The Other Guy

By Cary Attwell Text copyright © 2012 Cary Attwell All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen

Stop me if you've heard this one. A plucky heroine sashays onto the silver screen, her slender arm linked to that of a bland chump. A diamond sparkles on her left hand. Their wedding plans come nicely along, he agreeably accommodating to her needs and whims, she acutely aware that this is a fault in his genetic make-up she must overlook.

Meanwhile, the actual love of her life, a man who, at some point prior, probably broke her heart, gets thrown into the mix and spends much of his allotted screen time being extremely handsome as well as something of a freewheeling bastard.

But then, on some pretext, Good-Looking Bastard realizes that the love of a good woman (i.e. Plucky Heroine) makes him want to change his ways, till death do him and Plucky Heroine part.

And we all root for them to realize they're meant for each other, mostly because they are exceptionally pretty together, and also because The Other Guy isn't on the movie poster, so you know he's doomed to be sidelined right around the eighty-two-minute mark.

That, and because being raised on a steady diet of meetcutes, happily ever afters and butter-flavored popcorn instills in our hopeful hearts the illusion that sometimes good-looking bastards are actually Good-Looking Bastards with Secret Hearts of Gold.

(Where the popcorn comes into play is that the properties of its questionable flavoring in some of the microwaveable varieties may actually have a hand in causing dementia, but that's for another, more depressing story with a GoodLooking Bastard Neurologist in it.)

Eventually, after a series of misunderstandings and at least one ill-advised dance/karaoke/toilet scene, the movie culminates in Good-Looking Bastard racing to the church to stop the wedding. The Violin Strings of True Love soar, he commandeers a microphone to deliver a heartfelt speech, Plucky Heroine's eyes shine with tears, and away they whisk into the sunset, for what we can only assume will be a lifetime of quippy banter and incredibly hot sex.

