The American and The Brit: Unsolicited Advice

by K A Young

  "What? I can't hear you. This bag is slapping me in the face and rendering me hard of hearing!” She opened the vanity mirror and shouted, “We’ll never look presentable if this is our method of transportation. Just look at my hair!”

  I did and laughed as her long dark brown locks took on the appearance of a matted poodle. Leaning over, I hit the button for the glove box and pulled out a hairbrush and some cheap Aqua Net hairspray. “Easy peasy, we’ll run to the little girls’ room, spruce up and we’ll be good to go. We’ll find jobs and if we don’t, we’ll sell tickets to desperate horny old farts to have a gander at those breasticles.” I goaded her a bit more. “I’ll be the manager, set it all up.” She groaned in response. I think my tit jokes were starting to wear on her.

  A moment later though Liz started laughing; her laughter is contagious. Within seconds we were driving down the highway in fits of giggles with tears streaming down our faces. “Stop laughing, I really need to pee.” I choked out over a fit of giggles.

  "You're not the only one!" As we cruised down the road in my death trap I call a car, laughing our asses off, broke and without our next job prospect, life was good. Yes, broke and without a plan for our future, life could still be good. Or perhaps we were just delusional. Either way we were happy.

  Lizbeth

  The First Encounter

  As our laughter died down Phoebe’s face took on a somber look. She was thinking about the job situation and beating herself up again. Maybe I’d overreacted to the predicament Phoebe had gotten us in. If roles were reversed I probably would have handled this whole job situation the same way. That’s what made us so dangerous together, two nutters floating through life without direction. It was also what made life so much fun. It always amused me to give Phoebe a hard time, so it was worth holding on to the illusion of utter outrage for a few more hours. It was kind of fun watching my poor guilt-ridden best friend wrack her brains trying to get us out of this mess. I should be scared shitless; I wasn’t. My decision to pick up and move to America was the best decision I had made after a long line of poor ones. Albeit it was only mere days into my new adventure, I still felt confident this had been the correct move for me. I didn't really have a lot to stay in the UK for. My mother was so excited when I told her that I was thinking of moving she practically threw me on the plane. Mom has an obsession with cowboys. She honestly believes that all American men are the Sam Elliott type, strutting around in their boots and chaps. She reads too much. Well, if it were possible for one to read too much.

  I hadn't realized we had been quiet for so long when Phoebe whispered, "I'm sorry." Guilt slammed into me with the force of a freight train. I'd been such an arse! As I looked over at my best friend driving this miserable excuse for a car I noticed that she hadn’t changed all that much in the last ten years. Her dark hair flew around her shoulders with the look of determination in her milk chocolate brown eyes that were oddly so close to the same shade as mine. That was where our similarities in appearance ended. I had a good four inches on Phoebe’s smaller frame. But on the inside, that was where Phoebe and I were practically identical and the phrase sister from another mister fit us perfectly. Smiling, I took in the way her brow knitted together when she was deep in thought. She’d had a similar expression on her face that took me right back to that rainy afternoon.

  I’d walked into the pub nearly soaked to the bone yet somehow oblivious, ordered myself a cider, sat down, and began writing in my diary. I hadn’t even noticed the fact that I spoke aloud as I wrote. She, on the other hand, was completely tuned in to my drama.

  “What an absolute crock of shite! What a complete arsehole! I should have known. I'm kicking myself for not seeing what a cheating, lying, and pathetic excuse of a man he is. Man? Ha! Child, more like. Cheating on me with Melanie, 'I'll do anything for a smoke', Jones. Eewww, my skin is crawling just thinking about it. Michael Davies, you can take a flying fuck through a rolling ring doughnut. I've given you nearly three years of my life, which I'll never get back! Well, twatface, I'm keeping your shit and selling it on eBay, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it!”

  "Wow. What a total dick!" A girl sitting two tables over was snickering—at me, I think. I slowly closed my diary and took a long sip of my cider, assessing this girl out of the corner of my eye.

