Callboys

by SororityProblem

  Nate’s fuel light comes on, making him groan. Usually it felt like he was treading water at best, and drowning at worst. He could barely afford his classes, and he could barely find time to work to pay for those classes because he was always in class. Who had invented that equation? Sometimes he wondered why he even tried at all, when the odds were stacked against him anyway. Growing up he was one of the only lower-class kids living in a high-class district, and parking his two hundred dollar rice rocket next to eighty thousand dollar Range Rovers got old pretty quickly. But he’d gotten used to it eventually, and a few years after high school he was still poor, but comfortably poor, working on the side to go to school part-time with a dream in the back of his mind of maybe going to law school one day. He liked reading and writing and arguing, and he wanted his children’s lives to one day involve all the things his hadn’t, like security and normalcy and stability. But with a dad that was never around to begin with and a mother that came in and out when she was sober enough to remember that she had a son, he had learned pretty quickly to make his own way.

  As he hits the main road he does some math in his head.

  So I’ve got to pay four hundred in tuition next week. I’ve got six hundred in my debit account, which actually is now five hundred and sixty after that dinner. Goddamnit, why couldn’t I have just let Ryan pay?

  …Because you’re a stubborn, immature bastard and always have been, Nate told himself. But he’d been getting better lately- he had to. The sudden death of his brother three years before had changed everything. Turned them upside down, to be honest. Andrew had looked a lot like Nate but didn’t have the same head on his shoulders, and that was his downfall. He got a local bar fly pregnant and ran away from the responsibility, and things only went downhill from there. He died five weeks before he turned twenty-four. But the thing that killed Nate, and still eats away at him as he lies awake at night, was that they never found out if it was suicide or not. No note, no teary voicemails left on family members’ phones, just a pile of wreckage found out in the fields south of town by a hunter and his dog one Sunday morning. But who drives a pickup into an oak tree on an empty country road at sixty miles an hour? The autopsy provided no answers, since it took two days to find the body and by then most tests were impossible. Nate almost envied the families of the people who committed clear-cut suicide, the ones who stepped off a ledge or put a bullet through their temples. At least they knew how the person died, even if they would never understand why they did it. How and why: at least they got one out of the two.

  Andrew’s death had rocked Nate to the core; made him question everything he thought he knew about the world. Sure, people died all the time, but they were old and gray and went still in their beds while their families watched and prayed from above them. But even though he had his issues, Andrew was alive, electric, crackling with verve and exuberance, and he’d been struck down in his prime like a cardinal that dropped out of the sky by a shooter’s bullet. Nate had always noticed that preachers never cried- it was part of the steadfast, stiff-upper-lip business that being a preacher entailed. But Nate’s brother had led a life so exciting, so grand, the preacher himself had sobbed as he spoke the words that buried him. What did life even mean anymore after a senseless blow like that?

  But Nate pushes all that from his head and imagines walking through his front door in ten minutes’ time and seeing little Addie, his parting gift from his brother, waiting for him with open arms. One of the bar flies, Rochelle, had found out she was pregnant the day after the funeral, but Nate didn’t want believe it because things like that only happened in the movies. But Addie happened, alright, and when she arrived eight months later, Nate felt something in him change forever. Addie’s father may have been gone, but Nate never would be. With eyes the color of darkening skies and golden curls that glowed like a lion’s mane, she was everything that was good and true and right about Nate. Sometimes it didn’t even register to him that she wasn’t his daughter, because when he looked at her face, he couldn’t imagine anyone loving another person more. He couldn’t fathom that a biological father could possibly love his daughter more just because she had sprouted from his loins. It was impossible to him. She was the only thing that mattered now.

  A few minutes later Nate pulls up to his front yard, turns off his bike, and spots Rochelle sitting in the grass for some reason.

  “Hey, Shell. How was-”

  And that’s when Nate notices all of his possessions strewn about his lawn like garbage in the dark.

