by Claire Adams
“Hello?” I answer.
There’s a lot of background noise, but through the sounds of glasses clinking, loud music and the occasional “Woo!” I hear my friend and former informal bareknuckle boxing opponent saying, “Hey, Rans, it’s Mick. I’m out here with some of the guys, thought you might want to tag along if you’re not doing anything.”
“I’m really not in the mood,” I tell him.
“I thought it might be nice for you and me to get out and do something,” he says. “You know, kind of bury the hatchet.”
“I’m still not in the mood,” I tell him.
“Come on, man,” Mick says. “All our stuff aside, when was the last time you got out and did something?”
“I do stuff all the time.”
It’s not really smart to go into details over a cell phone, so he’ll have to take my meaning.
“That’s work,” he says. “It’s good that you’re motivated, but everyone’s got to blow off some steam every once in a while. You could use a vacation.”
“Bye, Mick,” I say and hang up the phone.
I’m not sure why I answered it in the first place.
Neither of us has been openly hostile toward the other since Mick got out of the hospital, but it’s still going to take me some time before I’m ready to be all buddy/buddy with him again. Even if I were, I wouldn’t feel like it tonight.
Kate’s pulling away, and I really don’t know why.
It’s possible when she saw Mick in the shop after our “little talk,” she felt I’d gone overboard and is two minutes away from ending the relationship.
Did I overreact?
I don’t know. It really seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I mean, I did take the guy to the hospital.
Still, I can see how she might think I went a bit too far. The guy’s nose is pretty hilarious right now.
It’ll heal, I’m sure.
Other than that, the only thing I can think is that Kate’s mom spiked her daughter’s water with something that made her a lot more open to the idea of hating me. Hate’s an exaggeration, no doubt, but she’s obviously not too happy with me right now.
I get back to my humble apartment on the western edge of town, making sure to keep the lights off until I’ve got the front door closed behind me. The neighbors don’t need to know what kind of stuff I have in my home.
Sometimes people have larger mouths than wallets. There are a few things in here I didn’t exactly earn working at the shop.
Every once in a while, a recently-defeated opponent will manage to talk me into taking something other than money to pay for the honor of seeing me beat them on the pavement. I’ve never had pity with a pink slip, but with the right offer, a $1,000 win can turn into a flat screen the size of my mattress.
Thanks to my overwhelming generosity, I’ve ended up with a lot of stuff.
Now with the light on and the door closed behind me, though, I feel like I haven’t really been home in a while. It’s a strange feeling, especially because I haven’t slept anywhere else since that morning Kate and I had to make our great escape from her second-floor bedroom.
I sit on the couch and grab the remote, but I can’t convince myself to press the power button.
Mick’s right: I could use a vacation. I’m not sure if I want to go out boozing with him and whatever group he’s cobbled together for the night, but getting out wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
It’s difficult to pin down why, but being here, surrounded by things I either won directly off of other people or bought with money from other races, I feel so small, so unmistakably alone. It’s not a feeling I like.
I pull out my phone and find Kate’s number. Maybe if I just give her a call, we can talk and work out whatever problem we’re having this week.
It’s too soon, though. Whatever the reason, she’s not thrilled with me right now, and it doesn’t really seem to me that calling her up right now isn’t going to do much good.
I glance back at my enormous television, standing on the antique chest of drawers I won off a guy in a Honda Civic. He was pretty broken up about it, but it was either that or his shitty car. He hadn’t done nearly enough to that thing to make it worth my time.
Usually, I can squeeze a sense of pride looking around my apartment, but right now I just feel like an intruder stuck in a room with a whole lot of other people’s things. I’m starting to feel like I can’t get out.
Looking back to my phone, I find Mick’s last call and I call him back.
“Change your mind?” he asks, answering the phone.
“Where can we meet up?”
I hate to admit it, but after being home for less than ten minutes, I’m looking forward to a night on the town.
* * *
The night starts out innocent enough. I meet up with Mick and some guys I know from the pavement and we have some drinks, talk cars.
Looking back over the last half hour, I’d say the moment things went wrong was when we all agreed that we should check out the new piano bar in town.
I can live with piano music. It’s not the kind of thing I’d play in the car—if I had a car that had a radio, CD player, tape deck, eight-track player, or MP3 input—but it doesn’t bother me, either.
It’s not the music that’s making this so uncomfortable, though.
With a name like The Branded Sub, I probably should have figured out that it wasn’t just a normal jazz bar. At first, I was looking for some kind of naval thing, but once we got through the doors and into the club itself, it became clear enough.
See, along with being a piano bar, The Branded Sub is also a BDSM club.
Now, I’m not one to judge what consenting adults do in their free time, but this isn’t my scene. From the way the other guys are hunched forward, trying not to look at anything but their drinks, I’d say I’m not alone here.
