by Hope Irving
Let’s play.
Chapter Four
Bang a Gong (Get it On)
Tig
Because of the size, lack of ventilation, and reluctance to let the freezing November air creep in through the windows, the bar smells like sweat… and beer. I welcome the familiar odor. This place feels like home in a way. It’s cozy. It’s friendly. It’s perfect…
Mike and Troy, a young, friendly gay couple, have owned this place for about two years. They don’t give me hell for pledging allegiance to the dark force, aka sobriety. They don’t give me hell when I pretend to be drunk while singing along with the old jukebox. They don’t give me hell for kindly requesting that they avoid reggae when I’m around. They don’t know the first thing about my life and agreed to comply, no questions asked. I’m grateful for the rare opportunity to be someone without a past with them.
“You should pay more attention, man,” Claire shouts to be heard over the chatter, music—not coming from the old jukebox for now—and background noise as we head towards a booth in the back of the already crowded bar, holding our heavy coats in one hand and our beverages in the other. But then again, it’s Sunday.
The square-shaped place isn’t small, but its layout causes it to get packed pretty fast, especially on weekends. The counter, which is also square, sits proudly in the middle of the space, only allowing a narrow pathway and leading to traffic jams. Still, I dig the modern, industrial ambience afforded by the exposed steel beams. Granted, it would require major renovations to be labeled a trendy bar by the hipster clientele.
This particular booth is our standard spot in the bar. Truth be told, there aren’t many to choose from. Located in the farthest corner from the entrance and almost opposite to the jukebox area that patrons use as a makeshift dancefloor on weekends, our booth grants us more privacy and a bit of quiet—relatively speaking.
So, this is where we meet every Sunday night. As if Claire, Lucas, Marco, and Leroy don’t spend ample time together during the week. As if introducing a couple of new friends into our group now and then couldn’t be accomplished anywhere else. As if breaking the tradition would be tragic.
Tonight is no exception. Another Sunday night at Mike and Troy’s packed bar. Another hectic week at work slipped by. Another hookup with a role-playing enthusiast later. This time, the fake nurse PMed to inform me that she had a burning fever and couldn’t wait for me to examine her with my thick stethoscope. No wonder NurseNaughty suggested that we rendezvous at an indecent hour. What a life! It’s so fucked-up, and yet, it’s way better than it used to be, so…
For the moment, it’s just the four of us; Leroy, who often DJs and bartends when Claire and I host events at the parlor, will join us later. Part of me died when my wife did. Part of me is slowly becoming human again, but I’m still not a people person. Part of me gets stuck in my own head at times, but I refuse to pretend to be someone I’m not. They’re all aware of my limits by now and that I’m simply doing the best I can. As emotionally impaired as I can be, I do care about them, as I care about Soraya and her family, who I haven’t seen much of lately.
The second our drinks land on the table and our butts slide across the leather benches, Claire shakes me from my reverie by firmly slapping my back for good measure in an odd attempt to get my attention.
“Relax, will you?” I warn, shooting her a murderous glare, and take a gulp. After Soraya and Graham’s intervention, I gave up alcohol cold turkey and haven’t touched a drop since. It’s been months, and I’m not even tempted anymore.
When our little group became fast friends with the couple and consequently regular customers, Troy, who’s often the one behind the bar, even decided to treat me to free bottomless seltzer. How sweet is that?
The humor in her gaze is unmistakable, so is her sarcastic tone. “I guess working out isn’t really working out so well for you, then?”
“Right,” I scoff, watching Marco and Lucas snicker at that. I let it slide and ignore the cackling idiots. I owe this woman so much. She’s been running my parlor like a well-oiled machine. She claims that it’s temporary, but the thought of it still overwhelms me.
Celebrating our friendship and partnership has become our new normal. I have yet to completely give up smoking pot because it helped to take the edge off up until recently. Now, between sex and working out, I feel a whole lot better. Plus, I ditched a few toxic friendships, back from my partying days. Guys who heard about my reputation, thanks to my bigmouth cousin. Guys who thought that being around me meant that they’d score easy pussy. Guys who were keeping better tabs on my so-called exploits than I was, myself. It took too long for me to realize that the remaining friends I used to party with weren’t true friends.