  “What the fuck happened?” he cries as he slams his bike against a post and runs up to the scene. Rochelle stares down at the ground, a bottle of whiskey in her hand and her eyes glazed over like a dozen Krispy Kreme.

  “They came, and they messed up everything, and they…”

  “What?” Nate asks as he rushes over to her. “Who came? The landlord came? You were supposed to be here, Rochelle! You were supposed to give him the rent money I left with you!”

  She looks away, ashamed.

  “I left money with you, Rochelle! I left all my money with you!”

  She thumbs at her nose and makes a sniffling sound. “I ran into some trouble at the bar and lost everything. I’m sorry.”

  Nate’s stomach fills with disgust as he angles his body away from her. I don’t think ingesting all of my money straight up your nose constitutes as “losing it,” he thinks to himself. But he swallows his repulsion. Blowing up at Rochelle won’t help anything, and after all, all that mattered was protecting Addie from her reckless, stupid, drug-addicted mother.

  Wait, Addie…

  Suddenly something blows into Nate like the winds of an August thunderstorm. Ever so slowly, he turns and faces Rochelle again.

  “…Where’s the baby?”

  Once again, she averts her eyes. He steps closer.

  “Where is the baby, Rochelle. Tell me right the fuck now.”

  Rochelle’s eyes, dimmer than a candle flickering in the wind, finally meet his. “They took her.”

  Nate sways a little, the ground beneath him seeming to shift and lurch. “Who took her?”

  Rochelle lets out a little sob and slumps against the back of a sofa. Nate lunges down, grabs her by the shoulders, and shakes her.

  “Listen to me, Rochelle. Who took her?”

  “The government ladies,” she says weakly. “The ladies with the clipboards. They came when the landlord called because of the filth, and they said I was under the influence of drugs when I wasn’t, I swear, and…they took her.” She holds up an official-looking document with the state seal on the top right corner. “They had badges.”

  “Badges?”

  Rochelle trembles, her eyes large and vacant and glassy. “The baby’s been put in foster care, Nate.”

  Nate falls backward onto the grass as his world collapses in on itself.

  Addie’s gone.

  The light around him fades and for a moment it seems like he’s about to sink into the blackness. But something tells him to pull it together.

  No. No, he hears a voice say from somewhere in his head. You can’t do this. Not now. Don’t shut down yet. Addie needs you. You’re all she’s got.

  Suddenly Nate pushes himself up, grabs his keys, and starts for his bike again. Rochelle gets up, too, and grabs at his wrist.

  “Nate, you know how your temper is, don’t go trying to find her now, you’re mad and you’ll get yourself into trouble and you’ll-”

  Nate turns, points a shaking finger at Rochelle, grunts “Don’t you dare try to stop me,” and disappears into the night. And all Rochelle can do is wrap her arms around herself and watch him go, because she wasn’t surprised, not really at all. Even in her stupor, she knew a man as grand as Nate would try to rise to the occasion, even when it was useless as trying to count the shells on the beach. Addie was in the system now, and it was only a matter of time before it swallowed her up and took away any chance she had at a good life. Rochelle knew that all too well. />
  And so with a resigned sigh that spoke of strange men putting strange hands in strange places, Rochelle fell against the couch again and reached for the plastic baggie containing the fine white powder that sustained what little life she had left in her. It was going to be a very long night.

  V

  Guts

  The next morning Marissa sits in her lawyer’s office waiting to transfer over six million dollars into her bank account. She didn’t know what she would do afterward, but she did know that she wanted it to include lots of alcohol and a very hot guy. All morning long she had been scrolling through her address book looking for potential hangouts she could celebrate with and maybe ask to accompany her to the party, and they had all gone like this:

  Marissa: Hey! I just got some good news and I feel like celebrating…bars tonight?

  Random guy from that one cruise two summers ago who just moved to Atlanta according to Facebook: Oh, sorry, family stuff. Maybe next time!

