I giggled then silently kicked myself for momentarily wondering what the weight of Mike’s body would feel like on top of mine.
Adam, Adam, Adam. Mike is sexy and exciting, no question. He would have been a fun guy to date in college, but in the long run he is totally wrong for you. Hell, he’s wrong for every woman who gets within two feet of him emotionally. Mike: Wonderful night. Adam: Wonderful life.
I cleared my throat for no particular reason. “Okay, um, how do I, um pound the fuckers?” Mike smiled as if he knew I’d just imagined the feel of his penetration. “I’ve got something in my throat. I’m going to grab a glass of ice water. Do you want a beer while I’m up?”
“No thanks.” He smiled smugly. “I could use some cold water, too, though.”
I returned to see Mike clicking away at my keyboard. “You got three main competitors here. Nothingface is a clipper, but he’s never made a purchase above two hundred bucks so I think he’s out. These two guys, Metalman and XTC420 buy lots of heavy metal shit and they’ve bought tickets online before.” I placed the ice water by Mike’s side where he left it without touching the glass. “Here’s what you gotta do. The auction ends at 11:23 tonight. Log on tonight, type in your bid of a thousand bucks at 11:20 and confirm it right when the clock on the computer says 11:22 P.M. Not the clock on the wall, got it?”
“I’m supposed to pay a thousand dollars to see a heavy metal concert?” I sank my head into Mike’s shoulder. “Who’s ever heard of a Republican accountant who’s into heavy metal anyway? Aren’t they supposed to dig Lawrence Welk and Frank Sinatra?”
“Hey.” Mike patted my head like a kid sister. “I’m a Republican. Ozzfest rocks and so does Frank.”
“A thousand dollars,” I mock sobbed.
“Poor baby.” He patted me again before reaching for his glass of water.
As instructed, I was on the eBay auction for Ozzfest tickets at the stroke of 11:00 that night. Truth be told, I logged on at 10:15 and got into a bidding war for a pair of wedge boots that were absolutely adorable, despite the fact that they were a size too big and a color I didn’t really need. I already owned black boots, but after forty minutes of sifting through nearly 200 pairs of cowboy boots, baby booties, and a vinyl of “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,” I felt lucky to find a pair so close to what I was actually looking for. My intention was to bid twenty-five dollars and forget about it, but as soon as I confirmed my bid, a message from eBay popped up. “You have been outbid by another buyer,” it informed me. “Oh yeah, who?” I asked the screen. I remembered Mike looking at an area called “bidding history,” so I went there to find that some shoe-thieving little tart known only as ShoePrincess had declared war over my boots. I clicked back to the bidding section and upped the ante to thirty-five dollars, and within seconds received a message from eBay, again informing me that I’d been outbid again. “What?!” I cried, outraged, before going back to the bidding history. “ShoePrincess,” I grumbled. When I was outbid a third time, I found myself shouting, “Die ShoePrincess, die!” Not since the Wicked Witch of the West stalked poor Dorothy for her ruby slippers had a pair of shoes been so highly coveted. Clearly, I had Oz on the brain. Like a sprinkling of fairy dust, I heard the two-note arrival of an instant message.
Good girl, Mona Lisa.
Mike?
Who else calls you Mona Lisa?
What are you doing?
Just earning my keep, making sure my girl is where she needs to be. You haven’t bid yet, right?
No, but I’m doing battle with some bitch named ShoePrincess who seems to have nothing better to do than park herself on eBay and outbid me the second I try to buy these cute go-go boots. Every time I bid, she’s right there taking me down. She does it in seconds. Like it’s personal. She’s just so right there in my face.
Ha!
What ha?
You know she’s not really sitting there at her computer, right?
What do you mean?
Oh man, I almost don’t want to tell you.
Tell me!!!!!
You see the area where it asks how high you’re willing to bid? Hers must’ve been higher than what you’re putting in, so eBay automatically lets you know if you want to stay in the game, it’s time to step up.
Oh.
Still want the boots?
I’m not sure.
Are they black?
Yes.
Leather?
Yes.
Be sure. Be very sure.
How come?
Very sexy. Take the bitch down at the end of auction. When does it end?
Two days.
Mona Lisa!!! Get outta there and go buy your Ozzfest tickets. Stop pissing around and go back when the fucker’s ready to close in ten minutes. Have I taught you nothing? Go bid on Ozzfest and come back. I got an idea for you.