Our waiter—a twenty-something man wearing a black corset, his hands elaborately tied behind his back and a stamp on his forehead in the shape of a crescent moon that’s made to look like someone branded him with an iron—comes by the table with a pleather-clad blonde woman carrying a bullwhip in one hand and a tray of drinks in the other.
“Down,” the woman says, and our waiter drops to his knees and leans forward. Once he’s negotiated his positioning with his hands behind his back, the woman sets the tray on his back. She looks up at us with narrow eyes, saying, “He’s been bad. Make him stay there a while.”
Up until this point, the only words that have escaped any of our mouths were our drink orders. Now, we’re all looking at each other, just waiting for the first person to say it.
“So,” Mick says, but he doesn’t follow it up with anything.
I kind of want to take the tray off of that guy’s back and tell him he doesn’t have to be our drink holder, but I really don’t know what they do to you for something like that here. It’s entirely possible he’s the one that would get mad if we did that.
Gingerly, we pass out our drinks, leaving the tray on the man’s back. When in Rome, I guess.
Still, as I’m finishing up my pint of beer about fifteen seconds later, I think I’ve about hit my limit with this place.
There’s a stage with what looks like a catwalk in the center of the bar. There is a piano sitting on it, but nobody’s playing it right now. Instead, a man wearing an oversized bull’s head mask is holding a microphone against the mouth of his mask, and he’s saying the malevolent fashion show will be starting in twenty minutes.
This really isn’t my thing.
A funny thing happens, though. Without a single word, me and the other guys at the table pull out our wallets at about the same time, take out enough money to cover our drinks, and we all stand and walk to the door.
Once we’re all out on the sidewalk, we all turn to glare at Mick.
“How was I supposed to know?” he asks.
A couple of guys call it a night right then and there, but I’m not ready to face my empty apa
rtment. I haven’t had nearly enough to drink.
So, when Raoul—his real name’s actually Quincy, but I guess he thought Raoul was the better racing name—says the words, “Strip bar?” I’m pretty quick to agree.
I’ve never really seen the appeal to strip clubs, personally. Paying women to pretend like they’re sexually interested tends to make me feel a little pathetic, but it’s a place with liquor that’s neither a bondage club or my apartment, so I’m willing to deal with the more mild awkwardness.
At least, that’s what I’m thinking while we’re on our way there.
Once we’re inside, though, I want to leave. I get that I’m not here to ogle somewhat naked women, but I don’t think Kate would appreciate my coming here after we had a bad date. How could she not get the wrong impression?
Still, I’m not going home until I’m staggering, so I guess we’ll just have to make this quick.
The other guys find a table near the stage while I’m up at the bar, ordering drinks supposedly for the table. In reality, each of the six shots I tell the bartender to have brought to the table is for me.
If I can get through all that, I’m willing to bet I’ll be ready to go home and call it a night.
I get to the table and sit with my back to the stage. It’s still pretty uncomfortable, but I think I’ll live.
Raoul’s saying something I can’t begin to hear over the Def Leppard song these women must be so incredibly sick of by now, and I’m glancing at the bar, hoping that at any moment, a nice waitress will bring over the poison so I can get the hell out of here.
Mike, the only guy at the table going by his real name tonight, nudges me, saying, “Hey, I heard about your last race. Think you’re going to be able to win the whole thing?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Word is that Jax is racing something pretty insane out there, and I don’t think there’s a prize for second place, so we’ll have to see how it goes.”
Mike nods and falls into another conversation as the waitress finally comes over with a tray full of vodka shots.
“Here you go, guys,” she says, setting the tray on the table.
I give her a tip and grab a shot.
“Thanks for the drinks, man. That’s really-” Mike says as he reaches for one of the shot glasses. I swat his hand away.
“Get your own,” I tell him.
After five minutes and all but one of the shots—my stomach can’t handle any more right now—I think I’m finally ready to relax. Unfortunately, I’m in a place where that’s not actually possible.
The problem is that it’s so loud next to the stage conversation’s not much of an option. That wouldn’t be such a problem if I was here for the peep show, but right now, I’m just an increasingly intoxicated guy sitting at a table with people he may as well not know, being pounded by music nobody’s listened to outside a strip club in two decades.
I’m about ready to tell Mike he can grab that shot he’s been eyeing when the music changes and Mick is gesturing wildly, trying to get me to turn around.
When I turn around to look at the stage, my heart relocates to my throat.
The woman on stage with the light skin and long, black hair, I know her. Actually, we used to date.
She and I were never quite a fit for each other, but even after we broke up, I’ve still found myself thinking about her from time to time. Desiree—her real name. I couldn’t tell you what her stage name would be—isn’t just an ex, though. She’s my what-if girl.
For the first time of the night, I watch a dancer’s full set. I get a little irritated when Mick gets up, walks over to the stage, and drops about twenty bucks in singles to get Desi’s attention.
I know what he’s doing. If Desi and I can hit it off, Mick thinks maybe I’ll break up with Kate. This late in the game, I doubt he’d want to go after Kate himself, but it would make things less awkward if I was dating someone else.
