The Drought (The hilarious laugh-out loud comedy about dating disasters!)

by Steven Scaffardi

  “Trouble? If you want trouble, mate, I can give you trouble.” Dave added his intellectual input to the conversation. The guy was a real piece of work. His big gold earrings looked thick enough for a gymnast to swing off of. He had a small ginger goatee and a tattoo across his shaven head. He was short, but stocky, with a small scar across his cheek. No doubt a proud battle scar.

  “I said I don’t want any trouble,” I repeated just to reiterate my position. I’d never been a great fighter. I’d struggle to fight my way out of a wet paper bag. But I really didn’t want to back down, especially as I knew how much satisfaction it would give Stacey. Then again, I didn’t want to take a beating either. I liked my face. It wasn’t the best looking face as it was, and I was pretty sure Dave was not interested in enhancing my appearance.

  “Well, maybe you don’t have a choice,” Dave said positioning himself in front of me so we were nose-to-nose. First Sophie, now Dave. I wondered how many more people Stacey had lined up to inflict injury on me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had started a Facebook group called Death to Dan Hilles.

  I tried my utmost to stand my ground. Dave snarled at me, the left side of his lip curling upwards like a rabid dog flashing his fangs. I attempted an equally menacing look to try and cover up the fear that was slowly building up inside me, but I probably looked more like a stroke victim. I was praying for the best but expecting the worse.

  “Is there a problem here?” I had never been so pleased to hear Ollie’s voice in all my life.

  “This is between me and him,” Dave said not taking his eyes off me. I stood my ground, growing in confidence now I had Ollie next to me.

  “If you have a problem with him, then you have a problem with me,” Ollie told him, manhandling me out of the way to square up to Dave. Ollie towered over him. My masculinity took a slight knock, but under the circumstances I was willing to live with that. I merely poked my head over Ollie’s shoulder to eyeball Dave. I’m not too sure it made much difference, but Dave backed away slowly with Stacey pulling at his arm. Part of me likes to believe that my iron stare from behind Ollie's broad frame had Dave running scared.

  “Come on, Dave, he’s not worth it,” Stacey whined.

  “I'll catch up with you when your boyfriend isn't around, Danielle,” Dave said, sarcastically blowing a kiss at me before exiting the pub.

  Ollie glared at the door a second longer before returning to the bar and nonchalantly sipping at his pint. “Well, you shit yourself, didn't ya?” he said grinning.

  “Nah, not really...” I stuttered. “I had it under control.” We both laughed. “Thanks mate,” I said to Ollie. “I could have dealt with that, but...”

  “No problem. I know you could have, I just wanted to make sure it didn’t ruin your night.”

  “Come on, boyfriend, let’s drink up and get out of here before dangerous Dave comes back.”

  *

  The next part of our plan was simple – ruin Valentine’s Day for as many couples as possible. We started by constantly calling and texting Rob and Jack, but soon got bored of that when they switched their phones off and we had left them three voice messages each. Next, we decided to annoy people we didn't know. We stood opposite an Italian restaurant and took the piss out of some poor guy as he spoon fed his girlfriend ice cream. The look on the guys face as he clocked us pointing and laughing from the other side of the glass was a picture.

  We stopped at every bar or pub we passed and got a drink in. We would stagger past tables where couples were sitting together enjoying intimate moments and insist we sing them a love song. Drunken renditions of I Wanna Know What Love Is by Foreigner went down a treat. Well, we thought it was funny. We must have been in seven or eight bars before we made our way to South Wimbledon tube station with a kebab in hand to finally call it a night. But the call of more alcohol whistled in the air.

  “Shall we have one for the road?” Ollie asked, pointing at the Kings Arms opposite the station.

  “Why not,” I replied and we staggered across the road.

  Inside there was a live band playing 60’s and 70’s rock songs to an older crowd than we had been used to tonight. We sat at the bar and ordered our tenth beer of the night and sang old rock anthems until our throats were hoarse. All in all, it was turning out to be one of the best Valentine Day's I'd ever had. And it was just about to get better.

