Take my girlfriend before Cassidy, Kimberly Kerns. Back in the flirty-flirty stage when we were first getting to know each other, she thought I was the funniest guy in the world. I’d do this gangsta-rapper routine that she loved:
I’m grand and I’m glorious
I’m semi-notorious
I’m a real instigator
And a mammary navigator
Listen up, ’cause I’m serious
I drive the girls delirious
I’m the master fornicator
I’m the king copulator
Down below or up above
I’m the Sultan of Love
Yeah, the Sultan of Love
Yeah, the Sultan of Love.
She’d laugh till she got cramps. But after dating for a couple of months, I couldn’t hardly get a sentence out of my mouth without her telling me I was gross or immature or some such routine. She used to tell me I wasn’t like anyone else and then, all of a sudden, she’s all about wanting to change me into her idea of what a guy should be. Why can’t you talk about something serious? Why can’t you wear nicer shirts? Why do you have to party with your buddies so much? She even mentioned something about how I ought to grow out my hair a little and put highlights in it. Can you believe that? Me, with fucking highlights?
Before Kimberly, there was Lisa Crespo and before her there was Angela Diaz and before her there was Shawnie Brown and before her—going back into junior high—there was Morgan McDonald and Mandy Stansberry and Caitlin Casey. They were all confident, heads-up-and-look-you-in-the-eye girls in their own ways, but I always seemed to let them down for one of two reasons:
Because I didn’t quite stack up as impressive enough to their friends in some way that was beyond my comprehension.
Because—and this is more confusing yet—they expected me to shift into some gear that my love mobile just couldn’t seem to reach.
When Lisa broke up with me, she said she felt like we never had a real relationship.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “We do something together almost every Saturday night. Do you expect me to ask you to get married or something? We’re sixteen, for God’s sake.”
“I’m not talking about marriage,” she said, all pouty-faced.
“Then what is it?”
She crossed her arms. “If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.”
Jesus. And she started out so fun.
Now, thinking back on my exes is like looking at a flowerbed on the other side of a window. They’re beautiful, but you can’t touch them.
I have no regrets, though, no bitterness. I just wonder what the hell was going on inside their brains, inside their hearts, back in those days when we should’ve been getting closer and closer. Why did they want a different Sutter than the one they started out with? Why is it that now I’m friends with every single one of them and it’s always fun when we run into each other? Why is it that girls like me so much but never love me?
These are the thoughts flying through my head as I drive to Cassidy’s after work. I have every intention of apologizing like Bob suggested, but even though I’m sure it works like a charm for him, I don’t have a whole lot of faith in it working for me. And I’m already telling myself that’s all right—nothing lasts. Besides, there’s always Whitney Stowe, the drama star with the hot legs. Sure, she seems conceited, but I’ll loosen her up. I’ve got a way about me, in the opening stages at least.
On the way, I stop by my favorite liquor store to make sure I have enough fortification for the task at hand. The guy behind the counter in there looks like he could’ve been the world’s first Hell’s Angel, but he’s my buddy. Never asks for an ID, says I remind him of his long-lost son. Still, the closer I get to Cassidy’s house the more the butterflies start spinning around in my stomach, even after two straight shots of whisky.
It’s a little after 8:30 by the time I pull onto her street, and I’m still in my Mr. Leon’s outfit. Her parents seem to like me better in a tie. I guess it fools them into thinking I’m going somewhere with my life, so maybe now it’ll help convince them to let me inside—just in case Cassidy put the word out to banish me.
Her mom comes to the door, which is a good thing. I’m better with moms than dads. By that, I mean other people’s moms, not my own.
She looks surprised to see me, so obviously Cassidy’s broken the news to her about our split. That makes it pretty official, but still, I’m like, “Hi, Mrs. Roy, how’s everything going?” Real casual, like nothing’s happened, and I’m just over to see Cassidy like I’ve been doing this whole last six months.
She puts on a fake smile and goes, “Everything’s just fine, Sutter. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Really? That’s okay. I just came over to chat with Cassidy for a little while, maybe go out and get a Coke.”
“I’m sorry, Cassidy’s not here.” No mention of the breakup.
I’m sure she really wants to say, “You know what, necktie boy? Cassidy’s in her room right now, but she never wants to see you again for all eternity, so why don’t you and your stupid-looking Mr. Leon slacks vamoose on out of here.” That’s parents for you. They won’t come right out and say something like that, even though everybody knows that’s what they’re thinking.
But I can play that game too. “Well, hmmm.” I look over my shoulder at the driveway. “I see her car’s here. Maybe she came back without you noticing.”
“No, I’m sure she’s not back yet. Kendra came and picked her up.” Right away, her bottom lip tenses. Obviously, she wasn’t supposed to divulge that top-secret information, but it’s too late now. So I’m like, “Okay, tell her I came by, see you later. I’ve got to get home in a couple of minutes anyway.”
But I’m sure—if Mrs. Roy is as smart as I think she is—she knows I’m not heading anywhere close to home right now.
