” she says. “Kristin gave me his number and we’ve kind of been talking for a while.”

  “What kind of voice does he have?” I ask, really pushing my luck.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “We’ve never actually talked, talked.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, I don’t know. It’s hard to explain,” she answers.

  Really, it’s just as simple as saying, “We’ve been texting for a few weeks now,” but I certainly understand how this situation could make that difficult to convey.

  “Well,” I tell her, “your sister must know who he is if she’s the one that gave you his number.”

  “This is awkward,” Jessica answers. “She got the number from Irene, but Kristin’s never actually met the guy.”

  “Ah, psycho-stalker type, then?” I ask with a smile.

  “No,” she says, “I will have you know that he is—well, I like talking to him, and I think that’s about as much as you need to know about it.”

  I put my palms up, saying, “It’s all right. I was just joking. I’m sure he has a relatively low body count.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she says, playfully hitting me on the arm.

  “Well, not knowing his name or anything about him, I really don’t know how much I can help you,” I tell her.

  “I guess I could try texting him,” she says, “but Alec said he might not make it, something about bad clams or something.”

  “That kind of sounds like something Alec could have omitted from the conversation,” I tell her.

  Even though I was relatively certain that it was her, actually knowing it for a fact and talking to her about myself in the third person has got me wanting to draw this out as long as possible.

  “I’m going to send him a text,” she says. “If nothing else, at least I can find out if he’s going to be able to make it tonight.”

  She pulls out her phone, and I’ve really got to get out of here. The jig is up if she hears my phone go off right after she sends her message.

  “Hey, I’m going to go check on Irene,” I tell her.

  “I thought you—well, it sounded like you were implying that they were—you know what?” she asks. “Never mind. It’s really none of my business.”

  “No,” I start, “it’s not that—”

  She’s texting at a rate that would be impressive if it weren’t so threatening, so I just walk off, taking a right turn toward Alec and Irene’s bedroom.

  I get halfway down the hall, but stop as I hear the bed creaking.

  It’s never really made sense to me how she could go from looking like she was about to refund to the conclusion that sex was what the doctor ordered, but it’s not really something I spend much time thinking about.

  I pull out my phone, and as I go to turn the notification volume down, the text comes through.

  Unless Jessica followed me, which I feel pretty safe in saying she didn’t, there’s no way she could hear the sound.

  The message reads, “Hey, I’m at the party. Just wanted to know if you were still coming.”

  Think, Eric, think.

  I have a couple of options here. I could send her a text in line with what Alec had said and start sowing the seeds of distaste for that version of me, but that doesn’t really seem like the right thing to do.

  I could tell her that I’m on my way to the party, but again I’d run into the problem of either having to tell her that it’s been me the whole time, or “not show up” and make her think that I’m a flake, but neither one of those options really put me in any different a situation than I’m already in.

  Finally, I settle on what seems to be the best version of damage control available to me at the moment, and I write, “Hey, sorry I’m late. I’ve had a bit of a family thing and it’s taking me a bit longer to get out of here than I thought.”

  There: no bad clams, no “I’ll be right there,” just a plausible excuse that’s going to let me tell her that I won’t be able to make it with little to no fallout.

  Maybe that’s the key. Maybe I just need to keep convincing her on both fronts that I’m a standup guy, then, when the moment’s right, I can tell her the truth about everything and it’ll all come out perfectly.

  That’s exactly what I need to do: just keep my plans vague enough that I never actually have to act on any of them, and I can just stay here in limbo while I try to figure out just how much I like this woman.

  I know that I like her, but that’s about all I know at the moment. Well, and that she constantly looks so good. Every inch of her.

  My phone chimes and I look down.

  The message reads, “Okay. Well, Kristin and I are going to be here for a while, so just let me know when you’re here and we’ll meet up.”

  “All right,” I write back. “Hopefully I shouldn’t be much longer. I’d hate to miss the chance to meet you.”

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Jessica asks just as I’m sending the text.

  “Waiting for the bathroom,” I tell her.

  She cocks her head to one side. “It’s upstairs.”

  I keep forgetting that she actually knows Irene.

  Her phone beeps and she checks it.