  Marissa: Hey! Hang tonight?

  Random guy from that regrettable make out session at that dive bar last Fourth of July: Damn it, you know, I’ve got basketball practice tonight. Sorry bout that.

  Marissa: You? Me? Sushi? Tonight?

  Random guy from high school with crooked teeth and bad fashion sense that Marissa only texted when she was hopelessly desperate: Damn it, wish I could, but my sister in law’s about to give birth any minute and I’m trying to stay up in Alpharetta to be near the hospital in case anything happens. Next time, promise!!

  Marissa: Hey. Free tonight?

  Guy from Marissa’s mom’s country club that she had been crushing on forever: Who is this???

  Marissa officially gave up after the country club guy didn’t even know who she was. How pathetic. He didn’t even bother bringing out that time-honored lie, “I got a new phone so I don’t have your number.” Usually Marissa felt like peanut butter or Alicia Keys- nobody hated her, but nobody really loved her, either- but by the end of all this Marissa felt like Kryptonite for guys. Thoroughly undateable, an instant boner-killer. And how could she not, between her mother putting makeup on her before synagogue since she was in the sixth grade to hide her blemishes, the boys in school barking and oinking at her whenever she passed them in the halls, and the time she went to go buy a puppy at the mall and it screeched in terror and ran away as soon as it saw her. The pick of the litter had always been Amy, with her straight brown hair and big boobs and cute little nose. Marissa’s only unique quality was her lustrous, wavy hair the color of a fine merlot, the parting gift of a German grandmother she had never met, but she even hated that half the time because of how people would call her a ginger on the street as a child. She’d hired a personal trainer recently and did look a bit better, to be fair, and the subtle shaving down of her nose that Dr. Westhall had performed six months before had helped, too. But in no universe would she ever be considered gorgeous, and she was fine with that.

  Most of the time.

  To kill time she looked up at the TV in the waiting room, which was showing some local 60 Minutes type show where an interviewer sat in a conference room with a sharply dressed guy in his late twenties across from her. Marissa perked up.

  Where were all the guys like that?

  “So, Mr. Meehan,” the host says, “your app ManCard has really been blowing up lately. Women download the app, and once they get approved, their phone displays a digital ‘Dating Card’ that allows them to pick from any one of your company’s database of attractive young men. The original premise was that women who had big events coming up could pick an escort from your roster of pre-screened men and pay them to attend as their dates. Recently, however, questions have begun to arise as to whether any sexual favors are being exchanged. Detractors are even questioning the legality of the app. Are users just paying for company, or is something else in the mix? Some are even calling you little more than a pimp with a Wi-Fi connection.”

  “A pimp with a Wi-Fi connection,” the guest muses. “I like that. In reality, we simply connect women in need of companionship with men who are willing to provide them with that companionship. Anything beyond that is completely up to the parties involved. Does anyone question the legality of a matchmaker? That’s exactly what I’m doing, just over a paid app. And you’re also missing the bigger point here. People are changing. They’re getting married later, having kids later, focusing on their careers and schooling for longer, and things like commitment and partnering up are falling by the wayside. This is a quick, easy fix for those problems. Don’t have a boyfriend for this work party, or that mixer with your department at grad school, or this family function? Just download the app and buy one.”

  The interviewer leans in and rests her chin on her hand. “You have a degree from an Ivy League university, Mr. Meehan. Why did you choose to do this with it?”

  “Because I majored in Gender Studies, but my real passion was social media and tech. So I combined all those into this one app. And because our revenues are about to reach eight figures,” he adds with a smile. “My investors are very pleased, to say the least.”

  “Point well taken,” the host says. “ManCard has been the talk of the Atlanta tech world for weeks now. But what do you have to say to the haters?”

  “Nothing. Women can order anything on their phones, from food to clothing to accessories to archery equipment, so why not add companionship, too? We’ve even gotten letters from feminists cheering us on, saying we’ve put the power back in the hands of women. Men have been paying for company for eons, so why not give that same option to women, too?”

