Ryan pointed out my car, not knowing it was mine. "You see what I mean?"
My eyes drifted to a black convertible Mercedes lining the street that had Ryan’s name written all over it.
I was ready to leave when Chris spoke up, defending my car, breaking into one of his chronic information overload speeches. "Actually, that car is very special. From the looks of it, it's a combination of the front from a '71 Firebird, and the back, from the windshield on, of an '84 Camaro. It has dual air exhaust, jacked-up gas-shocks, racing slicks, and I am going to guess a Posi-traction rear end, among other things, with racing mags, and special edition locking hubs." He paused, then added, "It could use a paint-job, but it's covered in primer, so I'm guessing that's next in the queue."
I was blown away. At that moment in time, Chris was my best friend in the world. Everything he said was correct, and the fact that HE had said it seemed to make it a lot more interesting than if I had said it. Chris did seem to love his cars. Everyone was impressed.
Even Ryan said, "I stand corrected."
I saw Bo's eyes light up with new wonder. "How did you attach the front and back end from two different cars?" She asked me.
Ryan face registered his mistake. "Oh! It's YOURS! I'm so sorry! I honestly didn't know. Insert foot. It actually sounds quite impressive. Again, I'm sorry!"
I answered Bo, "We couldn't weld it because the different frames didn't quite line up, so we actually had to bolt the frames together; and used the transmission from a '70 Oldsmobile because the original one wasn't long enough to reach."
Ryan commented, trying to be funny, "Quite the Frankenstein car!" Then realized he had already insulted the car once, and began back-peddling again. "That probably came out wrong. Insert foot again. I have no feet left to insert in my mouth, so we should be good for a while." At least his apologies sounded genuine, and he was funny, so that helped. Of course, with his accent, everything he said sounded funny. He could say, “Bo just broke up with me,” and I would probably laugh.
Mags added, "I bet it has a big back seat."
Amane rolled her eyes again. "Count on Mags to go there." Despite her criticism, there was always a genuine affection underneath it all. Mags, for all her painted-on edges, was one of the team.
Ryan pointed to the primer and offered, "I have some connections to a detail shop in town. If you would like, I could get you a world-class paint job at a reasonable price. I'd be happy to make the call."
I gritted my teeth. Was he showing off? Saying I was too poor to get my own paint job? Saying how great and connected he was? Saying how I couldn't do it without his help? I counted to ten and swallowed. I was learning to do things like that.
His face was innocent and sincere. Like Bo's. If he was being condescending, he hid it well.
Did people really exist who were selfless? It went against my understanding of the world, but I was beginning to wonder.
"Thanks. I appreciate that, but I've put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into this Frankenstein Monster already." It wasn't intended as a fight. I was trying to make a joke that included him. "I look forward to finishing the job when I get the chance."
"I understand," he smiled gracefully. "My offer stands, if I can ever help with anything."
"Go back to England," I thought. Aloud, I simply said, "Thanks. Much appreciated."
I had to drop the chip that was suspended from my shoulder. He might be a pretty good guy, and I was blowing this way out of proportion. If I couldn't get the girl, I was at least getting a world-class bunch of new friends.
But I wasn’t giving up on the girl.
[ Bonding ]
We broke into teams. Me, Chris, and Mags - big surprise there - she seemed to be hanging on me like bears to their honey. Against Bo, Ryan, and Amane. We played a few games, and laughed and joked, starting to break down the walls between Ryan and me. When we were done, we stopped for some drinks. This time, we snuck some real drinks and hung out on the front porch, since Bo's mother's friends were getting lit in the back yard. Someone broke out a small Hibachi grill, and we roasted marshmallows.
Mags turned on the radio in her car, and gave us some tunes. As if on queue, Kesha’s BLOW started playing and Mags was on her feet, forcing us all to dance. She pulled me close and cranked her hips into mine, then raised her hands in the air. She wasn’t drunk but there was a fire in her eyes. It was as if she were trying to make Bo jealous, pointing out that if Bo was not going to make a move, there was nothing stopping Mags.