Good riddance.
Now that I have a smaller, more intimate group of friends, we spend more time together, but I don’t reveal much about my private life. They call me a loner which doesn’t ring true to me. I became introverted. I became guarded. I became wary.
“Maybe you should be the one lifting less.” It’s a low blow on my part, and we all know it; her body is sculpted to perfection.
“I’m too hot for you anyway, Tig. Sorry, not sorry.” With that, she winks at me teasingly and clinks our drinks together. I adore this woman… in a totally platonic way, that is. She basically saved me from bankruptcy… Thank goodness, Graham helped with the finances, but Claire has been there every step of the way to make sure that the quality, service, and art that we prided ourselves on and our clientele came to expect continued while I drifted away. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be sitting on your ass, wondering how to get back in shape since Graham’s been too busy to convince you to accompany him.”
Spot-on!
There was a time when Graham tried to drag me to the gym, but I didn’t have the energy to travel all the way to his trendy place in Manhattan. There was a time when I cleaned up my act, and I thought functioning was sufficient. There was a time when Claire opened my eyes to a healthier lifestyle, and she pushed the gym door for me to step in. Since then, I joined a local volleyball team—Soraya’s coach taught me that staying away from people wouldn’t make my late wife reappear—and a small gym where I met Lucas, the wiseass chick magnet who’s sitting to my right.
“Damn, right,” the wiseass agrees. Then his attention turns to her while my horny cousin remains oblivious to us, absorbed by the task of checking out a bunch of girls who just sat at the adjoining booth. “You look great, Claire. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”
He flashes her his flirtatious smile, and it’s their turn to clink the bottoms of their beer bottles and guzzle a liquid that I’ll never taste again.
“Don’t forget that we might be hunting the same prey, dude!” she jokes, her fingers twirling one of her trademark long, thick purple dreadlocks.
I’m glad to see these two finally get along after starting off on the wrong foot when Lucas came on to her too strongly. She had to reluctantly come out to him, which she despises because, according to her, it’s nobody else’s business that she prefers women. Many women at that. Only her hunting ground isn’t virtual and her intentions are perceived as more noble than mine. She claims to be looking for a relationship.
“That can’t be true. I’m after straight women, remember, just like our friend Tig, here... and Marco, obviously.” Lucas waves a hand in front of my cousin’s face, who grins at us while he continues to eye-fuck the impressive rack that is attached to a woman he’s not really paying attention to. But yeah, Lucas is right.
You see, Lucas and I share another interest. We both devote hours of our time to a couple of apps that I call hookup apps and he refers to as dating ones. Same apps, different purposes, uncertain outcomes. He figures that the odds of finding love online are the same as anywhere else. I believed that love meant finding the one person that was right for you. Now, I can’t believe in love. You have no control over it, and as with everything else, I’ve learned the hard way that nothing lasts
forever. Needless to say, I don’t believe in love anymore. At best, it’s a useless feeling that translates to hurt, disappointment, and, inevitably, loss. Finding some comfort in a woman’s body is about all I’m capable of lately, and that’s fine by me.
The fact that Lucas used the plural word in his sentence has me chortling, and he looks at me quizzically. Unlike me, I guess he hasn’t come to terms with the true intent behind the use of these apps. He’s not ready to date, but he’s unwilling to acknowledge it because he thinks that it would make him less honorable. At least I’m honest with myself and the women that I hook up with. I don’t lie. I don’t cheat. I don’t pretend. I show them a good time. Period.
Since I’m an asshole and enjoy fucking with him, I tease, “Man, for all you know, your next date could be bi or wanting to experience a threesome with a hot badass woman like Claire here!”