The end.
Except not really. Not for The Other Guy, whose only sins so far have been toting around a basic sense of human decency that restrains him from barging into other people's nuptials to filch someone else's fiancée and lacking the manly wherewithal to grow designer stubble.
What do you do, then, when you're The Other Guy? When you're literally left at the altar, with a hundred of your friends and family, and hers, simply
gaping
at the former shell of yourself you're sure to become after a blow like that?
Run?
Well, I would've, but there was no way we were getting our deposits back on the reception site and all that fancy catering.
"Oh well," I said to the church at large. The echo of the doors banging shut in the wake of my ex-fiancée and her new dick of a boyfriend's exuberant exit was still reverberating off old stone and vaulted ceiling. "There's a free bar at the reception."
Which, of course,
I
was paying for, but that seemed a trivial consideration in comparison to the immediate prospect of sweet, shit-faced oblivion.
Pro tip: He will be righteously indignant on your behalf, but do not let your best man snarl at the less subtle of your guests to "Take a picture; it'll last longer," as this only encourages the world's most literal-minded wedding photographer to actually take a photo series of you falling apart inside.
(Pro tip footnote: Do not, out of charity, hire your fiancée's idiot second cousin to be your wedding photographer, no matter how many community college photography classes he says he's taken. There's a reason you never liked him, and this is exactly why.)
The funny thing is that this has happened before. Okay, not exactly
funny
, and not exactly on these terms -- I haven't, thankfully, been jilted at the altar twice (though, had this been the case, someone might find it entertaining enough to make a movie about me, and I would demand to be played by Jeremy Renner; yes, my arms look exactly like that, thank you for asking).
I have, however, been the guy, that guy, with whom women wet their feet when lifelong commitment becomes less of a faraway concept and more along the lines of
oh my god college was five years ago everyone on my Facebook news feed is manufacturing babies on a heavily expedited schedule I did not get that memo
.
And once they understand what a lifetime with a financially, mentally and emotionally stable person (i.e. me) looks like, that's when they decide their first college boyfriend was
the
boyfriend to end all boyfriends, and I was merely a stepping stone on their path to self-discovery.
Thank you, Emory
, they say.
Go to hell, you poopface
, I think.
Take care
, I actually say, as a full-fledged member of the The Other Guy Club, which espouses doormat gallantry as its first basic tenet, even -- especially -- in the face of being dumped (
at the altar
) by a flighty young lady for some bestubbled adonis who probably wrecks impractical European sports cars as a side hobby.
I saw an oldish man once, outside a coffee shop, yelling about Jesus and things needing to be cleansed; he made a particular point to call every woman who passed by a Jezebel. At the time I was frankly relieved when the barista quietly dialed the neighborhood police, but I am beginning to see his point. Perhaps he has a newsletter I could subscribe to, maybe a distinguished publication like
Women Suck Weekly
.
Okay, fine, it's possible that I am being unfair to the approximately three and a half billion women in the world who haven't left me for her first college boyfriend, and just because something has happened twice doesn't conclusively make it a pattern. But twice! That's suspicious, at least.
Or maybe it's just me. It's probably me. Oh, Christ.
The party, loosely termed, ended before eight-thirty, which, even by my standards, was pretty pitiful. I suppose the free flow of cheap wine wasn't quite enough to liquor away the sight of the forsaken groom, sapped of all dignity and even his will to make a drunken wretch of himself in front of his nearest relations.
It wasn't that I didn't want to, it was just that I had much better vodka at home with which to besiege my liver more efficiently, and a comfy terrycloth robe that would absorb nicely the inevitable flood of snot and tears and, let's face it, probably throw-up. I had rented my tux after all; I didn't want it to get
gross
.
What should have been the receiving line turned into some parody of a funereal march, and I slumped at the door, shaking hands and taking solemn claps on the shoulder.
Mom gave me a tight hug, and Dad squeezed the space between my shoulder and clavicle a little harder than usual, but that was about all I got out of them. We're stoic, Midwestern types; emotional displays are foreign and faddish to us.
Even our priest, a man who had poured the holy water at my baptism and watched me grow from Sunday to Sunday until I lapsed out of churchgoing, could offer no better comfort than the fact that God occasionally enjoyed fussing around with doors and windows. I wanted to discuss whether God had considered the possibility of installing cat flaps in my life, but the rest of the line, eager to hasten their respective escapes from my blank desolation, jostled Father Stanley away and into the night before I could ask.
Everyone else did their best to tilt their heads at me that auntie-patented,
oh, you poor thing
sort of way, and the less generous of my kinfolk stole away with the gifts they'd dropped off earlier, when I had still been on track to live the kind of life that included a heart-shaped waffle iron.
When it was just me and my best man left, Hal thumped at my back with a giant, flat palm, temporarily rearranging the alignment of my spine to indicate his succor. Manly, you know. He was, at least; I just stumbled forward at the blow and coughed a bit.
