“Oh, it’s different.”
Still, I play along.
My number is 560.
“There aren’t that many people here,” I whisper to Annabeth as the woman with the clipboard writes down my name and number.
“They just do that to keep it more random, I guess,” she says. “Ooh, check this out.”
She pulls out her phone and pulls up the internet.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve got a gematria calculator,” she says. “We’re going to find out what your number means.”
I roll my eyes.
“560,” she says. “It means a few different things, but the one I like most is butterfly.”
“Butterfly?” I ask. “How does the number 560 mean butterfly?”
“In Hebrew, every letter is also a number. I guess the Hebrew word for butterfly adds up to 560.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I tell her. “How long do we have to stay?”
“Oh, we just got here,” she says. “Let’s get a drink and keep an eye on that wall.”
As we walk over, I watch the wall. Picture after picture of men and women, holding up bagged shirts with numbers flash across it, and I don’t know if there’s enough alcohol in this place to make that not seem a little creepy to me.
I guess we’re going to find out.
“So,” Annabeth says, “it’s not as bad as you thought it would be, is it?”
I’m not listening.
“Lei-Lei?”
I’m watching an older gentleman burying his face in the bag marked 560, and there’s a weird dichotomy going through my head at the moment.
One part of me feels kind of violated having a stranger sniff my very-worn, very unwashed shirt. The other part of me hopes he goes over and takes his picture with it. I know it sounds weird, but I really don’t want to have to go through that kind of rejection.
I smell good, damn it.
The man puts my shirt back on the table where he got it, and I’m about ready to walk over there and ask him just what’s so unattractive about the way I smell when Annabeth puts a hand on my shoulder.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t get his picture taken.”
She giggles.
“I told you you’d have a fun time,” she says. “Freak.”
“Why wouldn’t he want to get his picture taken with my shirt?” I ask. “I’ve got a good smell.”
“Don’t take it personally,” she says. “Different people look for different things. Sometimes, it’s just an instinct thing. What are you drinking?”
“Tequila,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she says to the bartender, “can I get a tequila sunrise—”
“No sunrise,” I tell her, “just the tequila.”
If I’m going to make it through this night and all the weird rejection issues it’s bringing up, I’m going to want to get pretty buzzed.
“What number were you?” I ask after she finishes ordering our drinks.
“68,” she says. “Don’t even ask me what that one means.”
“That guy’s holding up your bag,” I tell her and point at the wall.
She cringes.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“He’s got the stalker eyes,” she says. “Notice how his eyelids are a little too open and he’s just got that blank expression on his face? Yeah, I’m not going through that shit again.”
“Again?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “Not really something I want to talk about right now, though. Hey, look at that,” she says, nudging me. “560! Go up and introduce yourself.”
I look at the wall, and there’s a tall guy with long blond hair holding my bag and giving the camera a thumbs-up.
“He’s way too excited about my dirty laundry,” I tell her.
She shrugs.
Our drinks arrive and, before the bartender can walk away, I order another one.
“You ready to go sniff out some hotties?”
“I’m nowhere near drunk enough to even handle that idea,” I tell her.
“Come on,” she says, “it’ll be fun. Let’s find someone who smokes weed and see if there’s a party to go to.”
“I didn’t know you’re a pothead,” I tell her.
“I’m not,” she says. “Stoners just seem to like the best music. Come on.”
I laugh and drink my second shot.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “I’ve got one more coming, then we can go.”
She waits—I can’t say patiently—while the bartender hands me my shot and I drink it down. When she’s not looking, I ask for one more and drink that down before I’m ready to go partake in something that I can’t claim to understand.
“How much B.O. should I be expecting here?” I ask. “On a scale from one to vomiting, what are we looking at here?”
“Well,” she says, “I’ve only been to one of these before, but most guys seem to take pretty good care of themselves hygiene-wise. You will get the occasional stink bag, but they’re not as common as you’d think. But hey, some chicks go for that.”
“Some women go for guys that smell bad?” I ask.
“It’s an evolutionary thing,” she says. “I don’t know. You’re supposed to be able to tell whether a prospective mate is healthy by the way they smell.”
“Well, thanks for bringing me to the Discovery Channel,” I titter.
“Just be cool, will you?”
We get to the table and Annabeth tosses me a bag with a blue number card on it.
“What am I supposed to do here?” I ask.
“It’s not brain surgery,” she says. “Open the bag and take a whiff. If you like what you smell, go up there and get your picture taken with it. If not, move on to something else.”
“This is too weird,” I tell her.
“It’s really not that bad,” she says. “Did you know that in Japan, they have vending machines that dispense used women’s underwear?”
“Actually, most places don’t do that anymore,” I tell her.
It’s a mistake.
“How would you know that?” she asks as she opens a new bag and gives it a deep inhale. “Ooh, this one’s nice.”