Mick’s plan works enough that he gets Desi’s attention and that attention turns to me just as quickly, but I’m not interested. Things may have hit a rough patch with Kate, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to cheat on her. That’s not how I roll.
When the song ends, though, Desi hops off the stage and pulls up a seat next to me. Mick doesn’t waste a lot of time moving to sit on her other side, so before we even start, I ask her, “Any chance you’d like to catch up a bit in a quieter part of the club?”
“There’s the champagne room in the back,” she says, lifting her eyebrows in comically rapid succession.
“I think that might get a bit weird,” I tell her. “How about the bar?”
It’s still loud there, but at least we can get away from Mick.
Yeah, I want to chat and catch up the same as I would with anyone who meant a lot to me that I haven’t seen in a few years, but Desi and I have always been able to talk as friends, even after our relationship ended.
Of course, the fact that I have to justify talking to Desi could be seen as an indication that of a guilty conscience, but that’s really not what this is. I’m almost positive I don’t have feelings for Desi that way anymore. It’d just be nice to be able to have a conversation with someone who I can actually talk to right now.
Or maybe it’s guilt. Who knows?
Desi and I walk up to the bar and we pull up a stool.
“Want anything to drink?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t mind some water,” she says loudly enough for the bartender to hear. He nods and grabs a glass for her. “Are you having anything?”
“I’m already pretty sloshed,” I tell her. “I think I should probably stick with water for now, too.”
“It’s great to see you,” she says. “How have you been? Are you still doing the racing thing?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m actually running in the final round of a tournament right now.” Am I bragging? “How long have you been working here?”
“A few months,” she says. “I know you’re probably not going to believe this, but it’s helping me pay for college.”
“You finally got registered, huh?”
“Yep,” she says. “In about $500,000, I’m going to be a lawyer. It’s a good thing, too, because I’m going to have to be a lawyer to pay off that kind of debt.”
The bartender keeps glancing up at me as he works at tidying up his area. In a place like this, it’s impossible to tell whether he’s got a thing for her or if he’s just making sure I don’t violate the no-touching rule.
“I always knew you’d find a way to do it,” I tell her.
Back when I was a few years younger and living on Mick’s couch, Desi was our upstairs neighbor. She was so quiet, neither Mick nor I even knew the apartment upstairs was occupied until I was coming out of ours one morning and accidentally ran into Desi, knocking the untied bag of garbage out of her hand.
After that, at least once a day, either Desi was at our place or I was up at hers. Our attraction to each other was never particularly a romantic one, more a mutual interest each other’s minds.
Desi always seemed to have everything figured out, and that was a huge thing for someone like me to be around. I was an emancipated minor whose life goals rarely extended past a week, but she had her whole life planned.
Of course, I don’t remember “be a stripper for a while” on the list.
“So, why stripping?” I ask. “I don’t care or anything, I’m just curious. If I remember right, going against your seventy-five year plan was forbidden.”
“I couldn’t work with my dad,” she says. “I’ve found that I can either get along with someone in a work context or I can get along with them in a family context. If it’s both, I’m going to end up hating something, and I didn’t want to end up hating my dad.”
By the time we were both nineteen, Desi and I got our own place. For a while there, it looked like I was going to become part of her life’s plan. Once we realized that we only worked when we could retire to different homes at the end of the night, th
ough, things unraveled pretty fast.
I’d met her parents a few times over the years, but they were always more focused on their jobs than they were about anything else.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” Desi says. “Are you dating anyone right now?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I’ve been with Kate for a few months now.”
“Kate,” she says, “short for Katherine or were her parents just lazy?”
“Oh right,” I scoff, “like your parents naming you Desiree didn’t guarantee that you’d end up in a place like this at some point.”
Desi elbows me between the ribs, but she’s smiling.
“I’m glad to hear you’ve found someone,” she says. “Is it serious?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “No. I really don’t know. Up until recently, I would have said ‘absolutely,’ but I don’t know, things have been a little weird over the last week or so.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “I just got out of a relationship, myself.”
“Sounds like we could both use another drink,” I tell her. “Barkeep, two more waters if you would.” Just for the dramatic effect, I wait a couple of beats and add, “No ice.”
“Better slow down, you crazy animal,” she says.
“Never,” I respond, and we both smile.
A few years ago, I was in love with Desi, or at least I thought I was. The truth is that the two of us were never meant to be a couple. As friends, we fit together perfectly, but the things a person finds charming or easily ignored in a friend tend to become a much bigger deal when you’re starting to talk about spending your life with someone.
I don’t think there was one specific incident that did it. One day, we just kind of looked at each other, realized that the relationship wasn’t making either of us happy, and I started looking for apartments.
We’d always said if we ever broke up, we’d stay friends, only we never really got around to following through with that.
“You look like something’s on your mind,” Desi says. “Wanna talk about it?”
My brain is saying, “Not really,” but my voice is saying, “I don’t even know where to start.”