  I usually enjoyed people watching; I'm happy to hide in the background unnoticed. I hated attention and I could quite happily sit here for hours trying to figure out what they were thinking or saying, but every time I glanced her way she looked away with a look of amusement in her eyes. I couldn’t help but notice that she was getting pleasure watching me in my misery. This I didn't like.

  "Can I help you?" I almost shouted while straightening my back, trying to look more confident.

  As she turned to face me she replied, still snickering, “I really don’t think you can. You seem to have your hands full of dick at the moment. I, however, may be able to help you.” Was she drunk at two in the afternoon?

  "Do I know you?" Who was this girl? And why on Earth was I being so polite?

  “How the hell could you possibly know me? I do know you, or chicks like you, anyway. Allow me to share my philosophy of men with you.” Her words began to slur. “Men are assholes, never expect more and you’ll be on the right track.” She belched loudly. “’Scuse me. No, you know what? Don’t excuse me.” She began laughing hysterically. I glanced at Pete the bartender, who looked just as confused as me. He shrugged and carried on cleaning the glasses. I wasn't in the mood for this today.

  "Listen to effing Oprah over here! Pissed as a fart and spewing crap." Is Oprah like royalty? Should I have said that?

  “Oprah?” She appeared thoughtful for a second then continued, “I’d say I’m more like Jerry Springer. No wait, Ricki Lake. It would be a hoot to gather all the nut bags together and watch them go at each other.” She began laughing again, then sobered a bit and asked, “You do know who Ricki Lake is, don’t you?”

  "Of course I do. We do have televisions here, you know!" I retorted with a snort.

  “Well, how the hell would I know? The only thing my idiot group wants to do here is go to museums.” She swigged the last of her drink.

  "Well, I think you're pretty rude, seeing as you are a visitor in our country." Shut up Liz. Don't get into politics. You're crap at politics.

  "I am, yes, and I have freedom of speech. Freedom to say 'bartender, pour me another' and maybe I can drink away this god-awful weather." She had a point there. Our weather was schizophrenic. Today alone we’d had sunshine, rain, and hail within an hour of each other. I was actually stumped as to what to say. Something intrigued me about this girl. Was it because she was American, or that she had the balls to get shitfaced this early in day? Getting shitfaced sounded more inviting by the minute.

  "Pete, pour us both one." Yes, I was warming to this girl.

  Two hours later we were both paralytic and laughing our arses off pretending to have our own talk show. Everyone that came into the bar was a candidate for our no-holds-barred commentary. We were getting laughs and having a grand time. Phoebe did an awful impression of the queen; how I didn't wet myself I'll never know.

  "We ought not take the piss out of my minions," Phoebe slurred and hiccupped at the same time. Laughing hard I not so elegantly slipped off my barstool and ended up stuck between two tables with my legs spread-eagled.

  “Liz!” Phoebe shouted, bringing me back to the present. “I said I was sorry. You aren’t going to keep holding this grudge are you?”

  “No, we’re good.” I patted her shoulder that was now relaxing with relief.

  “What were you thinking of?" she asked in a lot more chipper tone.

  My thoughts drifted back and I laughed. “I was thinking we should get shitfaced.”

  She nodded. “Good idea, we do our best thinking in that state.”

  No truer words had ever been spoken.

  Phoebe

  Oh Mickey, You’re So Fine
/>   As I navigated Wilf into the parking garage of my apartment building, now our apartment building, I waved at the guard as he allowed me to pass through the gate with a tight nod of his head. I’d been thrilled with the building security when I signed the lease; now I felt like I was being compared to the other residents. People were so freakin’ nosey. My car offended practically everyone in my building. Well, piss on them. Liz, humiliated, hid her face from the sight of onlookers, evoking a bark of laughter from me. After I got out very slowly Liz swiftly crawled over the seat, hoping to emerge before being seen. Her plan was foiled when her right boob slammed against the horn, which echoed throughout the garage. As I stood there laughing she shot me a glare that was meant to strike me dead where I stood. We have ocular conversations in moments where audible conversing was out of the question. Her eyes were shouting that she’d throttle me within an inch of my life if I didn’t stop having a laugh at her expense.

  Mine replied, Well, that I cannot do, then tagged a quick LMAO.