Bo stopped dancing and tried to settle everyone down. “Waylon has had a long day. He doesn’t have to dance if he doesn’t want to.”
Mags stopped and cooly replied, “Are you telling the boy what to do? Funny, I would not have expected that from someone who feels so strongly about that particular topic. Care to elaborate?”
Bo stiffened and glanced at me. “Dance, if you like. Whatever.”
I did not want to cause a fight with anyone, especially Bo. “I’m good. Miller Time.” I headed for the beer cooler.
The reference to Miller Time caused Chris to go off on a recitation of beer commercial slogans, one after another, which – in turn - led to TV jingles in general. The next thing we knew, we were all trying to remember commercial jingles from our respective childhoods, in different states and countries. From there, it turned into a discussion of sexiest cartoon characters, which put Chris in his glory, since he was an almanac of virtually every comic known to man.
Bo surprised me by revealing that she was a fan of Japanese anime, originally because of the art, since she was an artist, but then falling under the spell of some of the stories as well. She liked Hei from Darker Than Black. That was her animated hottie. The man behind the mask. I smiled. Under the cover.
I admitted I liked Disney's Kim Possible.
Mags nodded. "She's my kind of girl. She can do anything."
"Just like Mags," said Chris, obviously jealous.
Amane took one of her pot shots, "No. Mags DOES do anything. Not COULD."
Ryan admitted, “I have a virtual fetish for Cat Woman.”
Bo looked at him incredulously, "Oh, really?"
"Well," he stammered, "It's not as if I'd ever ask you to dress up in a cat suit and mask, with a whip, I mean not unless you were interested, but..."
"Yes? Go on..." She tapped her foot impatiently, then had an epiphany that made her shout, "Hey! Didn't I see a CatWoman poster on the back of your bedroom door? I thought that was cute, until you just mentioned your virtual fetish!"
He blushed, "Well ... old habits die HARD, as they say. If you can't BEAT them, join them." Was he making masturbation references? He was starting to amuse me. But somehow I stopped listening when Bo said the poster was on the back of his bedroom door. I didn't want the reminder that she had seen his bedroom, with the door apparently closed.
Chris chirped in, enthusiastically, "Give me ANY of the X-Men, They're uncanny."
"Wait!" Amane butted in. "Aren't half of the X-Men GUYS?"
Chris blushed, and waffled. "I meant the girl ones, obviously."
"Obviously," said Ryan, with a wry smirk.
Amane mentioned quietly. "I don't know any of them. I never had a favorite comic character. But my roommate likes video games. Do they count?"
"Sure, why not?" answered Chris.
"I still don't have a favorite," said Amane, realizing she was out of place in this conversation. "I like Japanese artists, though."
Bo smiled at her sympathetically, nodding. “I like them too.”
Somehow, none of us could do anything with Amane’s comment though, and bit by bit the conversation began to trail off.
So the night began to fade.
Chris and Amane said goodnight, with Amane driving him home. Bo and Ryan decided to retreat inside, to hang out with Bo's mother and her friends leaving me and Mags awkwardly alone on the front steps.
Mags was only slightly buzzed tonight, so Chris was disappointed he didn't get to drive he
r car.
She asked me, "You heading out?"
"Yeah. I have school and work tomorrow. I should get some sleep."
"Can I see your keys for a second?" I didn't know why she wanted them, but shrugged and handed them to her. She looked at them for a second, and then dropped them down the front of her shirt, wedging them between her breasts. "If you want to go home, you're going to have to get your keys."
"Why are you doing this?" I asked.
"You make me wet," she said, as if it were a rehearsed act.
"Mags, I like you. But it's been a long day. I need to get some sleep."
"Just reach for them."
"And then what?"
"And then you go home."
