There’s awe on the man’s face as he nods, his eyes shiny with tears.
I can’t stop watching as he’s pushed faster and unbelievably faster around a hockey rink. People in the bleachers stand as he zooms by, hoping for a glimpse of the miracle. As he passes on one wheel a loud cheer erupts in the building. “U-S-A, U-S-A!”
He’s glowing with fever or excitement, I’m not sure, and is whispering something over and over. “Faster, Faster.”
I say a silent prayer that his chauffeur doesn’t hear the command, but it goes unanswered. They’re just a blur as they narrowly miss the walls of the rink.
Another player comes onto the ice, pushing a black hockey puck back and forth. More players appear. Defenders of the goal post. I get it.
Never has he ever… scored a winning goal.
He’s maneuvered through player after player, his speed slowing to almost a crawl. And then it happens. He has the puck. Leaning precariously forward in the chair, he manages to guide the puck around defenders till he’s close enough to…
He shoots. An alarm sounds. A red light flashes, and confetti drops from the ceiling. The people in the stands—most likely his family—race onto the ice, patting him on the back, congratulating him.
The team skates up behind him, holding an orange bucket, sloshing ice and orange liquid everywhere.
No, they can’t!
But they do. The bucket of icy orange liquid is poured over the man’s bald head. What the hell?
A fleeting look of terror crosses his face before it’s replaced with utter bliss.
The burly men slap him on the back. A few hug him. The goalie hands him the puck.
The man, chilled and closer to death, says. “Thanks for the victory shower, Mason. It was perfect.” The video freezes on the man’s smiling face. A date, four months ago, is superimposed over his happy face. The date of his passing. They didn’t…kill him…did they?
I rewind and examine his radiant face, thanking Mason, even after the dousing.
Then it comes to me. He wanted to feel like a champion. At least once in his life, he wanted to know what it felt like to get the Gatorade shower. I continue staring at the smiling face for I don’t know how long. So this is what Mason does for fun.
I click a translucent yellow bubble and see a picture of an elderly woman wearing a jaunty beret. She’s frail, gripping a walker, and a caregiver is holding her upright around her middle. Beaming, a grin caught in time, she gestures towards the open French doors. The Eiffel tower, sparkling with millions of twinkling white lights, is framed in the open window. It looks impossibly close, as if she could stretch a little more and touch it.
You’re one of the good ones, Mason! reads the caption beneath her. There’s nothing else, no date, which makes my insides warm. I love that beret, the spirit she possesses as she wears it cocked to the side. Even though I’ve just seen her once, I’m glad to know she’s still in the fight.
I can’t stop staring at the sheer enjoyment on her face. Gaunt, obviously near the end, probably the last big smile of her life, captured just for Mason. I start to cry. With happiness. No matter how many spankings and crazy never have I ever’s it takes to get this smile, Mason, you are A-OK in my book.
Each bubble is the same. A picture or video of a once-in-a-lifetime event. One lady with no legs swam with sharks. And the heartfelt appreciation of the receiver. I make my decision. I’m not going to get anywhere sitting on the sidelines. I want to be immortalized in Mason’s soap bubbles. Make mine a rainbow prism soap bubble. With glitter on top.
……
Mason
Never have I ever…
I wish I could type used my own services. But who would I be kidding?
I type in my request. It’s always the same. Never changes. I’m a creature of habit.
I type in …had a girlfriend.
And wait. Fuck it.
I never chat with the same girl twice, and as of yet I have never met with one in person. My experiences have been the antithesis of my dream to be someone’s boyfriend. It’s not that I’m a dick or a player…I just want good old scrambled eggs when all that’s being served is boiled, in cracked shells. I don’t need some strange. Just some good old normal.
No one’s captured my attention yet. Made me want to be a boyfriend.
Maybe it’s because I missed my window, my opportunity. College was a hotbed of single, boy-hungry co-eds, plenty of them willing and able to plug themselves into the missing slot in my life.