  Marissa tunes out the bullshitting of the suave tech guy and instead studies the banner on the bottom of the screen: CONTROVERSIAL NEW APP BEING CALLED “NETFLIX FOR BOYFRIENDS.”

  Gross, Marissa thinks as she looks away.

  But seconds later, she looks back. She can’t help herself.

  “So how exactly does the process work?” the host asks.

  “Well, you simply download the app, put in an application and submit a recent physical, and if you’re selected, we contact you within hours. We have a bit of a screening process, but most people get through. Next, all you do is select a guy you like, and he can show up at your door step that night, if you want.”

  “How would you describe your clientele?”

  “Hmm. It used to be mostly what you’d expect- lonely older women in between divorces who needed arm candy for an event. But lately our clients have been getting younger and younger, because they’re realizing that there is no shame in doing something men do all the time anyway.”

  “Very interesting indeed,” the host says as she turns to the camera. “We’ll be right back with more, so stay tuned.”

  Marissa bites her lip as the show goes to commercial. A few nights ago she had dreamt of a dating service where an app analyzes your Netflix queue and then matches you with someone with similar tastes, so you can spend eternity cuddling on the couch eating Doritos and watching endless episodes of Homeland and Breaking Bad (and okay, maybe a little Laguna Beach if he’s especially understanding). But this took the cake.

  “Miss Frost?” the receptionist suddenly says. “He’s ready for you.”

  Startled, Marissa grabs her phone and bag and stumbles out of her chair and toward the hallway...but why can’t she get the word “ManCard” out of her head?

  She opens her lawyer’s door and sees him standing behind his mahogany desk with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  “This may be a massive break in employee-client protocol, but would you like a glass of bubbly to celebrate?”

  Oh, she thinks. She’d almost forgotten why she’d come here in the first place. To celebrate, not to drive herself crazy with angst in a waiting room.

  “Sure. You read my mind.”

  She tosses back a glass of champagne as Mr. Cohen arranges the papers. As she takes the pen and begins signing her way to wealth beyond anything she had ever imagined for herself, she waits to feel somet
hing- shock, glee, cockiness. But nothing comes. Honestly she just felt numb, and all she wanted was to have her dad back. She couldn’t even be mad at him for lying about the money, and not only because of his greedy younger wife. Everyone keeps secrets- that was something Marissa knew all too well.

  “So,” Mr. Cohen says when everything is signed and sealed, “how does it feel, being a millionaire?”

  Marissa looks around the room. Something definitely still felt missing, and so far the money was doing nothing to fix that.

  “I don’t know. Cool?”

  “Don’t get too excited, now,” he laughs. “I bet you’re thrilled to celebrate at the party tomorrow night. Don’t get too wild, though, or I’ll have to cart you out of there in a wheelbarrow. Got any eligible bachelors in mind yet?”

  She tries to giggle, but it comes out sounding like a pig’s snort, making her blush. Eligible bachelors? She couldn’t even get a decent guy to respond to her on some stupid dating app.

  Suddenly she sees the face of the guy in the ManCard segment. It would be so easy, so quick, so convenient, she thought. And by the looks of the guys who worked for ManCard that were shown in the report, it would also be so hot. Before she can stop herself, she looks over the table and blurts it out:

  “Mr. Cohen, if you really wanted something and you suddenly found a way to get it, but you were afraid of the morality of the situation…what would you do?”

  He tilts his head to the left. “Marissa, you do realize that you’re asking a lawyer about morals, right?”

  “Oh,” she says. “Oh. I guess you’re right. How stupid of me.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I just meant that you probably wouldn’t want the advice I’d have to give. What about you? What emotions are you feeling on the subject?”

  “Emotions? I don’t even know which emojis to choose when I’m texting people. But I kind of do want your input, though. At this point I’d probably take advice from a water fountain.”