“That’s right around when I lost it. Can you take a look?”
Can I take a look for his jacket?
Honestly, I don’t know why I even hope for anything deeper than a superficial friendship with Mike. After I dug around the backseat of my car, looking for the jacket, Mike forgot all about any surprise for me. It was probably that he could belch my name or something equally touching.
As I left the airport, I called home to see if Vicki was there. She said she would try to finish the house while Mike and I were away. After few rings I heard my own voice asking me to leave a message for myself, and hung up.
I dialed Greta’s office, which automatically rolled over into voice mail. “Your call is very important to me and I
do
want to speak with you so leave a message and I
will
call you back just as soon as I am able.” Greta’s coddling formality seemed even more pronounced after not having heard it for a week. Her message sounded overly concerned with the caller’s fragile mental state.
I dialed the phone again and the honker put my call right through to Adam. “Mona!” he beamed through the telephone. “Gosh, I missed you. How come you didn’t call?” Why doctors have never attempted a personality transplant was beyond me. Imagine taking all of the sweet words and kind thoughts from guys who weren’t compelling and giving them to the sexy ones who couldn’t string together two decent thoughts? Now that would be a surgical breakthrough.
“I’m sorry. I was just so busy in Missoula, I didn’t have a moment to call,” I explained.
What women need to realize is that when guys say they’re too busy to call, what they mean is they’re too busy to call you. Hate to be harsh, but how long does a phone call take? If I want to call a chick, I do. Period. I can always make time to talk to someone I want to. It takes thirty seconds and if I’m really that busy, I can just multitask, call her on the crapper and hit mute while she yaps about her day. I’ve made my “keep the relationship alive” phone call without spending any real time on it. Think about all the unscheduled things you can squeeze into your day if you want. I’m on deadline for this article and yet I managed to trim my nose hairs, take a leisurely shit, and change the Odor-Eaters in my shoes. Ladies, if a guy says he’s too busy to call, what he’s saying is that these tasks are more appealing than talking to you.
—The Dog House, June
Adam was undeterred. “That’s okay. I’m glad you had a safe journey home. When can I see you?”
“We have a date this weekend,” I reminded him. “Remember Greta’s karaoke night?” I tried to be nonchalant as though the whole thing weren’t my idea, and I hadn’t been practicing with Ollie for weeks. The plan was that Ollie would pose as a stranger in the bar who would approach our table and ask if any of the ladies would sing a duet with him. I, of course, would not volunteer, but Vicki would coax and cajole me until I finally, reluctantly, agreed. Then Ollie and I would blow away the audience—Adam in particular—with our well-rehearsed impromptu duet.
A better plan would’ve been to find a gentle way to break up with Adam. He was such a good guy, it was impossible to just cut him loose without feeling guilty about it. Vicki said I was being ridiculous—that people break up all the time without it being a big drama. But in my world, that hasn’t been the case. The only other boyfriend I ever had pledged his love till death did we part. Then he was killed. I didn’t think that my ending the relationship with Adam would kill him. I felt cruel rejecting him and yet I knew it was unkind to hang on to him like a security blanket.
“Oh yes, karaoke,” he said, not hiding his lack of enthusiasm.
“I thought you loved music,” I said.
“Karaoke is a bunch of drunken wannabes crooning off-key. That’s not music.”
“Oh.” I wondered if he would be impressed by Ollie and me. “We could go somewhere else.” But I didn’t want to go somewhere else. About five minutes into my first singing lesson with Ollie, I realized I wasn’t learning how to sing because I thought Adam would like me more. I was doing it because I loved to sing and I always have. I was doing it because the breath coming from deep within me, turning to music and joining with lyrics, was powerful for me. I felt freedom like my evening sky was supposed to give me. It was the same sensation skiers and motorcycle riders describe when they talk about the wind whipping through their hair and feeling as though they might actually take off in flight.
Adam said that he was willing to go to Vicki’s karaoke night, but he said he’d like to spend time without the group, too. I resented that he didn’t see this as an opportunity to meet my friends and win them over. If I was still interested in him and he invited me to meet his buddies, believe me I’d be scrambling to make sure they gave me the guys’ seal of approval. Meeting the friends is really the prerequisite to meeting the parents. And in my case, meeting the friends was doubly important. Why Adam seemed indifferent to the idea was irritating. I wondered if I might just be looking for an excuse to be annoyed with him so I could justify breaking up.