He helped me cart the remainder of the gifts home, stockpiling them in the living room, careful to keep their cards attached so I could return them to their senders later on, because what was I going to do with four sets of embroidered sage green towels anyway, besides enjoy the luxury of crying into a different one every day?
"Michelle wasn't right for you," he said over crossed arms, after sticking around to make sure I didn't drown myself in the shower.
I sank onto the sofa, an old three-seater upholstered in dark blue tweed. Were I a poetic sort I might be tempted to compare the state of my withered soul to its melancholic hue.
Roses are red, this couch is blue, my fiancée left me, and I hope she gets the bubonic plague
. I'll take my Walt Whitman Award in the form of cash and a decade's worth of psychotherapy, please.
"That's what you said about Dani, too," I pointed out, feeling sad and small, swallowed by my bathrobe, water trickling down the soggy curls at the back of my neck. In the empty screen of the wall-mounted television directly opposite, over an equally vacant fireplace, I could make out the reflection of a person destined for a lifetime of microwaveable meals and a disturbing number of cats.
Hal scrubbed thoughtfully at his beard, a thick, dark blond mass of bristles of which I had always been secretly jealous, never having been able to get much out of my own face than thin, irregular patches. He shrugged. "Yeah, well."
It could've meant
Yeah, well, and I was right
, or maybe
Yeah, well, you could obviously do better
, or something else entirely, but I didn't have the energy to pick his taciturn, lumberjacky mutterings apart.
"I think," I said, creating an instant damp spot on the back of my couch as I dropped my head to face the ceiling, "I'm defective."
Hal narrowed his eyes minutely. "Don't be stupid."
"Okay," I agreed.
"What are you going to do now?" he asked.
I lifted my head and looked around the room, hoping to glean some inspiration from my stolid furnishings, which proved useless. Michelle's ghost lingered everywhere, her fingerprints on every nook and cranny of my life for the past three years we had been together. I doubted they would erase themselves, even if I asked nicely.
We had spent all this time building and building to a single moment, a crux of a moment; there had even been a rehearsal specially arranged for it. When things come with rehearsals, you tend to let your guard down about everyone else going off-script, and then when it happens, you're left standing and staring like the world's greatest idiot while they simply move around you.
The pile of wedding gifts in the center of the carpet glittered at me, mockery evident in their department store wrappings for my failings, judgment in their gauzy bows and fripperies. Peeved, I pushed myself off the sofa, headed for the bedroom.
"I'm going to pack," I announced.
"And...?" Hal prompted, following my strides with no small measure of dubiousness at my sudden proclamation.
"And," I said brightly, yanking a suitcase from the closet, "I'm going on my honeymoon. By myself. Michelle took off to god-knows-where with James Dean's robot clone, and I have the tickets still for Thailand. I'm going on vacation."
"Oh... kay..." said Hal, and I could tell that he was trying to gauge just how crazy my eyes looked. Probably somewhere around a seven.
"Look," I said, aiming for reasonable, as I sniffed a couple of T-shirts and mashed them into the suitcase, "it's too late to cancel all the reservations and recoup all those costs. There's the plane tickets, the resort... I think-- I think we reserved a couples massage at the spa..."
I paused in my indiscriminate packing for a moment, wondering where to find a confirmation of the spa thing. Maybe they would let me split it into two separate sessions and I could get both massages. I'd be the pliantest boy on the block. Things were looking up already.
Hal frowned. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Uh, live in a tropical paradise for a week and sip fruity drinks with umbrellas in them by the pool? Yeah, Hal," I said, cranking up the sarcasm far past eleven, "that's a fate worse than death. I don't know what I was thinking."
"No," he said, stretching the word out longer than was healthy for it, "I was thinking more like going on a honeymoon without a wife."
I dropped a sock and looked up at him, stung. "Don't rub it in, man."
He raised his palms in surrender. "Sorry. Just saying."
"Yeah," I sighed. "I know."
I'll grant that the whole idea was potential grounds for institutionalization, or at least careful psychiatric observation, but I needed to do something, anything to get away from all of this. I was helpless, I was the one left behind, I was the one who wasn't good enough.
I think it's safe to say that when I was a kid dreaming of the endless possibilities of what my life could become when I grew up, none of those things came close to cracking the top ten. And even when I was a teenager, a college graduate, a master's candidate, with hopes of professional superheroing long since dashed, it never crossed my mind that I would end up an actual failure of life.
And if that didn't qualify me enough to get the hell out of the apartment, the city, the continent infested with mementos of the girl who'd made me a failure, then I didn't know what would.
Plus, I had taken a whole week of leave from work, and I really didn't want to go in on Monday having explanations expertly spun on the tip of my tongue, only to have Marybeth at reception go all
Oh, honey
at me as soon as I walked in.
At least in Thailand, people wouldn't look at me as though I'd been repeatedly kicked in the gut and ply me with trite platitudes. They would ply me instead with fresh coconut juice and elephants and fried food on a stick for being an intrepid traveler and valued contributor to the local tourism industry. There, I would be
useful
.
Or at least as useful as a pasty white person wandering around confusedly in ill-fitting bermuda shorts and demanding a one-person couples massage from time to time.
And at least I'd be good at it for a while.