I heard the whispers, my teammates’ catcalls. I’d be showering after practice and I’d hear, “One of Mason’s groupies at the door.”
But I’d grab my gear and hurry by. It wasn’t my time yet. I had a sick mother to get home to. Never really had the whole young love, whispering-on-the-phone-at-all-hours, sneaking-out-windows-to-meet-up kind of thing. My mom got ill just when I was getting started.
So there were no phases of girlfriends wearing my shirts, sleepovers, making me scrambled eggs for breakfast. No pregnancy scares, scandals, or bad breakups. I had a mom to get to doctors’ appointments. That was enough drama in my life. More than I could take, actually.
Sometimes I think I could have dealt with Mom’s early passing a little better if there had been a special girl in my life. Someone who would stand by my side. Support me when I couldn’t even get out of bed. But that wasn’t the right time either. Mom needed all of me. There was nothing left of me to flirt or be engaging. Just weeks before she passed, Mom had been trying to fix me up with her manicurist. And then Gram took up the torch, trying to pass me off to any girl who would have me.
I’m not a virgin, far from it. I get offered sex plenty, and I’ve got repeat offenders, so I know it isn’t my technique, that keeps sex from turning into an us. But it’s always from the career girls. Unattached, looking for a quick orgasm, sometimes I get a business card. Most likely, I’m handing them a card, not wanting to look like a dick, like they do as they walk away without even a thank you. Women like Mia, my favorite newscaster.
Ladies on their chosen career path looking to rise to the top in their field unencumbered by attachments. There’s no room in the one-seater that will bolt them straight to the corporate offices to live their life as happy, young executives with all of the same perks as their male counterparts. No nuisances like a mate to get in their way or steal their passion.
As with all new species, I’m learning as I go.
This new breed isn’t looking for a gentleman. I opened the door for one, sassy in work attire, talking on her phone, carrying bags. What a dick, right? I guess so.
She glared at me, caught my eye, and used the other door. The closed fucking door. Okay. Noted. I let the door fall shut, feeling like an asshole for trying to be nice.
This type of woman sees me for the one thing I’m good for—a fun romp in the hay, maybe a few orgasms, and then back to work, single. No intimate dinners, repeat phone calls, or compliments needed. I almost feel used, but then I remember I’m a guy and suck up my hurt feelings.
Sucks for me. I want the girl who giggles at my jokes, grabs my arm during scary movies, waits for me to hang pictures in the apartment, maybe calls me to catch a spider in the bathroom, needs me to move boxes or furniture, and give her an orgasm. Or whatever. Just needs me. I don’t even know if that’s what boyfriends are supposed to do, but in my mind that’s what connecting looks like.
How do I form all that into a never have I ever question? How do I get that? I want the big goofy grin instead of the ridiculous duck lips.
How is that even a thing? Who was the first jackass to tell a girl that looks sexy? I’d like to junk-punch his dumb ass.
I keep trying, though, sampling my own merchandise. A bad way to run a business, my family would say, but this ain’t whiskey. I’m not worried about becoming an alcoholic. No, what unsettles me more is loneliness. Sitting in this same spot when I’m fifty.
Maybe I’m too close. The Oz behind the curtain.
I’ve got the most successful website for hooking up…but what about meeting up, with our clothes on? Aren’t there any nice girls left that I can bring home to Gram?
So, yeah, I take whatever girl I can get. I’m not choosy. I just want someone to ask me how my day’s going and really give a shit. What I’m up to and really listen to my goals and dreams. Maybe share some of her own.
Have I eaten today? How’s work? How you feeling?
Generic questions that guys in relationships take for granted. One day, I’ll make the jump and have that for my own. Ask one of the never have I ever’s out to dinner, maybe a movie. Mundane couple shit. I want that. I just don’t know how to get it.
I don’t want to be like my father, flitting from one exotic flower to the next. Never committing to one flavor, just sampling nectar from all the lovely blossoms.
I throw the bait out and feel a bite on my line.