“Listen, if you really don’t want to go—” I said.
“I want to go. I want to meet your friends, but I also want to spend some time with you. It’s been a while. There’s something we need to talk about.”
He wants to have sex.
He wants to break up.
He wants me to meet his friends.
He wants me to come to Jesus.
He wants to discuss my tax liability.
“Okay. Why don’t we have brunch at the Big Kitchen on Sunday morning?” I asked as I silently calculated the caloric intake of Judy’s biscuits and gravy. If I ran about eight extra miles I could work off about half a portion. Worth it, I decided.
“Okay, sounds good to me. I’ve got a two o’clock I still need to prepare for, so I’m going to run. Call me later, or I’ll call you,” he said sweetly, though it sounded like a threat.
As I turned on Alameda, I saw the navy guys waving in the car ahead of me. Then I realized there was no car ahead of me. I looked to my right and there were no cars there either. My car sat motionless, purring at the stop sign, ready to head straight toward home, but curious why the navy guys were waving me toward their gated entrance. They waved again and laughed a bit at my hesitation. I pointed at myself and mouthed
Me?
One guy looked like he was losing patience and started waving as though he was saying
Come in or don’t, but stop pissing around at the intersection.
Then it jumped out at me. A small navy decal was placed on the lower right corner of my windshield, and the guys thought I was one of them. Or at least had the right to be there.
I saluted and drove into the base. “He got me in,” I said aloud to no one, smiling uncontrollably. “What do you know, the Dog got me in.”
As I opened the front door, the theme from
Gone With the Wind
assaulted me. Vicki was dressed in full Southern belle garden party regalia, somewhat updated to suit her personal style. Surely, the proper ladies of Tara would have fainted to see her cropped frilly tank top just north of a full-length hoop skirt—a territory divided by a Confederate flag navel ring in front and a yin-and-yang tattoo on the small of her back.
The first things I noticed were the deep burgundy plush carpeting on the floor in the living room contrasting with the marble foyer floor. Textured parchment color was thickly sponged onto the living room walls. In the center of the wall facing the garden, Vicki installed the funky Southern window we had found after the Kickin’ Chicks soccer game. On each dark wood end table sat pink painted parlor lamps, the kind that look like double-blossomed mums. She replaced the mantle and dining room table with the same gray marble as the foyer. In the corner was a mannequin wearing a full-length gown in the exact same pattern as the curtains.
Vicki extended her white glove to me and curtseyed. “Tell me you love it. Say something, ‘cause frankly my dear, I do give a damn.”
“I love it,” I said. And I did.
She shrieked and clapped for herself. “Let me show you the kissing parlor,” she said, skipping out of the room.
“The kissing parlor?” I asked. Upon seeing my small library—or what used to be the library—I needed no further explanation.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I saw this totally cute little sofa and the rest just kind of happened,” Vicki said, gesturing to a pink velvet love seat in the shape of a set of women’s lips. Crowding the walls were pink-framed movie posters featuring famous kisses.
Casablanca. Roman Holiday. Niagra. Transglobe.
And of course
Gone With the Wind
and
It’s a Wonderful Life
. In front of the lips sofa was a glass top coffee table resting on the brushed stainless steel letters X and O. A red glass candy dish held chocolate kisses, but my favorite touches to the little-needed kissing parlor were the Blarney Stone replica in the corner and the Jimi Hendrix dummy scaling the wall to kiss the sky.
“Oh my God.” I stared in awe at the transformation of a hundred-square-foot nook.
“Do you like the bottle?” Vicki asked. I hadn’t seen that she’d mounted a lain wine bottle onto a wooden base with the words “Peck,” “Smooch,” “Smack,” and “Make Out” hand-painted in each quarter. “It’s on a spinner, so we’re always ready for a party.” Vicki beamed. “I thought of that myself. No one else has their own spin-the-bottle game. Let me show you the rest.” She led me by the hand to another room. “Now this is a little different than what we talked about,” she warned as we stood outside the door. “But you said you find rainstorms soothing, so—” she opened the door dramatically.
