Crabbypants

by Colleen Charles

  “Wasn’t that a movie with Diane Lane?” At her blank stare, I realize that movie’s not of her generation either. I’m clearly batting zero today on my pop culture references. “I told him that yelling doesn’t work. Then, we got into a debate because I tried to make him understand how dogs are like people, and he basically called them stupid animals.”

  “What!? I already hate the bastard, and I haven’t even seen his face yet.”

  I imagine following Burrito into the naughty room and getting my head ripped off for my efforts. A shiver runs down my spine. “By this time, I’m ready to get the hell out of there, but I’m torn because the dogs are so cute, and I know they need my help. When I petted them, they just ate it up, like they were starved for affection.”

  “That’s so sad. Anyone who doesn’t show love to dogs should be locked up next to serial killers.”

  I nod, basically admitting that I agree. “But that’s not the worst of it. While we’re talking…more like arguing, Burrito takes off running. I chase him into a bedroom. I see a picture of the guy with a beautiful woman. They look happy together. I can only assume that it’s his wife or girlfriend. I ask about her, and he goes ballistic. I mean, he turns into a Jekyll and Hyde freak show right before my eyes.”

  “That’s weird.” Christine’s words are punctuated with a dose of sarcasm that only the bloom of youth can pull off.

  “I know. I ran out of there and called him Mr. Crabby Pants, among other things.”

  “He deserved it.” A derisive snort floats through the air. I mirror it.

  “Totally.”

  “What else did you call him?”

  “Asshole, douche, douchebag. Take your pick. It wasn’t my finest hour. I’ve never gone off on a paying client before, and a famous one at that. I hope Bark Buddies doesn’t implode because of one hour on my part. Pam’s going to rip me a new one.”

  She chuckles. “You took it easy on the guy. I would’ve called him a fuck wad.”

  I giggle. “What’s a fuck wad?”

  “Google it.”

  We burst into laughter. After the day I had, it feels good to let loose a little. And with Mr. Crabby Pants in my rearview mirror, I can feel my stress levels falling fast.

  Chapter 8

  Landon

  After a restless night of tossing and turning, I roll out of bed and pry my leaden eyelids open. I barely got any shut-eye at all. I thought about taking a sleeping pill but decided against it. A shot of whiskey would have probably done the trick, but I didn’t do that either.

  You choked the chicken twice, dipshit. But that didn’t help you feel better either.

  After the masturbation episodes, I just spent most of the night lying in bed, thinking about my personal demise. Thoughts of Carla filled my mind, like always, but Brooke infiltrated the images more than I care to admit. The woman really burrowed under my skin. Her storming out of the house and calling me Mr. Crabby Pants, although deserved, annoyed me. Doesn’t she realize that the customer is always right? Is that any way to run a local business?

  But you’re the worst kind of asshole, Landon. The kind of asshole who raises his voice to a woman, insults her, and demands she get the hell out of your house when you invited her.

  I imagine my mom rolling over in her grave at my complete and total lack of manners. Ass doesn’t even begin to cover my behavior. But nobody, and I mean nobody, deserves to be called “Mr. Crabby Pants.” That’s worse than being called a douchebag. And I should know since I’ve been officially called both by the same tiny spitfire of a woman.

  As mad as she makes me, I can’t deny my attraction to Brooke. The sound of her voice lights me from within. Throaty. Sexy. I keep imagining that same timber charged with the sound of my name. While I’m deep inside her, hitting every spot. Even better, with her perfect lips wrapped around my cock, which is weird. For nearly three years, I’d not allowed myself to think about sex, but in the past twenty-four hours, it’s the only thing on my brain.

  I close my eyes, then pop them back open when all I see on the backs of my eyelids is Brooke’s face. Television does nothing for her exotic beauty, and I’ve met my share of celebrities. Up close, most of them look nothing like their photoshopped magazine covers.

  America refuses to accept the concept of growing old gracefully. Two years ago, when a wrinkle emerged on my forehead, my agent suggested that I try Botox.

  “Men do it all the time,” Gil said nonchalantly.

