Futures and Frosting (3 page)

I
am busy with customers.  You are going to have to MAN UP and comfort her yourself. 
Start acting like you have a vagina for fuck’s sake and hug her.

XOXO
– Liz

I grit my teeth
at the knowledge I am on my own in the pits of consoling hell.

“There, there,”
I say, patting her on the back again. I really think I should have been born a
guy.  I don’t know many women who get skeeved out by displays of emotion.  If I
see a woman crying, I usually run in the other direction.  I am not one of
those people that throws my arms around her and tells her everything will be
okay—because it probably won’t.  It will most likely suck just as much whether
I hug you or not, so it’s probably best for everyone involved if I just stand
off to the side and let someone else do the touching.  I feel much more
comfortable wallowing in anger and stewing about something privately until my
head explodes.  That's natural.  Hugging and crying and snotting all over
someone isn’t.

“Didn’t you just
get a raise?  Why in the hell would they fire you?” I ask as I worm my way out
of her arms and try to subtly back away from her.

Don’t look at
the snot on your shoulder, don’t look at the snot on your shoulder.  I know you
can feel it there, but for God’s sakes, DON’T LOOK AT IT!

Jenny finally
releases her hold on me and uses the back of her hands to wipe the tear streaks
off her face.  If only she would have done that with the snot instead of using
my shoulder.

“I don’t have
any idea why they really fired me.  They gave me some song and dinner about
positive attitude.” she pouts.

“You mean
dance?” I ask in confusion.

“Claire, focus! 
I got fired!  This is no time for talk about dancing,” she yells.

I take a deep,
calming breath and put my hands on my hips to keep from strangling her.

“Okay, so they
fired you because they didn’t like your attitude?” I reiterate.

Jenny looks at
me incredulously.  “I know, right?  I told them I was the most positive person
in that dump.”

“Verbatim?” I
ask her.

“I didn’t forbid
them anything.  What are you talking about?  Are you even listening?  Have you
been drinking?”

The last is
stated in a stage whisper as she looks over at the customer who came in
earlier.  I pinch the bridge of my nose and try not to stomp my foot and throw
a temper tantrum like Gavin does when I tell him he is grounded from
PlayStation.

“What am I going
to do without a job?” she whines as she paces back and forth in front of me. 
“It’s mine and Drew’s three month anniversary and I was going to buy him
something really special and now I’m not going to be able to afford it.”

I grab onto her
elbow to stop her pacing and pulled her back behind the counter with me when I
saw the customer was finally ready to order.

“I’m sure Drew
will understand,” I tell her as I start filling a box with the woman’s request
of a pound of white chocolate covered pretzels.

“No he won’t. 
He’s going to be so upset.  I already told him what I was buying, and he was
really looking forward to the vagina mold,” she says dejectedly.

I drop the metal
candy scoop on the floor and look over at Jenny as she sighs miserably.

As I pick up the
scoop and toss it into the sink before grabbing a clean one, all sorts of
thoughts swirl through my mind that shouldn’t be when I am waiting on a
customer—like who-ha’s covered in green fuzz and moldy cheese vaginas dancing
around the Tupperware container in the back of my fridge with two-month old
spaghetti in it.

Jenny looks over
and sees the horror on my face as I try to block out the mental image of moldy
cheese vaginas singing, “Mold, mold, baby,” in the voice of Vanilla Ice in my
head.

“Claire, didn’t
you see the new product Liz got in last week?  It’s a mold you can make of your
vagina.  So your guy can…you know…”

Jenny uses the
age old finger gesture of a penis going into a vagina by making a circle with
her index finger and thumb and using the index finger of her other hand to move
in and out of it.

“Eeeew, what? 
That’s disgusting,” I whisper, smacking her hands to get her to stop making
that motion with her fingers as I hand the customer her chocolate.

“It’s not
disgusting,” Jenny says.  “It’s romantic.  Drew wants a replica of my…” she
glances at the customer and then lowers her voice “…love tunnel so he can be
with me whenever we’re apart.”