I can only describe my new spare bedroom as a dry, indoor rainstorm. The walls were painted a deep bluish purple with windows tinted the same color. The ceiling was covered with umbrella tops in solid colors with metallic undertones. Hanging over the windows were sheer white curtains. The bed was covered with a deep blue comforter, which was possibly the fluffiest bedding I’d ever seen. “Triple down,” Vicki said with pride, explaining that each of the eight pillows were just as luxurious. “Now watch this.” Vicki flipped the switch to what I thought would be the lights, but set off a storm soundtrack. The sound of pouring rain against a tin roof filled the room and suddenly a bolt of lightning appeared from the window, which I could now see was rigged. A flash of light illuminated the umbrellas on the ceiling and curtains were breezed subtly by low fans set into the windowpanes. I was about to comment on its beauty when a crash of thunder filled the room.
“This is fantastic!” I shouted. “How clever of you to pick the guest room with the fireplace!”
“Do you love it?” she asked, already knowing I did.
We toured the rest of the house as Vicki told me about where she purchased each item and how every room evolved. She regaled me with stories of movers and contractors and how she did the impossible job of turning the house into my home in just over a week. She said that Captain John came by as she was finishing the rain room, and hired her to do some sort of nautical theme for his family room. “Do you think we could have a house warming party and invite your friends so they can see what I’ve done with the place, and maybe hire me if they need?” she asked. “That’s why I made you the curtain dress.” She giggled. “Remember that scene? I’m your mammy!”
“You
made
the dress?”
She nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Like it? I love it!”
“Good. I want to show you one more thing,” Vicki said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a business card with her name on it as an interior designer.
“No more stripping?” I asked.
“Hey, it was fun while it lasted, but they fired me for being late again.” she grinned sheepishly. “And the bruises, you know. Not sexy.”
“Not sexy?!” I gasped like Scarlett O’Hara.
“Clearly these men are crazy.”
Vicki was probably the sexiest woman I’d ever known. That weekend she proved it by keeping the patrons of the Lamplighter Bar roused with her absolutely horrid rendition of “Brick House.” It just goes to show you that in karaoke—and in much of life—attitude is more important than talent. When I say Vicki cannot sing, I don’t mean she’s mediocre. She butchers a song. The notes are so flat they hurt to listen to, but boy could she pull it off anyway. She danced on the speaker, walked into the audience and sat on some old Sinatra impersonator’s lap, and just looked like she was having the time of her life on stage. After the initial thirty seconds of shock that someone so beautiful could emit such cacophony, people got into her over-the-top horrible act. They sang the chorus along with Vicki, partly because they were into it, and partly to drown out her voice. When the song ended, everyone rose to their feet and cheered. A smidge tipsy, Greta missed Mike’s hands for the high-five attempt. Everyone was in a drunken state of giddiness. Everyone except Adam, who suggested we call it an early night.
“And next we have Mike,” said the hefty karaoke disc jockey. “Ready Mike?” Mike filled his thick gray cotton Naval Academy T-shirt and Levi’s that were so well-worn, the knee was beginning to guitar string.
“That’s you.” Vicki shoved her brother.
“I didn’t sign up to sing.” He shrugged. “Must be a different Mike.”
“Mike? Is there a Mike in the house?” the man announced again.
“I signed you up.” Vicki shoved him again as the music began. The words “‘Just the Way You Are’ by Billy Joel” unfolded in red lettering on a large screen and piano music began.
“Come on, Mike, stop being a weenie and get up and sing,” blared through a microphone. Everyone in the bar started cheering, chanting his name like the final football game in
Rudy
. He held his hands up in surrender and stumbled onto the stage just in time for the second verse. “‘And don’t imagine, you’re too familiar and I don’t see you anymore,’” he sang a beat behind the music. His voice was uncomfortable, like he was speaking, trembling slightly. Good God, Mike was actually nervous. I loathe confessing, it was thrilling to watch. It was like seeing a glimpse of myself in a self-assured, often arrogant, guy. I snuck a peek at Adam and had the slightest tinge of guilt over the fact that I was hoping Mike was thinking of me as he sang about loving a woman just the way she is.