  I refuse to inject poison into my body. Besides, I know the source of the wrinkles. They appeared like multiplying rabbits after I buried Carla. Battle scars born of pain.

  “You still look young for your age, Landon,” Gil insisted. “Try it once and if you don’t like it…” I cut him off right then and there, not wanting to turn into one of those frozen face freaks who make the same expression whether they’re overjoyed or pissed off. I’m proud of my face. It’s a face that’s seen things. Been through things. Lived to see another day.

  I have zero regrets, as far as that decision anyway. I really don’t see the point of plastic surgery. That’s one of the reasons why I’m so drawn to Brooke. She’s naturally beautiful. Just a hint of makeup and lip gloss and she looks supermodel gorgeous. Well, since she’s a foot shorter than me, she’s not actually tall enough to be a supermodel, but that’s beside the point. Her looks set my heart to thumping in a way I haven’t felt in years.

  I stand up and stretch. Gorgeous and feisty! My balls tighten as I remember how she told me off yesterday. Brooke didn’t bite her tongue, and unfortunately, I didn’t hold back either.

  Why did I have to back her into a corner with my flippant insults? Now, I’ll never get to ask her out, and nobody will help me tame the little terrors. I slip into my robe and yawn. I’m so exhausted from lack of sleep, I’m tempted to climb right back in the bed.

  But I can’t. I have a big deadline today for my editor. I’ve been procrastinating for the last few weeks, but I know I have to email something to him today, even if I have to write for sixteen hours straight. Well, it’s rewriting, which is trickier than writing. Getting a rough draft on the page is the easy part.

  I open the door and hear the dogs barking. A few seconds later, they run toward me like bulls in a stampede. Chili licks my bare feet. Gross! Taco starts to climb me. I gently shake him off my leg.

  “No! There will be none of that!” I point to Taco and cover my hair.

  They follow me into the kitchen. I start a pot of coffee and open the blinds. A dusting of snow envelops the green grass creating a contrast of colors. Dark grey clouds skitter across the morning sky without a peek of sun.

  Terrific. Now I get to freeze my balls off while these heathens find the perfect place to take a dump. I really need to build that damn fence.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m shivering and wiping the wet off their feet. Taco thanks me with a lick on my hand. I scowl at him, then break down and stroke his silky fur. He closes his eyes in delight, then I end up petting the other three so the others don’t get jealous.

  Maybe they’re not so bad.

  In the next instant, I realize I’ve spoken too soon when the postal carrier drops the mail in the box, and the quartet go shrieking through the house. I cover my ears. Strike that. They are slowly driving me insane.

  “Shut up!” I yell, but they only get louder. I need to invest in some good ear plugs.

  When the postal carrier leaves, they quiet down, and I began rummaging through my fridge. Spotting the eggs, I have a sudden craving for an omelet, but I really don’t feel like chopping up vegetables. I reach for a loaf of sprouted bread and grab some sausage links out of the freezer.

  As I put a pan on the stove, I add a little cooking oil. Carla used olive oil for everything. I’m not nearly as health conscious. I like butter, salt, and gasp…whole milk. I bet Brooke never indulges in whole milk. She probably doesn’t indulge in much of anything. Maybe I dodged a bullet. Maybe she’s one of those chicks that just lays
in bed like a blow-up doll.

  It makes me feel better to mentally berate the woman as a defense mechanism. If I don’t, I’ll have to confront the shame of my own inadequacies.

  I pop two sausage links onto the pan and season them with salt and pepper before popping two slices of bread into the toaster. Yes, it’s a lazy man’s breakfast, but the smell of the meat makes my stomach grumble.

  Since I lost Carla, my diet has been all over the place. Last night, I had a frozen dinner. Chicken cacciatore. That’s what it said on the box. But it tasted more like a chicken catastrophe. I still ate it. No choice.

  The night before last, I had Chinese food delivered. Beef lo mein. It hit the spot. My fortune cookie said, “Don’t behave with cold manners.” I probably should have taken that advice with Brooke.

  I turn the stove burner off and put the sausage links on a plate. I snatch the warm toast from the toaster and get some strawberry jam out of the fridge. It’s the expensive, organic stuff. I do splurge on some things.