I hesitated and thought hard about my options and the possible consequences. Mags was sexy and I was flattered by her attention, though I had the strong impression that she had given the same attention to a whole army of men before me. And in the not-too-distant days before Bo, I wouldn't have thought twice about going down that dirty road, if only for the love of the muggy-Georgia night to the chorus of the Cicadas. But I didn't want to become one of her discards and lose my place in the group. "I'm really not in the mood for this tonight."
"Then kiss me goodnight," she said. "Instead." Pause. "Like a proper gentleman."
I hesitated and glanced at the house. Mags noticed but said nothing. There was no sign of Bo at the door or windows. I nodded. "I can do that."
I leaned in to kiss her lips lightly, but she turned her face and let me kiss her cheek.
Then she dug out my keys and handed them back to me, saying, "Think of me when you drive. They've been close to my heart." Mags had a way of knocking me off her feet, one minute wearing the cover of some shallow party tramp; and the next whispering something that implied her well ran deep within, so deep that I would never know the true Mags.
She pulled me back and kissed me lightly. Her lips knew exactly what to do. She moved her body closer and our embrace quickly became hot.
When I pulled away, she asked, "You sure you want to stop?"
"I have to."
"Why are you waitin' for somethin' that ain't never gonna happen, sugar-bee?"
I was pretty sure she meant Bo. "It's late," I reminded her.
Her eyes softened, and she sighed. "I AM gonna jump yer bones," she whispered. "That's a promise."
I was too tired to argue. Or dismiss it outright.
"Yep," I said.
She smiled.
------------------
[ After the BBQ ]
When I got home, Ma and Pa were sitting up watching TV, doing the crosswords and chain-smoking, as usual.
Ma said, "You've got school and work tomorrow, young man." Summer session.
"I know, Ma. I'm not ten anymore." I headed straight upstairs.
It had been a weird day. Lots of mixed feelings stirring around in my head. I fired up the Wal-Martyr special and started jotting down thoughts in my digital diary, as I did every day, as some form of freeware therapy. (That was how this little memoir began.)
My new friends were from a different world than me. Even Mags, and she was from Georgia. I felt like I was the odd-man-out. But at the same time, it seemed like I was the only one putting that label on my relationship with them. Every one of them welcomed me with open arms and made me feel like I was part of their gang. Even Ryan. Despite his right and reason to be jealous and suspicious. And his education, breeding, old-money, good looks, and obviously polished charm.
No, I had no unresolved issues with Ryan. Hells no.
I had never known people who could so instantly accept a newcomer and make him feel like one a their own. Sure, sometimes I reckon they laughed at me because a my accent and the way I talked, but that was true about Ryan, too. It was all good fun. They teased because they loved. They probably would have teased Mags about the same, except she gave them a much bigger target for taking pot-shots.
And then there was Bo.
It still seemed to me that Bo wanted me there. She had claimed me. She had sighed - in a bad way - when Ryan told her about their dinner plans. And she had tensed when Mags kissed me. Was that just Connecticut jealousy? She brought me into the group, so she somehow owned me, and didn't want anyone else to define my place? What exactly was my place?
After meeting Ryan I was feeling even less like there was a place for me, and yet, there I was. It felt natural.
Sometimes, I over-thought the obvious. Sometimes I was too philosophical for my own good. That's why I had wanted to be a writer. But it wasn't really my thing. I wasn't good at it. I was a brooding soul. And this Soul loved Bo. I felt as if she and I had bonded and become one in a matter of days; and two back-to-back outings.
And then there was Mags.
The way things were shaping up, if Bo was genuinely unreachable, it was looking like there was a pretty good chance I'd be hanging out with Mags alone. At least once. Maybe twice. And then I would be cast away, and they would remember me as one of Mags' boy toys who had amused them for a little while. And I'd be back hanging out with Robby. Shooting hoops, checking out the girls at the park, and generally living the life I had already known for 21 years. Wasn't that the life I was trying to break away from? Wasn't I trying to grow up?
How do you become an adult? Do you just wake up one day, and realize you've spent your entire life chasing a dead-end job instead of the dreams you originally had? What would happen if you actually chased those dreams when you had the chance? Before it was too late?