  After she managed to extricate her taller frame from my car I reached into the back seat, grabbed my bag, then shut and locked the door. Liz rolled her eyes at my futile attempt to protect Wilf from being kidnapped. A silent sigh had left my lips before I whispered sorry to Wilf and unlocked him. It would actually be a blessing if the car was by some miracle stolen.

  As we started for the elevator, our arms laden with cider, we moved as if we were synchronized, both stopping short as I nearly went into cardiac arrest at the sight a couple of yards in front of us. He was standing with three other security guards, all dressed in their usual black uniforms. His back was turned toward us and I couldn’t help but notice how the guard ensemble fit his frame perfectly. I mean seriously, Liz and I were nearly drooling by the way his large shoulders filled out that short sleeve shirt, his biceps testing the limits of the cotton sleeves. And his ass…. I swallowed hard. There wasn’t an ass on the planet that did what his did to those pants. As I looked over at Liz she was busy fussing with her hair with one hand as she clutched our only hope of a plan in her other. At this point her attempt at calming her frizzy mane was futile. My hair wasn’t any better, and as I wasn’t about to risk dropping the cider I just let it be and kept on staring. Hopefully he dug the windblown look.

  A throat cleared and shook me out of my fantasyland that may have included him, handcuffs, and my bed along with a few other fun items. After a quick adjustment my leather Coach hobo bag was higher on my shoulder. This small task had given me a second to consider my options. Then I gave Liz a nod of confidence that said, we’re too good for the egomaniac anyway. He had to be an egomaniac; anyone who looked that good spent tons of time working at it and I had no respect for vanity like that. I was a down to earth sort of girl who ate real food and lived a real life. Lying to yourself in these situations really helps.

  With my chin lifted higher than was necessary I waltzed my blingy, forever-growing ass toward the smokin’ hot hiney. We were okay, no big deal. So they caught us checking out the new security guard’s goods. So what? It’s not like they don’t do the same thing to women. With a smile I whispered, “We’ve totally got this, bed head and all. We’re way too good for him anyway.” She gave me a solid nod of agreement, providing me with the confidence to march forward. I had every intention to just brush past them and board the elevator until Sexy Ass turned around. I was mid-stride when his slate grey eyes met mine. All bets were off. I tripped over my own feet, falling forward, arms flailing as my bag went skidding across the parking garage. Liz screamed so loudly that my eardrums nearly burst. A lot of help she was. As I lay there mortified, finally understanding the desire to have the earth open up and swallow me whole, the thought actually occurred to me to play dead, or at least unconscious.

  “Get up quickly before anyone else sees.” Liz crouched down, whispering in my ear. I think she did that on purpose to show off her cleavage. She could be so selfish sometimes. And those security assholes, what happened to gentlemen helping the poor damsel in distress? This confirmed yet again my spot-on assessment that men are swine.

  "Can I help you, ma'am?" I snorted to cover my bark of laughter as his voice traveled to my ears—he sounded very similar to Mickey Mouse. Understanding that I was in no position to laugh at anyone at the moment I swallowed it down for later. I mean, really…how could he look that good and sound that bad? I managed to roll to my side, still hugging my cider, thankful that only a few cans had succeeded in escaping and managed an indignant scowl. Liz was now chasing after the two escapees, giving yet another showing of the breasticle peep show without us making a dime from it. It was quite comical; every time she bent down to pick one up, her frizzy hair blocking her view she accidentally kicked it, sending the can skidding off. Could this day get any worse?

  Even in my current predicament I remembered my manners and replied to Mickey Mouse, “No, thank you.” I fought hard not to laugh at myself and attempted to salvage a shred of dignity as I managed to scramble to my feet in the most unladylike fashion. I may have even grunted a little, who knows? I took in the gorgeous mass of man in front of me. A girl could certainly dream He was all pressed and clean-shaven, lovely to look at. After a quick minute-long mental debate on whether or not I could make a relationship work without him speaking at all I decided against it. I’d had the longest dating dry spell of my life, but I was willing to let this one go. Desperate I was not. After we remedied our employment dilemma our dating problem was next!