Despite the dim light, within seconds, Claire and I witness Lucas’s face turning beet red. He’s rubbing the back of his buzzcut. It’s easy to figure out that he just got a clear visual of the scene.
Denying it altogether, nonetheless, he mutters, “Not my jam.”
The music barely covers Claire’s laughter that confirms my assumption, and several people turn their heads. She couldn’t care less and smiles genuinely at them.
She sure is a lot to handle. Hot. Badass. Woman. That’s a good way to put it. Over the last couple of years, the number of piercings and brightly colored tattoos that she proudly displays every chance she gets have expanded. She stayed true to her initial theme: an unusual mix of Disney characters and serial killers from famous movies. Mine are black and gray and either tribal, Celtic, or Japanese, depending on where they’re located on my body, but I don’t have any piercings. Delia offered to do one on me several times, and I stubbornly refused. Only now I regret it. She’s not here to perform her art anymore and I can’t let Claire do it on Delia’s behalf, so I simply added more tats.
That and my steady work at the gym, as well as what I put on my plate, paid off. It instantly paid off in the hookup department. Always after advice, feedback, and new challenges, I started to follow a bunch of people on Instagram, YouTube, and whatnot. The profiles of the interested women evolved as my look shifted. From a tormented tattoo artist, I developed into a hot AF, badass tattoo artist and tormented painter. Much more appealing, it seems.
My brown hair is still short, but I’m more than happy to showcase my newly acquired muscles. Shoulders. Biceps. Butt. You name it. I’m not a playful bad boy anymore. I took it to the next level, and I’m loving it. Seriously, though, I’m especially proud of my butt, and the ladies rave about it.
After a while, Lucas dares to offer, “Maybe one day you’ll be less selfish and share your woman, then. Who knows, you might enjoy my—”
Eager to switch to a lighter subject, I interrupt him and redirect the conversation. “So, Claire, what were you saying about paying attention?”
“Oh, good! The seltzer cleared your mind.” She winks at me again. There was a time when I would have made a snide comeback. I was bitter when I first banned alcohol from my daily regimen. That was then, this is now. “Yup! Now tell me: what exactly should I be paying attention to?”
“You mean, who should you be paying attention to?” Her eyes sparkle with amusement.
“What are you talking about?”
“This.” Her phone screen lands so close to my nose that it makes my eyes cross.
“I can’t see anything.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve noticed.” She moves the screen further away from my face, and I try to focus on what she’s showing me, to no avail. “You must be blind, Tig. That’s why I’m finally speaking up. It’s about time you pulled your head out of your now sumptuous ass.”
The heat behind my neck is unmistakable, although it’s clear that her compliment isn’t an act of seduction. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, silly.” She punches my well-defined bicep which makes Lucas sneer. Completely lost, I look his way, and she addresses him and Marco instead of me to explain, “See that? There’s another comment on your post.” She air quotes the end of her sentence and reaches for her bottle, takes a swig, and smirks. Yeah, my posts are nonexistent since she’s been running my social media and pretending to be me for a while, like Soraya did at first when the shit hit the fan.
“Let me see that.”
“Shut up, Marco.” She swats away his approaching hand. “This doesn’t concern you, go back to your flirting. I’m trying to show Tig!” She points out the last post on Instagram. “Here.” She scrolls down, showing every single post from the last couple of weeks. “Her.” Claire posts at least three times per week on my behalf. Tattoos I designed. Piercings she performed. Paintings I created. “See?”
“Mmm…” is all I can answer for now. I snatch the phone from her hand and examine the screen between sips of my delicious (lol) seltzer.
“If that’s not dedication, I’m not sure what is. Thank God, I have a girlfriend now; otherwise, I’d interact with this girl and steal her from you!”
“You have a girlfriend?” tumbles out of my mouth in a strangled voice before I can stop myself.
I’m shocked that she’s disclosing this piece of information. So casually. So mindlessly. So unexpectedly. I’m about to complain that I feel betrayed for being kept in the dark, but she shakes her head without another word. Under other circumstances, it wouldn’t have deterred me from pursuing this line of questioning, but not tonight.