  “Look at her,” I gasped nearly falling off my barstool. I spotted a pretty little strawberry blonde who was sitting on her own. She looked over at me and I smiled at her. She shyly turned away, but then returned my smile. Ollie didn’t really take much notice of me, and instead was singing away with a grey-haired hippy he had befriended who was wearing a black skull and crossbones vest top and showing off faded tattoos on his arms.

  I kept my gaze fixed on the girl. I took another mouthful of lager, wiped my lips with my shirt sleeve, and plucked up the courage to go over. “Can I sit down?” I asked her. She smiled and nodded as I introduced myself.

  Her name was Chloe. She said she was 18 and at college. She looked so pure and so out of place in an establishment like this. I struggled to hide how pissed I was, but she didn't seem to mind, so I didn't let it bother me. After a few minutes of chatting I asked if I could buy her a drink and she agreed.

  “I'm well in over there,” I said to Ollie as I returned to the bar to buy Chloe a Malibu and pineapple juice. “You don't mind if I crack on with her, do you?”

  “Not at all,” Ollie slurred. “I've got Frank to keep me company,” and with that Ollie and Frank broke back into song.

  I gave Ollie a wink and headed back to Chloe, only this time she was not alone. “Hello,” I said to the woman with peroxide blonde hair and a fake orange tan. She must have been in her 40s at least. She was attractive despite her hard features, but dressed cheaply in a short denim skirt and a top that left little to the imagination.

  “Who are you?” she barked at me rather aggressively.

  I saw Chloe nudge the woman and give her a look. “I’m Dan,” I said handing Chloe her drink, and offered the woman my hand. “And you are?”

  “I’m Chloe’s mum,” she said snatching the drink out of Chloe's hand and smelling the content. This was not good. I’d heard about these mothers who went out on the pull with their daughters. “What are you doing giving my daughter alcohol? She is only 15.”

  I was immediately taken aback. I looked at Chloe, who looked at her mum. “Mum!” she said in horror.

  “I’m so sorry, I thought she was 18,” I pleaded my case.

  “You sick little pervert,” Chloe's mum said swigging back the Malibu and pineapple juice I had bought for her underage daughter.

  “I swear I didn't know,” I said again trying to calm the situation down. “Sorry, Chloe, but you’re too young for me.” Chloe looked crushed. I made my excuses and headed back to the bar where Ollie was still singing with his new friend.

  “Drink up,” I said. “We need to get out of here.”

  “But I thought you were gonna bone that girl over there,” Ollie said, shouting over the music.

  “Shhhh,” I said holding my hand up to his mouth and looking around the bar in case anyone had heard. “You're gonna get my head kicked in.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around to see the mum. “You like chatting up little girls, do you?” she asked me, still drinking the Malibu I had bought.

  “No, it was a mistake. She told me she was 18,” I tried to explain again.

  “That is what they all say,” she said, stumbling slightly as she slammed the glass down on to the bar.

  A few people around us were now looking over. “I promise I didn't know she was 15,” I said.

  “You were trying it on with a 15-year-old?” Ollie suddenly decided to quiz me.

  “No, you idiot,” I shouted back at him, before turning back to the mum. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

  “You should try going after a real woman instead of chasing scho
olgirls around,” she said shoving an accusing finger in my face.

  She was getting louder and I was starting to panic that I was going to get lynched and put on the sex offenders’ register. “Look, I’m really sorry but it wasn’t my fault. She shouldn’t be in here if she is 15. It was a mistake.”

  But she wouldn’t let it go. She just got louder and kept prodding her finger into my chest. Even the band was now staring in our direction, while Ollie and his hippy friend watched on like it was some sort of sporting event.

  “What exactly is your problem?” I snapped after one too many pokes to the chest.

  “I can’t help it if I like shagging young boys,” she abruptly blurted out, before grabbing the back of my head and forcefully pulling me towards her, shoving her tongue down my throat and grabbing at my crotch.

  I stood there like a rabbit caught in the headlights, too afraid to move. “Go on, my son!” I heard Ollie bellow out behind me. I let her finish, and as she pulled away she told me in no uncertain terms, “You’re coming home with me.”