  The strawberry jam reminds me of when I was a little boy in Nana’s garden. She used to jar all kinds of delicious fruits and vegetables. My taste buds have been picky about preserves ever since.

  I pour a cup of coffee and make my way to the small table by the window. Chili is on my heels. “Get, boy! Get!” I stare down at him. The annoying little terror damn near causes me to trip and fall on my ass.

  I catch myself just in time. A little coffee splashes on the cream-colored carpet. No way will that shit come out without leaving a faint stain. “Shit!” I shake my head. I put my plate and my coffee down on the table and get some paper towels to clean up the mess.

  Burrito and Taco take advantage of the situation and climb all over me. “Stop it! Stop it! You little shits!” They bark and wag their tails, oblivious to my insults and gruff tone of voice.

  I take a deep breath and stand up. After thoroughly washing my hands, I sit down at the table. But now, my lukewarm coffee and cold food turn my stomach over.

  “Thanks a million.” I look down at the dogs and eat my breakfast anyway. I know I can’t keep this up much longer. They test my very sanity. I’m debating on googling more dog trainers in the area. I’ve got to find somebody. I doubt Brooke will ever come back.

  Every time I consider getting rid of them, Grandma Nancy’s face floats through my mind wearing a frown. She was a real sweetheart who sent cards to the whole family on our birthdays. She even sent a wedding anniversary card to me and Carla every year. I hate to admit it, but sometimes, that card from Grandma Nancy was the only thing Carla got to celebrate the happiest day of our lives.

  Looking back, I know I took her for granted. I should have been a better husband to her. She deserved much more. I guess that’s another reason why I haven’t gotten rid of these dogs. They’re a real pain in the ass, but I know Carla would want me to stick it out.

  She loved dogs, especially Grandma Nancy’s Chihuahuas. At one time during the height of the dog show circuit, the old woman had eleven of them in this house. Even though she used them for breeding, I still thought that was extreme. I used to dread our visits because as much as I enjoyed Grandma Nancy’s company, I could do without the ankle biters.

  Now, I look at Chili, Burrito, Taco, and Fajita, wondering what the hell I’m gonna do. Despite their tiny stature, they’re a real handful. Yes, I really should search for a new trainer. And if I find one, maybe I can keep my inner douchebag at bay. Or maybe I should reach out to Brooke again. That’s probably no good. She might hang up the phone. Worse yet, she might ask if she can swing by just to slap my impertinent face.

  I head upstairs to my office. It’s really the guest room that doubles as a work area for me. I turn on my laptop and get to work. Even though I’m tired, the lukewarm coffee seems to have helped. I get into a creative rhythm pretty quickly.

  I stay in the zone, going through the meticulous rewrites for my super picky editor. But he can’t help it. He’s Brooklyn born and raised and possesses the accent and bad attitude to match.

  I hear a little noise in the corner. My ears prick up. Please God, not a mouse! Rodents disgust me.

  I spot Chili chewing on something. I didn’t even notice that he snuck into the room. I take a deep breath, relieved. But as my eyes focus in on his latest victim, panic overtakes me until I see stars in front of my eyes. It’s my signed copy of Great Expectations. The first-anniversary gift I ever got from Carla. That damn book means more to me than any other fucking thing inside this infernal house.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” I rush over to him and snatch it out of his mouth. I lift up my hand to swat the damn dog, but my anger turns into sadness. Out of nowhere, tears flow from my eyes, and I fall to my knees. Before I can scold the little bastard, I turn into a sobbing mess.

  It’s been a long time since I cried, and all of the emotions that have been held hostage for nearly three years escape to overwhelm me. I look down at the torn pages in my hands and scream.

  Memories of Carla fill my mind. Our first kiss. The first time I told her I loved her. Even our first argument over directions to a friend’s wedding.

  I miss that woman so much that my soul aches for her. The tears keep flowing, strong and heavy. I cry until I’m physically exhausted, my whole body weak with the effort of releasing the pain.

  Chili snuggles up close to me. I can’t stand him, but I’m still grateful for the affection. Even from the little terror. I bend down to pet him and wipe my eyes.