  “Right,” I tell her. “I must be thinking of my place.”

  What the hell kind of excuse was that?

  “Oh yeah, fuck me, baby!” Irene shouts from behind the closed door at the end of the hall.

  “Well, okay,” Jessica says laughing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I was going to give you and your—ahem—friends a little privacy,” she answers as her eyes plead for me to let her leave the hallway.

  “It’s really not like that,” I tell her. “I just wanted to get a little bit of privacy so I could make a phone call, but it sounds like this really isn’t the best place to do that.”

  “I thought you said you were waiting for the bathroom,” she says.

  “Yeah, I guess I…” my brain utterly fails me right in this moment where I need it the most. “To be honest, I don’t really know why I said that. I guess I was just looking for a plausible excuse so you wouldn’t think I was just back here to get an earful of whatever it is they do to each other in there.”

  “Next time,” she says, “maybe just go for the ‘wanting to make a call’ thing first. That might make it a lot more plausible.”

  I’m humiliated, but Jessica gives me a slight, but sincere, smile.

  “Why did you come back here?” I ask as she turns again to leave the hallway.

  “Oh,” she says, “no reason.”

  “Well,” I tell her, “you seem to know this house as well as I do, and with what I started to tell you about Irene’s post-keg stand ritual, I think you knew what you might be walking into if you came down this hallway.”

  “No! It’s not that, I was just—you know, I sent a text to that guy and, well, I wanted to be able to hear it when he texted me back, that’s all,” she stammers.

  “Uh huh,” I tell her, “and I just wanted to come back here to find a bathroom.”

  “I thought you said you were here so you could make a phone call,” she retorts.

  “You, my dear, are blushing,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I am not,” she says, crossing her arms.

  She wasn’t blushing when I said that, but I didn’t really want to answer her question, and in my experience, telling someone that they’re blushing is about the quickest way to get them to blush.

  “Really?” I ask. “So, why are you really here in the hallway?”

  “Right now, I’m here because you keep stopping me to talk to you,” she says.

  “Oh yeah!” Alec shouts in the bedroom, and Jessica and I can’t stop ourselves from laughing out loud.

  “It was the morbid curiosity, wasn’t it?” I ask her.

  She turns her head, but shifts her eyes back toward me. “Yeah,” she says. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just been a while, and I wanted to try to convince mysel
f that it’s really not that big of a thing.”

  “What a weird justification,” I smile. “Do you want to place a bet?”

  “A bet?” she asks. “What are we betting on?”

  “How do I put this delicately?” I start. “I was thinking we could bet on who finishes first.”

  “Ten bucks says it’s Alec,” Jessica says without any further encouragement.

  It’s a reasonable bet.

  In a regrettably large portion of sexual relationships, you can bet that the man’s going to come first and most of the time, you’re going to be right.

  What Jessica doesn’t know is that Irene won’t let Alec come until she’s gotten hers at least twice.

  I take a moment to reflect on how unsettling it is that I know that, but today wasn’t the first time that Irene and I have had a conversation after she’s gotten a few drinks in her.

  “Deal,” I tell her, and put my hand out to shake it.

  “Wait,” Jessica says. “You seem too confident.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I made a bet and you’re just ready to go for it? No haggling, no pressing for odds or anything. You obviously know something that I don’t,” she says. “He’s one of those tantric guys who can have sex for hours, like Sting, isn’t he?”

  “I really don’t think that there are any similarities between Alec and Sting,” I tell her. “I can promise you that to the best of my knowledge, Alec doesn’t even know the definition of the word Tantra.”

  Jessica peers at me, but she slowly, cautiously, extends her hand and shakes mine.

  “How are we going to tell who comes when?” she asks.

  As if she’d heard the question, Irene starts shouting, “Oh yeah, baby. I’m going to come. Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-uck!”

  “I’d say that’s a pretty good sign,” I laugh.

  “Shit,” Jessica says, and reaches into her pocket.

  “Double or nothing says she goes again before he does,” I tell her.

  “You’re on,” she says, putting the cash back in her pocket.

  This really isn’t how I saw things going today, but it’s something.

  “How long do you think it’s going to take them?” she asks.