She hands it over to me and, before I even think about what I’m doing, I give it a sniff.
It’s heavy on the drakkar noir, but it’s mellowing out the lingering taste of the tequila, so I keep it there for a couple extra seconds.
“Not bad, right?” she asks.
“Meh.”
“What does yours smell like?” she asks.
I hand her back the one dripping with cologne and open the bag I’ve been holding. Yeah, this is still pretty weird, but it’s not nearly as creepy as I thought it would—“Okay,” I tell her. “This is one of the bad ones.”
I hand it to her, thinking she’s going to just put it back on the table, but even with my warning, she opens the bag back up.
“Shit, you weren’t joking.”
“I have no idea why you would think I was,” I tell her. “All right, this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but the novelty’s starting to wear off. How much longer are we going to stay here and smell people’s clothes?”
“As long as it takes,” she says. “We are not going home alone tonight.”
“Is that what this is about?” I ask.
“What?” she asks, looking for another blue-tagged shirt to smell. She grabs one and hands it to me.
“Dane,” I say.
“Of course it’s about Dane,” she says. “You haven’t talked about anything else since you left.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
“That’s good then,” she says. “So you should be open to meeting someone tonight.”
“Yeah,” I snicker. “Kids, did I ever tell you the story about how I met your dad? Well, I was at this shirt-smelling party and your dad’s sweat just got me right between the legs. It was love at first scent.”
“Hey, you never k
now,” she says. “People meet in some pretty strange ways sometimes.”
“You’re actually serious about getting me to hook up with someone here, aren’t you?”
She opens a bag.
“This one smells like beer and corn chips,” she says, putting it back on the table.
“You’re not answering my question.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not saying you’re going to meet Mr. Right by smelling his sweaty shirt, but you might just find someone who can take you for a nice tumble and remind you that there are other fish to fuck.”
“That’s easily the worst thing you’ve ever said to me,” I tell her.
“Just lighten up, will you? We’re here to have fun. Let it be fun.”
I open up a new bag, but it’s only a formality. After being smacked in the face by the garment whose owner never showered, I’m done putting my olfactory nerves in the line of fire.
Only, the smell wafting from the bag is a familiar one, even holding the bag open and nowhere near my face.
I close it up and walk to the picture line.
Annabeth’s behind me a second later.
“You changed your mind in a hurry,” she says. “What convinced you?”
“A long shot,” I tell her.
Of course the shirt smells like Dane.
The line moves fast and, before I know it, I’m trying to figure out what kind of expression says, “It’s not weird that I’m holding your dirty shirt because the smell gets me hot and bothered,” but it’s not that easy an expression to divine.
I don’t know what the picture looks like because I don’t look at the wall. The odds of Dane actually being here are so remote that I don’t even want to know whose shirt I’m holding.
Annabeth walks with me back to the table, and I set the bag down. Annabeth, though, just picks it right back up, opens it and puts her whole face in the bag.
“That’s not bad,” she says. “A little conventional for my taste, but it’s all right.”
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice comes from behind me.
I turn around.
It’s not Dane.
“I saw your picture up there, holding my shirt,” he says. “My name’s Will.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m kind of new at this, so I don’t really know—”
“Her name’s Leila,” Annabeth interrupts. “She’s single.”
I flash a glare, but quickly turn back to the man.
“I’m Leila,” I tell him. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Would you like to get a drink?” he asks.
“Only if you’re buying,” Annabeth answers for me.
I scowl at her again, but walk with the man to the bar.
“It’s all right,” he says. “It’s my first time at one of these, too. What would you like to drink?”
“Tequila,” I tell him. “Actually, make that a double with a beer back.”
“Hitting it hard,” he says, smiling. “I like that.”
He’s got a cute smile, but he’s not Dane.
I really thought I was doing the best thing for both of us by not dragging things out. Long distance relationships never work and neither of us were ready to give up enough to stay together, so I shouldn’t feel this conflicted.
He orders my drinks and something for himself and we find a place to sit and talk. I could kill Annabeth for just leaving me with a stranger like this.
“So, what do you do?” he asks.
“I’m a stock broker,” I tell him.
“Sounds exciting,” he says. “Are you one of those people on the floor of the exchange?”
“No,” I tell him. “I handle the portfolios of different clients, give them suggestions as to what stocks within their realm of interest and desired risk level might be good choices. I basically try to make people money.”
“That’s not a bad gig,” he says.
I hope he doesn’t think it’s rude that I take both shots and drink half my beer before responding.
“It’s what I do,” I tell him boringly. “What do you do?”
“I’m a fireman,” he says.
Oh shit.
“Really.” No, it’s not a question.
“Yeah,” he says. “It really takes it out of ya, but it’s pretty rewarding stuff.”