Chapter 11
Kendra’s car isn’t parked in front of her house, but I go to the door anyway. Her mom’s more helpful, telling me the girls went over to Morgan McDonald’s house for the Christian jocks meeting. Morgan’s my old junior high girlfriend, but that was so long ago now it’s not like we were ever anything more than friends. The weird thing, though, is that Cassidy would even go to a meeting with a bunch of religious jocks. She’s neither. In fact, she usually scorns them and their ilk.
Ilk. I love that word.
By the time I get to Morgan’s neighborhood on the north side of town, I’ve had several more shots of whisky so I don’t have the butterflies anymore. Instead, it’s more like rusty bolts banging around in a tin can.
You should see all the cars parked up and down the block for this Christian jock thing. You’d think they must be handing out get-out-of-hell-free coupons. But don’t go getting the idea that this is some kind of wholesome, clean-cut, vanilla-wafers-and-milk extravaganza. You don’t even really have to be an athlete to come. No. Ninety-nine percent of the people who show up at these meetings are here for one simple reason—to hook up. And that accounts for the heft of those bolts rattling in my belly. Who is Cassidy planning on hooking up with?
I park at the end of the line of cars and start toward Morgan’s house, mulling over what I’m going to say when I see Cassidy. I need something lighthearted to begin with, something fun and colorful like, “Imagine meeting you at a place like this. Did you ride over with Jesus or is he taking that donkey again?” Then, once I have her smiling, I’ll launch right into the apology. “I was wrong,” I’ll say. “I wasn’t thinking. But you know me, thinking isn’t my specialty. I’m a moron at long-term romance. I need a special ed teacher to coach me. Someone like you.”
Ahead, I see the silhouette of a couple against the streetlight glow. By the height of the guy, I can tell it’s Marcus West, the basketball stud, but the girl is leaning so close into him that I can’t tell much more about her than that she has fairly short hair. “So,” I say to myself, “Marcus has himself a new girl. That must mean LaShonda Williams is free. I alw
ays did like her.” But as soon as that idea pops into my head, I shut it down. I’m not here looking for new girls.
Then, as I draw closer, Marcus turns so that he can lean against a car, moving the girl around with him and leaning down to lay a big kiss on her. Now I can see the silhouette of her ass perfectly, and there’s no mistaking who it belongs to. It’s Cassidy’s big, splendid, beautiful booty. The bolts in my stomach turn into rusty hammers.
A lot of guys might look at Marcus West’s size and turn right around, but not me. “So,” I say, stopping about ten yards away. “I see the spirit of Jesus sure got into you two.”
Cassidy spins around. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, you got a haircut.”
Her hand flits to her hair for a second. “It seemed like a good time for a change.”
I nod and rub my chin like I’m some kind of connoisseur of style. “It is motherfucking stunning.”
Now Marcus takes a step my way. “Are you drunk or something, Sutter?”
I smile as wide as I can. “If drunk equals A and something equals B, let’s just say the answer absolutely is not B.”
His brow crinkles, not from anger but, surprisingly, from sympathy. “Look, man, I know this isn’t exactly the best time for you. Maybe you ought to let me drive you home.”
“And behold! Marcus West spake even unto the lowly.” I’m trying hard to pronounce all the words without a slur.
Cassidy’s like, “Oh Gawd, Sutter.” But I hold up a finger to let her know I’m not finished.
“And his blessing fell like a curse among the wicked. That, boys and girls, is the way the communion cracker crumbles.”
Marcus walks over and reaches for my arm. “Come on, man, let’s go over to my car.”
I pull away. “Excellency, that will not be necessary. I am a fair-minded individual who thoroughly understands the meaning of the phrase ‘kicked to the curb.’ So now, I bid you a good night.” I bow just far enough so that I don’t lose my balance. “And I wish you a lifetime of marital bliss, for I am now free to begin my epic search for the perfect soul mate.”
As I turn away, Marcus goes, “Sutter, look…” but Cassidy cuts in. “Let him go. He wouldn’t even know how to drive if he wasn’t halfway drunk.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I call to her without turning around. “You are a most understanding woman—in everything but love.” And that would have been a perfect closing line if I hadn’t tripped over a pile of trash bags and spilled my drink down the front of my pants.
Chapter 12
Another spectacular afternoon. This weather is unbelievable. Of course, that probably means summer is going to be vicious again, but I’m not worried about that now. I was never big on the future. I admire people who are, but it just never was my thing.
Me and Ricky are sitting on the hood of my car in a parking lot down by the riverfront in the middle of the city. I offer him a hit off the flask, but he turns me down, says it’s too early in the day. Too early? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. On a Friday! But I’m not the kind of guy to put the pressure on someone to do anything they don’t want to. Live and let live, I say.
I take a quick shot and go, “Look, you can see the Chase building from here. Right up there at the top…”
“Yeah, I know. Your dad’s office is up there.”
“I wonder what kind of deals he’s making today.”
“You know,” Ricky says, “I’d go with you tonight if I could.”
“I know you would. It’s no big thing. I just can’t stand going over to my sister’s by myself. Her husband and his buddies make me want to puke sometimes. They’re so full of themselves. They think anybody that’s not them is riffraff. Actually, I don’t mind being riffraff. I just get annoyed with people who think that’s a bad thing.”