  This was not the response I expected. One minute you're being labelled a kiddie fiddler, the next minute you are copping off with someone old enough to be your mother. I probably wasn't in the best state of mind, but I heard myself agree to go back with her. Partly because I was too scared to turn her down, and largely because I hadn’t got my leg over for six weeks now. Taking me by the hand, she dragged me out the pub. An old guy with a receding hairline and a bushy moustache stared daggers at me and made a cut-throat sign with his thumb. I could only imagine that he was in there with the peroxide mum before I arrived on the scene. I glanced back at Ollie who was still sitting at the bar giving me the thumbs up.

  “What is your name?” I asked as we walked back, realising I couldn’t call her mum all night, especially during the wild throes of passion. That would just be weird.

  “Toni,” she replied. “Come on Chloe, keep up!” she shot at her daughter who shuffled behind us, quietly sobbing that her mum had stolen the guy she had been chatting up just minutes ago. I had a feeling this was not the first time this had happened. I wasn’t exactly proud of myself, but I was a desperate man and desperate men do desperate things. Plus I was really pissed.

  After a 10-minute walk, we arrived at a house with a red door and paint peeling from the wooden frame. Chloe ran upstairs and slammed her bedroom door shut behind her. I thought about making a run for it myself, the fresh air had sobered me up slightly and I was now starting to fret over whether this had been a good idea.

  “Shouldn't you see if she is okay?” I sheepishly asked.

  “She'll live,” Toni said with a fag hanging out of her mouth, and grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the living room. She pushed me down on to the sofa and stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray already overloaded with fag butts.

  “Please,” I said pathetically holding my hand up to her, “be gentle.”

  A wicked grin appeared across her face and within seconds she was on top of me, kissing me in quite a violent way. She finally let me up for air and squeezed my cheeks with her right hand. “Let’s have a drink,” she announced as she playfully slapped me across the face.

  I was relieved to catch my breath. She poured me a straight whisky and lit up another cigarette. She sat next to me, blowing smoke in my face, and caressing my thigh. “You’re so tense,” she said in her gravelly voice, no doubt from years of too many cigarettes. “I know something that will make you feel better.” She rose to her feet and took the drink from my hand, gulping down the remainder of the whisky in my glass.

  She unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped my fly, shoving her hand into my pants. She was not exactly gentle and toggled it back and forth like it was a joystick. “You like that, don’t ya?” she said with a wild look in her eyes, cigarette still clenched between her teeth.

  Like it? I was genuinely worried she was going to pull it off. Did she think I was somehow impervious to pain? I prayed she would eventually get bored and let go, but she just kept going. She started to do it quicker and rougher. I held my breath trying to stifle the pain and my impending screams. But with one tug too many she flicked her wrist, and I let out a howl before smacking her hand away. “What the hell are you doing?” I winced. “Don’t treat little Dan like that.”

  “What is your problem? Most men would kill for a hand job like that,” she declared.

  “Kill or be killed?” I snapped back rubbing my crotch.

  “Mum, is everything okay?” A deep voice shouted from upstairs.

  “Who was that?” I said anxiously. It certainly didn’t sound like Chloe.

  “That’s my son,” Toni said, oblivious to the long trail of ash from her cigarette finally dropping off and landing on the carpet, creating a miniature puff cloud.

  “Your what?” Footsteps were now coming down the stairs fast. I managed to put my mangled penis back into my pants and zipped myself up. “How old is he?”

  “Is everything okay, mum?”

  I knew that voice. But surely it couldn’t be, could it? I slowly turned my head, every part of my being wishing I was wrong. But I wasn’t. I sensed the rage in the air the moment he stepped into the light of the living room doorway, and the sheer horror of the situation took over me.

  “You!” Dave menacingly hissed and started stalking towards me.

  “I can explain,” I desperately said trying to buy myself time, while rising to my feet and moving slowly backwards, my hands held up in front of me in both protest and defence.