“I bet. How long have you been doing it?”
“About five years,” he says.
“That is fascinating.”
Firemen do something funny to me, and I know I’m not alone here.
“Yeah, so what got you into stocks?” he asks.
“Oh, you know,” I tell him. “Being a part of the financial system that runs everything has its perks—so what made you want to be a fireman?”
He smiles, and I’m starting to find that smile more than just cute.
“I always wanted to be a fireman,” he says. “When I was a kid, most of my friends would talk about being rock stars or movie stars or astronauts or whatever, but ever since I can remember, I just wanted to be a fireman. I wanted to be one of those guys that people look to at their most vulnerable times.”
And I think he’s just explained my infatuation with firemen.
“It’s not all heroics and daring rescues, though,” he says. “On the one hand, you spend a lot of time waiting, and when you do get a call, you just hope you get there before anyone’s hurt. I’ve run across some pretty terrible things. But we don’t have to talk about that. Where are you from?”
“Canada,” I answer, batting my eyes. It’s not a conscious act. “So, are you on call?”
“Am I on call?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Like, what are the chances of you having to rush out of here to go save an orphanage?”
He laughs, perhaps a bit uncomfortably.
“Probably not too high,” he says. “I don’t think there are any orphanages around here. I think the only way I’d get a call is if we had something catastrophic.”
“Wow.”
Who am I right now?
Of course, that thought leads me back to standing in Dane’s doorway, and for a moment, I completely forget about the sexy fireman sitting across the table from me, trying to decide whether I’m attractive enough to forgive a little bit of crazy.
“So, what brings you here?” he asks.
“Oh,” I say, straightening up and trying to at least pretend that I’m not a complete flake. “My friend Annabeth,” I tell him. “She dragged me out of the house, put me in a car and told me we were coming here. She’s the one standing in line to have her picture taken with four bags right now.”
He looks over my shoulder and, by the way he’s closing his eyes while his upper body shakes tells me that he’s spotted her.
“She looks…determined,” he says.
“Yeah, she’s a bit of a freak,” I tell him. “So, what brings you here?”
If I can’t think of anything intelligent to say, I can at least bat back the same questions he’s asking me, right?
“My brother-in-law,” he says. “He and my sister come to these things all the time and try to ‘meet’ each other by smell.”
And that’s fantasy number two. Okay, so it’s not why he’s here, but at least he’s familiar enough with the concept of the open-eyed-blind-date that it shouldn’t be too weird if I suggest it sometime in the future.
And now I’m thinking about Dane again.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “They’re really not weird people, I actually think it’s kind of romantic.”
“It is romantic,” I tell him. “It’s just—I’m still in the process of getting over someone right now, and everything is making me think of him.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “If it helps at all, I know what that’s like. I got divorced a few months back. This is actually the first time I’ve really gone out since it happened.”
“It sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says
. “It does.”
We sit through an uncomfortable silence for a little while.
“Would you like another drink?” he asks. “It looks like you’ve got quite the tolerance.”
“Not so much,” I tell him, “but I would love another drink.”
If I’m going to get Dane off of my mind for good, this is probably how I’m going to have to do it: one good-looking fireman at a time.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tracers
Dane
I don’t know how long we’ve been swimming, but I’m pretty sure I’m starting to play chicken with the “don’t get too drunk” rule. I’m not getting mean or even slurring my words that much, but I have to admit, I’m pretty sloshed.
Wrigley’s off at the other end of the swimming pool, cackling with one of her old friends.
Me, on the other hand? I’m making another trip to the drink table and trying to figure out what I can have that’s going to keep the buzz going, but not put me over the edge.
Before I can decide, though, Wrigley’s hand is on my shoulder and she’s telling me that we’ve got to get out of here right now.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Someone’s coming,” she says. “Someone our guys in the hall can’t detain or turn around. Grab your shit and come with me.”
I should have known tonight was going to end this way.
I grab my clothes and Wrigley grabs my hand. She leads me to the women’s showers and whispers for me to get dressed.
It’s completely dark in here right now, I can only assume to throw whoever might go to the pool that there aren’t a bunch of recently-naked drunk people hiding in the women’s locker room.
“Did someone grab all the liquor?” I ask in a whisper.
“It’s taken care of,” a man’s voice answers from my left.
I guess we’re all in here.
If it’s a woman coming for a swim, it does occur to me that we’re probably going to give the poor lady a heart attack, all of us crammed in here. I can’t vouch for whether everyone’s clothed or not, the way Wrigley basically threw me into the room.
“If the guards think everyone works here, I don’t know why we’re worried about someone finding us. Everyone’s dressed, right?”
Wrigley answers, “The guards think we work here, but that’s not going to hold up for very long when someone who actually belongs here blows the whistle.”
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