A heart pops up on my window and bounces from side to side. Someone wants a video chat. Contestant Number 1. “How’s your day going, sweetie?”
Sweetie, I like that. She’s starting strong: a pet name and a question about my day. Maybe I won’t be sleeping alone tonight.
Just working. The same. How’s your day? Setting the parameters, I define what I want. Just a regular conversation that two people that care about each other would have.
“I’m lying in bed naked, waiting for you.” Shit, really? She’s already there? I try to save it, but my bubble’s about to burst.
“What do you like to do? Do you like to cook? Maybe watch movies?” Let’s get back on track, shall we? Invite me over for a home-cooked meal, maybe a movie. We could snuggle on the couch, and neck.
Oh…I don’t cook. Maybe you could come over here, I’ve got some whipped cream and chocolate….
I cut the connection. Hard boiled, cracked shell. Not the right one.
Several hearts bounce with possibility. There’re too many fish in my sea. I don’t even look at the pictures. I just choose the first one I land on.
Hi, baby. Sitting here in my nightie thinking about you. A picture of her manufactured breasts pops up on my screen. What nightie?
Do you cook? It’s abrupt. I don’t have the heart for banal chatter that goes nowhere. Plus, it feels artificial. I just want a real chat with someone who cares about me.
Why…you like it hot? Want me to whisk your bottom? Crash and burn.
Ugh, I liked sweetie better, and that’s not saying much.
“Where do I order the nice girls?” The take-charge girls. The ones that know what you need without having to beg, or worse, pay them for it? I’ll take a woman who knows her way around the kitchen and my heart any day over fake boobs and promises.
I admit defeat. Don’t women know how to be girlfriends anymore? I call Gram. I’ve been needing to have this talk with a woman who cares for me. Well, someone who cares for me like a grandmother, not a girlfriend, but still, you gotta take love wherever you can find it.
I get her voicemail. Shit, Whiskey Wednesday. “Hope you’re not drinking alone. Just thinking of you, Gram. Thanks for always loving me and being there for me.” Somber, I even get choked up as I hang up.
Then I realize it sounds like I’m about to off myself, so I clarify in a text. Nothing’s wrong, just missing you.
Before I send yet another form of communication likely to freak Gram out even more, I click on CancerChlo’s page. At least one other person in the world wants to know me. I can deal with a little guacamole, as long as she doesn’t expect me to eat it off of her naked body. Avocados give me gas.
I send her my heart.
Chloe
After a night filled with dreams of bubbles, make-a-wishes, and haunted, happy eyes, I wake with a crick in my neck and drool all over my laptop screen. Ugh, I’m going to be stiff all day. I use the smelly blanket—much worse now, I’ve really got to wash it—to wipe my face. I’m sticky from falling asleep with the ice-cream container on my chest. Not sherbet. I chipped a pint of chocolate mint loose. At least I didn’t throw it up, but there is chocolate everywhere.
I set the laptop on my kitchen coffee. The place is tiny, so everything has to have a dual use. Even my kitchen table/coffee table.
I stretch to work out the kinks. It doesn’t do much, and I can’t stand the drying ice cream on my screen. I grab a balled cry tissue from the floor and wipe at the runner of drool and sugar on my laptop.
All it does is smear. I lick my thumb a few times and use the nail to pry loose a few other dried spots of questionable liquids.
That’s when I see it. A great big heart, like a wayward ping pong ball, bouncing around my screen. I’ve seen this before. On the site last night, with an explanation. Maybe this is a training heart. I look around like there’s someone in the room who can explain to me the inner workings of the F#ck It list.
“What’s this?” I’m still logged onto the F#ck It list. I fell asleep actually reading all the wonderful testimonials, and it looks like I’ve got a chat request. At least that’s what it says when I hover the mouse over the randy heart. From Mason Dixon…
What?
In the fuck?
Did he remember me and my pants-sabotaging ways? Is that why he wants to chat?
I click it, and one sentence pops up.