I placed my high bid at a thousand dollars, as Mike suggested, and hit confirm just as the clock on my screen read 11:22 P.M. I stopped to absorb the fact that such a slight motion—the clicking of my roller ball— had just set in motion my new life with Adam.
I won!!!!! I won the tickets, Mike!!!!!
Congratulations. How much did you pay?
What do you mean? I bid a thousand like you said.
You had to pay the full grand? That sucks.
What do you mean? I didn’t even check. I assumed I paid the thousand I offered.
Hold on.
After a minute he returned with the news that I had won the tickets at $755. I jumped out of my chair for the victory dance, elated that I’d not only won my passport to a wonderful life, but saved $245!
Happy now?
Thrilled!!!!
Make sure you click on payment instructions so you can get that squared away before the weekend. Fourteen hours of heavy metal. Man, I envy you.
What?!
What, what?
You wrote fourteen hours of heavy metal. Are you serious?
Very. I told you it’s twenty-some bands.
Good God, that’s a lot of heavy metal to absorb.
Yep. Hey, I got an idea I wanna tell you ‘bout. I was thinking about what a smooth move this was, you tellin’ your guy you’re into metal, and all. Not too many chicks are into that. So, I’m thinking, how do we build on that cool heavy metal chick thing we got going?
I’m terrified.
You gotta make this guy think you got an interesting past. Like you got a wild side. So I’m thinking you hire an actor who’s doing the part of the rock star, and he “accidentally” runs into you guys before Ozzfest and starts going off about how you two had all these wild times and how you dumped him and he’s all broken up about it still. I’m telling you, this is gold. If I’m out with a chick and some linebacker for the Chargers or Grade 8 bass player starts in on my woman, I’m thinking, man, I got myself a hot little commodity here. She dumped him, but she’s into me. That makes me one lucky guy to be out with her. Get it?
I hated Mike’s strategy of having Adam trump the rock star, but I had to admit, it did make sense. Mike suggested I go to a community theater group and pay some guy a couple hundred bucks to talk me up at the restaurant Adam and I were at before Ozzfest.
The next morning, I drove downtown to pay for two tickets to hell, and find an actor to play my brooding, dumped ex. When I met Tim, I assumed he would refer me to another actor with his company, but instead he said he’d love to “tackle this challenging role.” I couldn’t help wondering whether the challenge would be transforming his boyish looks into a metal bad boy, or pretending to be brokenhearted over me. Tim posed such a stark contrast to the giant tattoo from whom I’d just purchased my Ozzfest tickets that I had my doubts about his ability to pull it off. He looked like a hick, but I told myself it was just the overalls he wore and the fact that I pulled him away from painting a set with a sign reading “Welcome to Bedford Falls.”
Tim kept asking ridiculous questions about our fictitious relationship, like how long we were together and why I dumped him.
“Look, you don’t need to get into all that at the restaurant,” I assured him. “I just need you to walk up to the table and make it clear that we once dated and that you’re not over me yet because I’m unforgettable.”
“Mona, I understand that I’m not going to discuss our history together, but if I’m going to be convincing,
I
need to know all of this background,” Tim explained. The more he spoke, the less confident I was in his ability to pass himself off as the next Motograter drummer. “Mona, I want to take this role seriously. Impressing this guy is important to you, and I want to make sure I play the part with authenticity. You
are
paying me more for one night’s work than I’ll receive for the entire run of our show—and I’m the lead.”
Tim must have sensed I was having second thoughts about him because he offered to take on the “research” himself. “Why don’t I create a history for us and develop my character on my own? When I run into you, just let me take the lead and don’t contradict anything I say. Remember, don’t deny anything I say; stick with a ‘yes and’ strategy.”
“‘Yes and’?”
“I say we met at a museum. Now don’t you go and say, ‘no we didn’t, it was a concert.’ You say, ‘
yes
and it was love at first sight.’ Got it?”
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. “Can you do something with your hair, though?”
“Oh don’t worry about it, Mona. I am going to scream heavy metal. Trust me, I’ll leave my overalls at home Friday night. Give me the address and leave the rest to me.”
“Ozzfest? You once referred to heavy metal music as the soundtrack for trash collection,” Greta said, her sneakers pounding the pavement in perfect cadence with mine. “Hey there, Jack.” She waved to an older runner and his dog. “Do you have any idea what type of filthy people will be there?”