“I can’t break this date with Bethany. She’s got everything planned.”
“That’s all right.”
“Besides, I thought you were going to ask Whitney Stowe to go with you.”
“I did.”
“You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It didn’t go so well. She said she doesn’t go out with shallow party boys.”
“She said that?”
“Yep.”
“That’s messed up.”
“I don’t know.”
“Dude, you are not a shallow party boy. Anybody that’d say that doesn’t know the first thing about you. They never sat in on any of our late-night conversations, that’s for sure.”
“But you know Whitney—she’s an artiste.”
“I don’t know why you don’t ask Tara out. She wants to go out with you. Bethany said she does. Besides, I saw the way she looked at you when we were driving back from Bricktown.”
“Dude, I can’t date Tara.”
“Sure you can. Think about it. She and Bethany are, like, tight. We could go out on double dates. We could have cook-outs by the lake—hamburgers, drinks, a little weed. It’d be splendiferous.”
“I’m sure it would be,” I say, picturing the whole scene. “But it can’t happen. I can never ask Tara out. Ever. If I did, that’d just make Cassidy think she was right. She’d go, ‘Look at that little weasel. After he tried to tell me nothing was going on between him and Tara, now they’re feeding each other French fries under the white oaks.’”
Ricky gets a chuckle out of that. “You know what?” he says. “I still can’t believe she’s already latched on to Marcus West. I mean, I can’t see it. She’s always making fun of jocks.”
“Oh, I can see it.” I take another hit off the flask. “You know Cassidy and her Greenpeace and Habitat for Humanity and Gay Pride parades, and all that. Then you have Marcus, who’s practically a one-man Salvation Army. He’s always up to something—serving Thanksgiving dinners for the homeless, working with the Special Olympics kids, mentoring delinquents. You got to hand it to him. He’s a hard guy to make fun of.”
“Yeah,” says Ricky. “And then there’s that whole enormous dick thing.”
“What?”
“You know, they say black guys have these enormous, elephant-trunk dicks.”
“That’s bullshit. I don’t believe in racial stereotypes like that.”
“Me either,” he says. “But it’s kind of hard not to think about it.”
I look at him and shake my head. “Well, it wasn’t before you brought it up anyway.”
“Sorry, dude.”
I hit the flask a stout one. “That makes a real great picture. It was bad enough I have to go over to my sister’s, now I’m going to have that snapshot in my head all evening.”
“Here,” Ricky says. He pulls a fat blaze out of his jacket pocket. “Take this with you. It’s some hearty shit. It’ll get you through the night.”
Chapter 13
I have to work from three to eight, and for once, I don’t want to leave. I’m completely ready to stay way after closing even. I’ll do inventory till like ten o’clock or something, anything to postpone going over to my sister’s soiree. Unfortunately, around seven, Bob pulls me aside and says he thinks I’d better go ahead and leave early.
I’m like, “No way. It might get busy, and you’ll be stuck here by yourself,” but he’s, “Look, I know you’ve been drinking, and we can’t afford to have a customer call into the front office about something like that again, you know?”
I start to deny the drinking thing, but I can’t really lie to Bob, so I just say something about how I’ll swig some mouthwash and chew some more gum. He’s not buying it.
“I can handle the last hour by myself,” he says. “Just go home and get to bed early. I won’t hold this against you, Sutter. I know you’re a good guy. But I also know you’ve had a rough week, what with the thing between you and Cassidy.”
“Hey,” I tell him, “I’ve forgotten all about her. Believe me, that is no big deal. I’m a free man. A new girl is just around the corner.”
“Sure,” he says
. “Okay. But you’re not going to find her at a men’s clothing store. So go on home. I’ll be fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Going home is not an option, though. My mom will just tell me to get my ass straight over to Holly’s. No, there’s nothing to do but stop off for a big 7UP and cruise around for a while, then maybe take the long way over to Holly’s so that I don’t have to spend too much one-on-one time with her husband, Kevin, while she’s mixing up the salad or whatever. You know, usually I’m a positive guy—I embrace the weird—but I can’t help getting a little cynical about these two, and maybe I’m feeling a bit more than a little that way tonight.
Holly and Kevin live in that hoity-to-it area just to the north of downtown Oklahoma City on a street full of really big, old homes for upscale professional types. Just for the record, Kevin doesn’t pronounce his name Kevin the way an ordinary person would. He pronounces it Keevin. He’s some kind of muckety-muck exec for an energy company. They do very well, especially considering Holly is only twenty-five. Kevin is like fifteen years older than she is, and has an ex-wife that Holly says should be on a poster for what can go wrong with plastic surgery. Holly used to be an administrative assistant at Kevin’s company, but obviously she worked her way up.
I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom doesn’t actually love Kevin more than Holly does. In fact, Holly had to come up with some lame excuse about how his parents hadn’t been invited to dinner, so she couldn’t invite hers either. I’m sure he told his parents the same thing in reverse. Why they had to go and invite me, I don’t know, but Mom actually seemed jealous about it.