Never have I ever… told anyone a secret about me.
Hmmm. A secret. What does one of those even look like anymore? I’ve been blabbing my diagnosis to anyone that will listen—even the stranger in the Yugo. So my cancer doesn’t feel like anything scandalous enough to talk about. Plus, I gave away the ending in my screen name.
But why a secret? It’s such a random request. Interested? I hope not. I don’t want to have to let him down by explaining my not-girlfriend status with Paul.
I make some tea as I think about this change of events. If he’s holding his breath, waiting for my answer, then I’m too late. He’ll be dead before I’m able to get through all my immediate Chloe needs, which are so numerous it begins to feel like I’m stalling.
I glance at the screen. Mason’s heart has stopped bouncing. My own heart turns over in my chest.
I’m too late! He’s moved on! Searching for other secrets!
As I berate myself for not jumping right up out of a dead sleep and clicking the heart, I notice the color is changing and it’s no longer bouncing. It’s beating. A slow, steady rhythm. It’s shiny and black, then fades all the way to a light gray, before coming back to black as it pulses. He’s still online, waiting for me. I should have given him more credit. I grab the mouse with a shaky hand. Now or never, Chlo.
Fuck it. I click it and start to type, feeling like a Jeopardy contestant. Never have I ever… gotten arrested.
……
Mason
I’m on the phone with Gram, making plans for tonight, when I get the bouncing heart. She paid extra to design her own. It’s a rainbow prism of colors.
I smirk and shake my head. Are you sure about this, Mason?
But’s it too late for second thoughts. I hope she knows the bouncing heart is a face to face chat.
“All right, Gram. I don’t know how you expect to rescue animals from the zoo, but yes, I’ll build you a polar bear pool if you manage to snag one.”
She laughs. “Don’t be fresh, Mase.”
Smiling, I say, “You don’t want me expired, do you, Gram?”
Whenever I try to cut it short, she seems to be just getting started.
“Ahhh, this kid. Love you. Get back to your workout. And think about what I said about taking some time off—if not from work, at least from interviews till all this tax stuff blows over. With that face, I’d think you could act a little better. And stop winking so much. It makes you look drunk.”
I blow out a breath. Gram’s not pulling any punches today. As long as she’s keeping me on the line, I might as well ask her. “Gram, why’d you send me all the private messages from CancerChlo?” I keep my eyes on her heart as I listen to
the why.
“Well, it’s about time! I thought you’d never ask. Thought we’d be on this call all day. Let me think, hmmm, besides the fact that she asked for you specifically? Oh, and what about the fact that she’s the youngest last wisher that we’ve ever had? Just a little younger than you, in fact.” She takes a breath. I’m in trouble. If I didn’t know before, I do now. “And she’s not asking for anything but your time, which you better have in abundance. I don’t want to see you on my TV mugging for the cameras. Be present, Mason,” Gram sighs, and I sit.
I need a minute.
“She reminds you of Mom.” It’s not a question.
“Yes. As soon as I read what she wanted, I thought to myself, if Abigail could’ve had an Eff It wish, she would’ve wished for exactly that, from your father.”
Both of us sit and think about a different future. One where my mom could have made her request heard and not been ignored.
Gently now, Gram says, “Give her the time, son. If you’re lucky enough to be asked once, it’s a blessing. She’s asked three different ways. Don’t make her ask again.”
She clears her throat and my talking too is over. “Your Gram loves you no matter what you decide.”
I think I say I loved her too, but I’m not sure.
When I hang up, I’m in just the right morose mood to talk to someone dying of cancer.
That’s no good. I check Chloe’s heart—still bouncing—and hurry out back. I cannonball in and let myself sink to the bottom. When my butt hits the drain, I scream in frustration. The deep end is where I let my emotions out.
Somehow over the course of a year, I’ve managed to avoid talking about either of my parents. Gram’s respected that, never pushed. In the space of a week, a leak developed, and I can’t stop the fucking tidal wave of emotions roaring through me.
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