  “What’s all the noise?” To make matters worse Stacey now appeared. “Dan? What the hell are you doing here?” she said with all the contempt she could muster.

  “You know him?” Toni said as she poured herself another drink. “He’s a frigid little sod.”

  “I’m not frigid,” I snapped. “You just need to learn to treat the male organ with a little respect.” Probably not the best response I could have given under the circumstances.

  It is often said bad things happen in threes and right on queue 15-year-old Chloe appeared at the doorway, in her pink pyjamas, looking every inch the schoolgirl she really was now all the make-up had been washed off. “He tried seducing me as well,” she said with an accusing finger point.

  “What?! I did no such thing,” I tried protesting my innocence for a second time, but knew I was barking up the wrong tree if I thought Dave would take any notice.

  “You’re a dead man,” Dave said and lunged at me. I fell back against the armchair and the force of Dave landing on me somehow enabled me to flip him over my head in the process and send him crashing into a cabinet.

  “Get up, Dave! Get him!” Stacey hollered, and I started to wonder if Stacey would always be urging someone on to beat the hell out of me whenever our paths crossed.

  With Stacey and Chloe blocking my exit through the front door, I made a dash for the kitchen. Toni simply sat on her chair, a fag in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other. In amongst all the chaos I couldn't help but think it’s how she would have wanted to be remembered.

  Dave was up on his feet and right behind me. I ran through the kitchen towards the back door, knocking down a stack of plates to stall Dave and buying myself precious seconds. They crashed to the floor behind me and shattered. Dave couldn’t stop himself and slipped on the broken crockery. I grabbed and pulled the door handle. It was unlocked – the first piece of good luck I’d had so far this night.

  I flung the door open and stopped almost dead in my tracks, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. From nowhere a snarling Rottweiler leapt at me from the darkness of the garden. Its sharp canine fangs were coming straight at my throat and I simply froze in pure terror.

  But then nothing.

  Instead of the sound of snapping neck bones under the force of the beasts rampaging jaws, I heard a yelp, which released me from my paralysed state. I forced myself to squint open one eye and thanked my lucky stars that I had been saved by a large metal chain attached to the dog�
�s neck, preventing him from reaching me. I whistled a huge sigh of relief.

  But I had no time to contemplate my good fortune as close behind, Dave was charging towards me. Stacey was now in the kitchen and threw a piece of broken plate in my direction while screaming at me. I ducked and slammed the door shut, catching Dave full in the face. I quickly made my move, scaling the wooden fence. The Rottweiler was not going to give up that easily and snapped at my heels, and clamped its teeth into my arse as I was halfway over the fence, causing me to scream out in pain.

  Dave staggered out of the back door. He shook his head and started making his way in my direction, a bloody great big kitchen knife in his hand. With all my strength I made one final effort to pull myself over the fence and kicked out at the snarling mutt forcing him to release me from his grip. One final shove got me over as Dave hit the fence, the knife piercing through the wood and just missing my head by inches on the other side.

  It was enough to scare me back up to my feet and for the second time in six weeks I found myself sprinting through the streets to escape one of Stacey’s hired hitmen. Surely break-ups had to be smoother than this?

  Chapter 9: Visiting the Folks

  Sunday, March 1, 2009 - 12.32pm

  Drought Clock: 59 days, 0 hours, 5 minutes

  I had been having this recurring nightmare. I’m standing on a stage in nothing but my pants. There is a huge crowd of people staring at me. From nowhere appears a man who informs me he is a Guinness World Records adjudicator. He is immaculately dressed in a black pinstripe suit, slicked back hair, and a thin hairline moustache. He is holding a certificate in one hand and a microphone in the other, and is addressing the sea of people that just seems to go on forever.

  “It gives me great pleasure to award the Guinness World Record for the longest period without sex to Mr Daniel Hilles,” the adjudicator proudly announces to the crowd in an annoying nasal monotone accent. Polite applause starts up as he continues. “Mr Hilles has not come into contact with the female genitalia for two months, eclipsing the previous record held by 97-year-old Hubert Grayson.”