  Chapter 9

  Brooke

  I sit behind the counter at Bark Buddies, my feet dangling from the stool. So far, the day has been pretty slow. As the lunch hour approaches, I’m not even sure what I’m in the mood for. Yesterday, I brought in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from home. This morning, time got away from me before I could pack my lunch. I hit the snooze button one too many times. Ever since Super Douche Landon, I haven’t been sleeping well.

  I head over to the little kitchenette and open the fridge. There’s bottled water and some coffee creamer. Way in the back, I notice tuna casserole leftovers in a plastic container. I know it’s probably Pam’s, but I’m sure she won’t mind if I help myself. And even if she does, I’ll deal with it. My stomach protests louder by the second.

  I open the container and gag at the putrid smell. There’s a little layer of mold on top of the pasta. Gross! I dump the rotten food into a Ziploc bag and throw it into the sealed garbage can. Then, I soak the empty plastic container with plenty of anti-bacterial dish soap and spray air freshener like a woman gone mad.

  I open the drawer, grab a few carry-out menus, and make my way back to the front of the building. There’s a great Italian restaurant that delivers, but despite my hunger, I don’t think I can devour a whole pizza, not even a small one.

  I’m torn between Jimmy Johns and Theresa’s. As much as I love a quick sandwich, it’s chilly outside so I really don’t want cold cuts. I need something hot and spicy. Picking up the phone, I order a chicken burrito. The hostess says it will take about forty-five minutes for delivery. My stomach grumbles. She might as well have said it will take forty-five hours. I thank her and hang up the phone. I don’t like the wait time, but at least the portions are good. I’ll have enough for lunch and dinner.

  At the chime of the door, I look up just as a woman walks in. It takes me a few seconds to recognize that it’s Pam. I blink rapidly as I take in her new honey blonde hair color that’s been styled stick straight. The new haircut has layers and wispy bangs. It looks cute, but I think she looked better as a brunette.

  “Ta-dah!” Pam grins and runs her fingers through her new do. She spins around. “It’s the new and improved…me!”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I say. Pam’s my best friend. I feel I can tell her anything, except my honest opinion about her hair. That’s a no-no. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

  “I decided to try something different before my hot date with Quinn tonight. I’m gonna blow his mind!” Her backpack
hits the counter with a resounding smack.

  Fighting the desire to tell her she should tell Quinn to fuck right off, I give my bestie another once over. “I’m sure he’ll like what he sees.”

  “You’ve got to keep things fresh in a relationship. I’m even thinking about taking that pole dancing class at the dance studio.”

  I imagine the length of Pam’s legs as she does a mid-air split, her new honey hair scraping the floor. She’s so much braver than I’ll ever be. “Seriously?”

  “Of course, silly. If you want to make your man happy, you have to be his everything. A lady out in public and his filthy bitch between the sheets.”

  My gaze falls on the spot Pam’s backpack occupies in front of me. I wonder if she’s got some fuck-me heels in that damn suitcase. “I hear what you’re saying. But I don’t think it’s possible to be anybody’s ‘everything.’ That’s a high bar, you know?”

  “I want the ring before summer rolls around. A big diamond from D. Copperfield. So big they have to order it in.”

  “You’re really ready to walk down the aisle?” I narrow my eyes at her. We’re getting older, but we’re not ready for the rest home yet. We’re sure as hell not ready to settle. At least I’m not. “Give up the single life?”

  Pam shrugs and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. “What else is there to see and do? Who else is there to see and do?”

  “Once you’re off the market, you’ll never know,” I mutter. While I feel more confident in my thirties than I did in my twenties, I’m still not ready to speak my whole truth. Maybe that’s for my forties.

  “What market? I’m tired of the single scene. I’ve been ready to get married for a long time. I sometimes question Quinn’s readiness, but I think I can get him there…give him a nudge in the right direction.”

  I lean back and consider those words. “So, you think that hair dye and hot sex will make him propose?”

  “Absolutely. Men are very simple creatures. Their cock…their gut. Not necessarily in that order.”