I step away from
her to ring up the customer, trying not to picture Drew holding on to some
little floppy, silicone vagina-looking thing, talking to it in a baby voice
like it's Jenny. 
“Oooooh, I wuv my wittle fake Jenny-vagina!  Yes I do!”

“Wouldn’t it be
easier to just get him a blow-up doll and tape your picture over its face?” I
ask as I watch the customer leave the store with her purchase and hope she
didn’t hear enough of this conversation to prevent her from ever stepping foot
in here again.

Jenny shakes her
head at me in pity.  “You have absolutely no sense of romance, Claire.”

I huff in
indignation as I get busy filling a box with chocolate covered strawberries for
an order that's being picked up after lunch.  I am plenty romantic.

Just this
morning while he slept, I had left Carter a box of his favorite candy next to
his pillow–Globs: piles of white chocolate covered, crushed potato chips and
pretzels drizzled with caramel.   I figured it would soften him up to the note
I placed next to the box telling him if he left the toilet seat up one more
time and my ass got an involuntary bath at six in the morning, I would put super
glue on the head of his penis while he slept.  I had even signed the note with
a couple of Xs and Os.

Who says romance
is dead?

I close up the
box of strawberries and finish it off with my signature pink bow and a sticker
with the name and address of the store.  Setting it aside, I turn to face Jenny
and find her inhaling an entire pan of white chocolate covered Nutter Butter
cookies that I had been experimenting with that morning.

“Jenny, put the
chocolate down and step away from the tray slowly.” I speak to her in my best
hostage negotiator voice.  “I wanted to ask you if you’d be able to help out
with a few things for me, but I knew you were busy with work,” I explain as I
reach around her and take the tray from her hands before she harms herself or others
with her unemployment gluttony.

“Work!” Jenny
says with a whimper as her lip starts to quiver.  She reaches out with both
hands and grabs back onto the tray of half-empty chocolates.

“Oh Jesus, will
you let me finish?!” I scold as I smack her hands.

She sighs and
finally lets go of the tray of chocolates, spitting out a half-eaten Nutter
Butter into the middle of the pile before she turns to face me.

“Those are
delicious, but I feel kind of pukey right now,” she mumbles, putting a hand to
her stomach.

I move the tray
far out of her reach and my line of sight before I myself become pukey.

“As I was
saying, I have a bunch of things you could do for me here.  I need a website
created and maintained, advertising managed, and everything that goes along
with marketing this place that I know nothing about.  I got a call just the
other day from a magazine wanting to set up an interview, and I have no idea
what I’m doing.  I know it’s not your ideal job, and I probably can’t pay you
anywhere near as much as you’re used to making, but in the interim, until you
find something else, would you like to work for me?”

The squeal that
erupts from Jenny breaks the sound barrier and makes small dogs throughout the
land howl in terror.  She throws her arms around me and bounces up and down,
making me feel uncomfortable once again at the displays of affection people
feel the need to give.

“Thank you so
much, Claire!  I promise you won’t be disappointed.  I will do such a good job
you’ll want to bang the shit out of me!”

I glance up to
see my dad standing behind Jenny looking like he’d rather eat the regurgitated
chocolate covered Nutter Butter at that moment than inadvertently hear our
conversation.

“I just…I’m
gonna…my dog has the hungry,” he mumbles before turning and walking away.

Jenny lets go of
me and watches as he quickly exits the shop.  “You’re dad has a dog?”

I shook my head
and let out a deep sigh. “Nope.”

“Hey, Carter,
when I drunk dialed you last night, did I by any chance mention where I put my
keys?” Drew asks as I walk into the living room.

He rummages
through the couch cushions, cursing and pulling out loose change, McDonald
Happy Meal toys, and other goodies he finds in the cracks and crevices.  I grab
my baseball cap off of one of the end tables and stick it on my head before
turning to watch him.

Drew and I
haven’t shared a living space in months, yet somehow, even now that Claire and
I are living together, I still manage to find him passed out on my couch every
once in a while.