“You’re not funny, Claire… There’s nothing to steal from me, and for the record, I have no clue what you’re hinting at.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Tig!” she proudly exclaims. “This girl, right here, might be worth some of your time. She’s been following you for months, using actual words to comment on every post while most of your followers just like the post and add an emoji or two. What’s surprised me the most is the feedback that she gives on your art… I mean, your paintings.”
I push away the agonizing memory of Delia’s loss, which is threatening to resurface, undeterred by the three years that have passed. I shake my head to make the dark thoughts vanish, then smile at my friend. “Where exactly are you going with this?”
“I’m simply saying that you’d know if you were interacting with people online.”
“Oh, trust me, I have plenty of online interactions.” She doesn’t miss my teasing tone, and that earns me another slap on my arm.
“Right,” Lucas adds in a haughty voice, tapping his foot under the table.
“Oh, shut up, Lucas. What is it with you people tonight? I’m trying to have a coherent conversation with Tig, and you’re interrupting us every chance you get.”
“Calm your tits, Claire! Why should Tig be briefed about what’s happening on his social media platform? You’re the one managing it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, moron. I’m not his PA!” She nervously rolls one of her dreadlocks between her thumb and pointer finger.
“His what?”
“Personal assistant, Lucas.” I interrupt, proud of my knowledge.
“Oh, so you know more than you lead on, don’t you, Tig?”
“Well, Lucas… I may be a few years older than you, but I’m not that out of touch.” To tell the truth, this is utter B.S., but his smug smile is grating on my nerves. “And for your information, the fact that I don’t manage my accounts doesn’t mean that I don’t spend time following others.”
“Oh, right, your new fitness gurus with massive cleavage.”
That bitch!
It’s my time to knock some sense into her by jabbing her with my elbow. Meanwhile Marco is still oblivious to our friendly quarrel, too focused on scoring a date later.
“Some have good tips. The cleavage is just a perk!” Lucas shoots. All of the men at the table chortle, but I’m not sure that Marco knows why.
“Thanks for having my back, man! Claire doesn’t get how following woman gurus c
an be helpful for us.” We both let out snickers that sound more like hyenas than grow-ups.
“Whatever.” Wiggling on the leather bench, she dismisses the topic with a fleeting gesture of her black-lacquered hand and moves on. “So, as I was saying, your followers interact with a person they believe to be you, and you don’t even care. I care. This girl cares, and she’s genuinely nice, which doesn’t hurt.”
“What do you suggest I do? Invite her to my next show?” I ask jokingly. “Or invite her to my studio to fuck her brains out since she’s my number one fan?” I instantly regret suggesting that. Even if I had the opportunity, I don’t know the first thing about this girl. I shouldn’t make a habit of bringing people to my studio. I only did that with one of my hookups, and it wasn’t the brightest idea for numerous reasons.
Come on, man. There’s no need to get all worked up.
“Don’t be ridiculous! All I’m saying is that you should start to pay attention. Read her comments. Be nice to your fans. She’s different than most. People usually mention the tattoos; they rarely comment on your paintings.” Her words hurt me, regardless of having no doubt she’s right. “And even if she turns out to be your number one fan, I doubt that she’ll turn into Annie Wilkes.”
“Who’s Annie Wilkes?” That’s Marco’s question. He really is out of it tonight. I wonder how many beers he’s had. And Lucas proceeds to describe Stephen King’s most famous deranged fan from his novel Misery.
The rest of the evening is filled with more fun, silly jokes, and mindless conversation. Bottom line is, it’s about time that I manage my online presence on my own; it’s part of my recovery process, after all.
Back home, I’m starving and need food in my system. Once the smell of the juicy steak informs me that it’s done, I add some greens and basmati rice and sit down at the kitchen table. I put on some classic rock as background noise, since I can’t eat in complete silence, and sing along between bites while checking out the image of me that Claire created on Instagram. Strangely enough, I never have.