I sighed and closed my electronic journal. I wasn't going to be with Bo. Mags was right. I needed to accept that, and move on. That didn't mean I couldn't hang out with them, though, and maybe even bring Robby into the group. He could be the jester, the joker, the inappropriate loud one that everyone loved to hate.
***
Just then an icon flashed on the bottom corner of my laptop. Email notification. Robby didn't use email. It was probably spam, one of the millions of ads telling me I needed breast enlargements, or offering me a chance to find happiness with other Senior-Singles-Seeking-Love. I clicked on it, intending to delete it immediately, but it was from Bo. I had forgotten I had given her my email address so that she could send me directions.
The subject line was a simple "hi."
I opened it up and read the short message, "Glad you could make it. Had a nice time. Hope Mags didn't keep you out too late. Feel free to say hi, whatever's on your mind. - B."
Her email signature was like her FaceBucket page header. "When you move with me, ..."
I laughed and replied immediately, typing, "B? So "Bo" was too long for you to type? (just kidding.) I had a really cool time too. It was great seeing you again. Your Ma and your house seemed really nice. Hopefully it won't be too long before the next time we can all hang out." I wanted to say something like "Counting the hours", but apart from sounding totally dorky, I was already wondering if I was crossing the line. Was I being over-friendly? Was I implying something that I shouldn't, like a creepy stalker? She already knew me as 'the creepy cyber-stalker' (we still hadn't shared that story with the gang yet), and she didn't shut me out, so maybe that was ok. Plus, she kept giving me ambiguous signals herself, so maybe it was ok for me to do the same. Maybe I was flirting. Maybe I was just nice. Who knew? I knew, but that didn't matter. I left what I had written - for now - and moved on to her other comment. She sounded like she was fishing for details about Mags. Did she see me and Mags kiss outside her house? Did she care? Was she jealous, as I had wondered before?
A little jealousy isn't a bad thing, except for when it works against you.
Jealousy is the Romantic version of Private Sector competition. Healthy competition drives prices down and increases product choices for the consumer. It is a good thing. Except when the competition becomes cut-throat and companies use tactics that undermine and destroy their competitors, then an unhealthy monopoly or oligarchy comes into play. That is bad for the consumer. See? I paid attent
ion in class once or twice.
In relationships, a little jealousy can remind you to show more attention to someone you love, in order to keep their attention and remind them of your feelings. But it also has its dark side. It can make someone walk away without trying, or turn someone into a raging monster. Jealousy can kill.
So I had to respond to her comment about Mags very, very carefully. My potential future was at stake. This game with Bo was not yet over, despite Mr. Perfect (Ryan), and everything else.
I began to type. "Mags is Mags. She's nice. She gave me a kiss goodnight. Then we each went our own separate ways. She seemed ok to drive." I re-read it a few times, and decided it sounded safe. It didn't completely reject Mags, and acknowledged the kiss, in case Bo had seen it. And if she hadn't seen it, there was that little bit of fuel for jealousy. But just a little.
I signed it "W" as a joke, but then added a 2 to it. "W2." Then I backspaced over the 2, since that was Mags' nickname for me. Back to "W". Then I wrote out "Waylon" instead, since I didn't want to look like I was stealing or making fun of her signature, “B.” Plus, she had introduced me to her mother that way, as Waylon. Then I deleted "Waylon" because - for the most part - I hated being called Waylon, even if I had liked the sound of it coming from her lips. I sighed, and just signed "- Me."
I couldn't believe that I was spending more time deciding how to sign my name than actually typing the email. I hit send before I had any more chances to second-guess myself.
As soon as I had sent it, I wondered if I should have said something nice about Ryan. About how nice he seemed. And how nice it was to meet him. And I looked forward to seeing him and his perfect smile and pretty face and good manners and fancy accent and impressive job again sometime. With his nice friendly offers to help me with the things I obviously couldn't do on my own.
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