“How did you
even get home last night if you didn’t have your keys?  And I hope you know
that I use the term “home” loosely.  As much as I enjoy your company and
watching you stumble drunkenly around my home at four in the morning when Jenny
won’t answer her door because she thinks you’re an axe murderer, this is not
where you live.  Even though you might think so since I always seem to answer
the door and let you in.”

A cell phone
sails out of the couch as Drew continues to dig to China in search of his
keys.  I walk over and scoop it up, putting it in my back pocket.  Now I
remember why I let Drew in the door.  He isn’t afraid to stick his hand down
into the bottom of a couch.  I had known exactly where I lost my cell phone; I
was just too afraid to go in search of it.  There are scary, scary things
living in the bottom of those cushions.  Something I had quickly found out was
a direct result of living with a child.

“I probably took
a cab.  Or walked.  I don’t know, the evening got a little fuzzy after I found
produce stickers on my penis when I went to take a piss,” he replies in all
seriousness as he gets up from his knees and turns to face me.  The wrinkled
and stained shirt he wears that states, “Ask me about my huge penis,” has one
of the sleeves torn off and proves he had a rough night.

I don’t even
bother trying to tell him that if he didn’t have his keys when he left the club
or wherever he ended up last night, it stands to reason they won’t be
hibernating in my couch.  I have other things on my mind at the moment though. 
I walk away from Drew and into the kitchen, making my way to my coat that's
hanging on the back of one of the chairs.  I reach into the inside pocket, pull
out the small, black velvet box, and open the lid to look inside for the ten
thousandth time since I picked it up last week.

The sight of the
one and a half carat, platinum, diamond ring nestled in the white satin makes
my heart pound with excitement.  And I’m not going to lie; it also makes me
want to throw up in my mouth.  Just a little bit.  I stare down at the precious
metal that that took me eight days and six trips to the jewelry store to pick
out.  The main diamond is princess cut and framed by twelve, three-quarter
carat round diamonds.  The ring is complimented by lines of round diamonds
along the band. It's elegant and beautiful.

Yes, I know I
sound like a walking advertisement for a jewelry store and men everywhere are
humming the tune of “Taps” right now and brain screaming, “MAN DOWN!” but I
feel a little fist pump is in order due to the fact that Claire will be able to
look over at her friends all smug-like and say, “He went to Jared!”

If she says
yes.  Which she totally will, ha ha!  I’m not nervous at all.  I don’t feel all
itchy and ball-sweaty thinking about popping the question and the possibility
that she just might laugh in my face and tell me I’m bat shit crazy.  Who gets
married after only being together a few months?  Who has a one-night-stand in
college and finds out five years later it resulted in a child?  Who spends all
those years turning into a creeper that stalks bath and body shops every time
they get a new chocolate-scented lotion line and gets a hard-on at work when
some guy, whose wife just had a baby girl, passed out Hershey bars with the
cutesy little wrapper that says, “HERESHEIS!”

This guy right
here.  Don’t even ask how I explained away the boner and how I am NOT a child
molester and that it’s totally natural to get turned on when a co-worker is
talking about a baby.

That sentence
sounded much better in my head, so let’s just pretend I never said it and move
on.

The fact is, I
spent years wishing I could see my one-night-stand again and find out if she
was real, hoping I could one day meet her again and see if she could still make
me laugh and turn me on with just a brush of her hand or the smell of her
skin. 

I had tried to
fill the void with a woman whose mouth could hold more balls than a Hungry,
Hungry Hippo, but walking in on her playing hide the salami with our neighbor
made me realize two things.  One, I should have never tried to blot out the
memory of my dream girl with someone else.  And by “someone else” I meant a whore. 
And two, our neighbor had Elephantitis of the ball and should seriously get
that looked at by a medical professional of some sort.  And no, that wasn’t a
mistake.  I really meant
ball
, as in singular.  Dude only had one ball
and it was the size of a coconut. 

Seriously. 
Google a picture of a coconut.  I’ll wait.  Because you really need to get the
full effect of what I saw dangling there for the twenty seconds it took for me
to get my head out of my ass and scream insults at both of them.