  When I turned my attention to Liz I spied her on her hands and knees reaching under a car for a rogue cider. The car alarm started to go off and she shrieked, knocking her head against the rear bumper. God, we were a pair. The laughter I’d been containing burst free and I actually snorted in front of hot ass Mickey. I had to get the hell out of here. Now. “I’m going, Liz!” I shouted, ignoring everyone else and wishing they would all just disappear as I bolted for the elevator, running awkwardly as I had bruised my knee in the fall. Just as the doors were closing a mass of hair and cider came racing towards me as Liz managed to slide through in the nick of time.

  “You could have held the elevator for me,” Liz grumbled.

  “With what free hand?” I argued while looking down at the precious cider in my arms. She nodded her understanding. We were totally on the same page now. “We should definitely get shitfaced ASAP.”

  "You don't need to tell me twice!" She cracked open a can. "Bottoms up!"

  As I watched Liz guzzle down the contents with envy a thought hit me. “Hey Liz, do you think we’re turning into alcoholics? I mean, we turn to cider at the very first sign of trouble. Oh...” I had a glimmer of hope. “Maybe that’s why I lost our jobs.” We could get into one of those Hollywood rehab clinics that I’ve seen on TV with the pools and all the free food.

  Liz laughed at me. “We aren’t alcoholics, Phoebe, we’re too poor for that. We are, however, very good drunks.”

  It wasn’t until we were safely inside the apartment that I let out a sigh of relief. Unfortunately my respite only lasted until I looked down at my sweatshirt and I spied a huge brown coffee stain on my left breast. When did that happen? I dropped my bag and the cider on the kitchen counter and ran into the bathroom, horrified at my reflection staring back at me. My hair was a complete mess with strands of my dark brown hair frizzing out everywhere. It was just as bad as Liz’s. I looked like a hobo. Pulling the band from my pocket I pulled my hair and myself together. I didn’t have time for this; we had real problems to deal with. Who cares that a group of stupid security guards laughed at my and Liz’s clumsiness? Who cares that one of them, with the hottest ass that ever graced God’s green earth with a body and face to match and a migraine-inducing voice, saw me fall flat on my face?

  “Forget about it, Phoebs! Staring at yourself isn’t going to change anything. You looked like a hot mess, so what? It’s not like he was the one or anything,” Liz called from the living room. She knew I’d been obsessing.

  “Definit
ely not. I don't do cartoon characters. A girl’s gotta have some standards.” I yelled, feeling a bit wounded.

  "What was that?" Liz shouted back.

  "Nothing," I grunted.

  “We’re too young to find Mr. Right. You have to go through dozens of Mr. Wrongs to finally make it to Mr. Right. I read that in a woman’s magazine written by a really old bag. I had time to kill on the plane ride over.” I heard the crack of another cider and my mouth watered.

  With one last glance into the mirror I exited the bathroom and grabbed a can off the counter and drained it, feeling much better. I then took a minute to really gaze over the lovely abode that without a miracle Liz and I wouldn’t be able to afford. “Liz, in a few years we’ll be—”

  “Don’t even say it!” Liz held up her hand to cut me off before I could even utter the word thirty. “We still have three good years ahead of us. Besides, you remember what the medium said. There are exciting things to look forward to. I will need to choose which path I should go down in a few months’ time and I'm going to need help. Also..." She paused to roll her eyes. "He also said that a Phoebe is good for me and you're the only Phoebe I know. It must be fate. I do like this apartment.”

  “Me too, and of course I’m good for you. Two loons like us have to stick together. It’s almost as if we are a different species altogether.”

  “A true statement,” she agreed as we took in the newly decorated apartment that was mostly modern pieces offset by soft pillows in blue grey tones that I acquired from a secondhand shop—okay, it was actually several thrift stores—but it all looked quite good. I’d done my best to copy the design from a piece that had been written in some designer magazine I saw in the Target checkout line. I didn’t even buy the magazine, just snapped a few shots with my phone and put it back on the rack. I was going through my I’m going to be an interior decorator phase that lasted a whopping two months. That was the problem with me; I never finished anything. I must have ADD to add to my list of medical conditions.