“I don’t think heavy metal people are dirty,” I mused. “I think it’s the grunge folks who don’t shower.”
“My point is that
you
are not one of these metal people. You don’t even like this type of music.”
“Maybe I’ll like it,” I said, hoping.
* * *
Adam didn’t exactly choose a candlelight-and-wine type of restaurant for our first date, but considering we were on our way lo Ozzfest, our attire wouldn’t have been appropriate. He wore jeans and a plain white T-shirt with etchings of a few skeletons pulling each other with puppet strings. Still, Adam looked like an accountant with his unpierced face and arm hairs that looked like he may have actually combed them. Vicki lent me her torn low riders and a T-shirt with a skull wearing a red bow.
As our menus were placed at the table, in stumbled a drugged-out leathered-up freak, muttering in an absurd accent that slid from English to South African to Australian. His red hair was gelled into about ten spikes, so his head looked like a medieval instrument of torture. His shirt must have been purposely torn in several places because it was otherwise brand-new, crisp and white. His black leather vest matched the armful of spiked wristbands that crept up to his elbow. God knows why, but the lunatic had a press-on tattoo of Hello Kitty on his bicep.
“Ay there, is’t moy Mona?” the bur-head shouted across the diner.
Oh God, tell me it’s not
— “I thought that was moy love, ay love,” he slurred. Tim stumbled to the table with slightly more grandiosity than Dudley Moore’s Arthur. When he arrived at our table, he held out his arms to hug me, trying hard to reveal the track marks he’d made along his arms. “Mona, Mona, Mona,” he said, sounding far too out of it to recognize anyone from his present, much less his past. He flung his hand toward Adam and spat, “Who the fuck is this, moy motherfucking replacement?”
Oh God, please stop!
Adam knit his brows, then looked at me with a questioning concern. “Adam Ziegler,” he extended his hand. “I assume you’re an acquaintance of Mona’s.”
Tim’s voice raised an octave, making him sound like something from a Monty Python movie. “An acquaintance?! An acquaintance, yeh say?! S’at what she told yeh, mate?” His hands were jittering and he kept winking at me with both eyes, like Jeannie granting a wish.
I jumped in to interrupt and redirect. I had to tell Adam that Tim was a schoolmate, a former coworker, or someone I casually knew. “Adam, this is—”
“Poison,” Tim sprayed us.
Poison?! Did that jackass just introduce himself as Poison?!
“Um, hello Poison, it’s nice to meet you.” Adam stood uncomfortably. “Would you like to sit? You’re unsteady on your feet.”
“Fuck the fuck off, mate!” Tim pushed Adam’s helpful arm away.
Just for the record, if you’re telling someone to fuck the fuck off, he’s not your mate. Leave, leave, leave!
“Sorry mate,” Tim plopped his leather-wrapped ass down at our table. “It’s just so bleeding hard to see moy lovely little Mona out with another bloke. I could slit moy bloody wrists right ‘ere,” he threatened with a smooth butter knife. “Y’ever been in love with the most beautiful girl who shows yeh how fanfuckingtastic life can be, then leaves yeh with nothing ‘cept yer memories of the best days of yer life?” He leaned back in his seat as if he was getting settled in for a long night. Inadvertently, Tim wiped his nose with his wrist. I took great delight in seeing him flinch at the first contact with his spiked band.
“Would you care for a tissue, Poison?” Adam offered, reaching into his pants pocket.
Why does he keep calling him Poison, like it’s a perfectly normal name?!
“What I’d like is the bloody love of moy life back,” he snapped. “What do yeh say, Mona? Those three years were the best bloody years of moy life. Can we give it another shot? I promise I’ll tell the boys of Gower’s Pharmacy to stop making plays fer yuh, not that I can hardly blame them, you sexy thing, you,” he winked hard. “Gower’s Pharmacy, mate. Y’ever heard of us? Our first CD went straight shit!”
Three years?! A band named after a pharmacy? Players who hit on me? Where’s that knife?
“This really isn’t the time ... Poison,” I muttered the name. “It was nice running into you, but we’ve really got to get going.”
“Ozzfest?” he asked. I quickly nodded. “Watch out for this lassie in the mosh pit, mate,” he winked at Adam. “She’s a whore!”