Scottsdale's Attempt at Road Rage

(language!)


Day at the office comes to a close, it’s ripely 5pm Rush Hour. Luckily, I’m just making a quick stop at the gas station for a Monster or two.

Normally flowing freely, Scottsdale road is clogged to a bewildering halt. There are people making desperate U-turns and near-collisions to avoid the ugly scene ahead. Horns honking, people screaming at their steering wheels.

I dodge into a side lot and make my way to the Shell. Afterwards, I turn towards the only available exit and am stuck behind two cars waiting to make a left into the hurricane of traffic on the main road.

Three cycles of green and red lights occur, no cars have moved. People are getting more upset. My left leg is tired from holding down the clutch, so I switch to neutral, turn off my headphones and listen to my surroundings.

I notice the driver ahead of me flinging his hands around inside his black Mercedes. His windows are up, so I can only imagine what he’s yelling at his windshield-

Until he opens his door and steps out.

“What in the FUCK are you waiting for?!” he’s tall and well dressed in a dark suit and tie. His voice is distinctly British. His arms are flapping all around, cursing in a way I almost can’t understand. He pounds on the driver’s window of the Suburban in front with his fist.

“OPEN UP you WANKUH!”

The Suburban driver, seeing how his left turn is impossible to make anyway, opens his door and reveals himself as well. He’s wearing a cut-off shirt, neon green, flaunting tight abs and gym shorts.

“Hey MISTER I can’t move okay JEEZ!” he waves his finger around, with his right hand fashionably at his waist.

British business man and buff gay guy both yell at the top of their lungs at each other for a few minutes. The rest of the cars stop honking and start watching the scene unfold instead.

Now the lights have gone through green and red cycles three more times. We’ve been stuck here at least twenty minutes.

The argument has since left the subject of the traffic situation, to plain insults.

“You DRIVE and TALK like a WOMAN!” British guy yells.

“Well your tie is SO WALMART!” gay guy retorts.

Should I? Oh why not.

So I step out too and walk up to them with a cigarette.

“Guys, guys. Relax. Get back in your cars.”

They both face me, and take turns

“WHUT! No YOU get back in YOUR CAH!”

“Stay out of this little man! You don’t WANT NONE!”

“Gentlemen. There’s a dozen cops a quarter mile from us. They’ll come over here and detain you bo-”

“Oh COME OFF IT! I’ll knock you BOTH out before that happens!” the Brit wipes back his hair.

Gay guy gasps.

I hulk up, take a deep breath, and thunder
“Oh yeah?! Well your accent sounds REALLY PLEASANT!”

“WELL Y- what, it does? Oh… why thank you,” he fixes his tie and chuckles, then realizes he’s supposed to be mad, “But this SILLY CUNT in his SILLY SHIRT is causing me quite the headache!” he points.

“You guys wanna beer? We should just split a sixer while we wait for this traffic to clear up.”

“Oh heck, I’ll have one. I’ve worked out all DAY I deserve it!” says buff neon shirt, raising his hand.

British guy looks around, nods at the ground for a moment, and after a heavy sigh “I guess we might as well. This is QUITE the pickle we’re in.”

We orchestrate ourselves in reverse, backing into the Shell station. I buy us a six pack of Blue Moon and we share them in the Suburban.

British says his wife has been cheating on him every time he goes on a business trip, he thinks, that’s why he was so upset. Gay guy says he felt scared despite his Superman body.

We joke further about how lousy American light beer is, and how British can’t wait to go back home where things (other than his wife) make sense. Halfway through our second beer each, the traffic eases up a bit. So we wish each other well after a few more laughs, and split ways.

Versus Cigarettes.

It’s been a long morning at the office. I’m in line at the overpriced Shell station across the street, eyeing the wall of sin behind the register.

My turn arrives “Hey I’ll take the Camel Lights,” I say, digging for my ID.

“No need, bud,” cashier puts a hand up, revealing a fresh pack with the other.

“Dang, over seven bucks now?” I cringe.

“Yeeeahhp. Harsh, huh?”

No matter. I’m in my truck now, the glossy pack of Camels fits perfectly in my palm. Inside are twenty little companions. Twenty little vacations.

I take the shiny tab in my fingers, and unwrap her like a present that’s just for me. The lid pops open with the crispness of a spring morning, revealing her metallic undergarments. They too, slip off with ease.

Ah, the first cigarette. Smells good, rolled nice and tight. She cheers smoke into my lungs, I smile and together we head out.

I’ve tried to quit smoking so many times it’s not even funny. I’ve tried substituting with patches, cold electronic variants, gum, hell even chewed on toothpicks. All failures.

As my little damsel sits comfortably between my fingers, I let her spirit escape out the driver’s window.

“You know those’ll kill you.”

“They make you stink.”

 “They’re so expensive.”

We pull back into the office parking lot. I suck away the last of her, toss her corpse into the dumpster, and head back to work.

It’s stressful inside, even for me. The client’s demands are all wrong, what they want will look like crap. The time frame is laughably small, with expectations disproportionately huge.

A few hours pass. I get a call as I’m saving the final design saying we have to start over.

I want to take my laptop, throw it across the room, scream, punch whoever’s next to me, tear off my pants, scream again and run out.

But then I see the Camels on my desk. They sit, pleasantly waiting for another visit. It’s not cancer they want to offer me, just a moment’s peace.

I take cigarette #2 in my hand, exhale a deep breath and step outside with her.

In there, it’s pure anxiety. Out here, it’s just me and God’s green Earth. Birds, clouds, and the Sun.

“Welcome back,” I hear a tiny voice say.

“Yeah thanks. I was about to go insane.”

“I know Andrew, I know. Just smoke me. It’ll be all right.”

“You know you’re killing me right now?” I tell her, taking a drag.

“That office is killing you faster.”

“You know people don’t like me because we hang out,” I tell her.

“Who needs people.”

“You know I’m going to walk back in there, smelling like you, and everybody will think I stink.”

“Again, who needs ‘em. Didn’t I just save you from certain doom?”

“Yeah but I could always just come out here for a moment to relax without you,” I tell her.

“Sure you could. Try just standing out here in the parking lot. Not doing anything, just standing here for six minutes. You’ll look like a creeper. You’ll look like you’re waiting for drugs, or a rape victim or something.”

“But I won’t be stinky,” I counter.

Before she can argue back, I stomp on her face then toss her corpse in the dumpster too.

I’m feeling positive I can quit for a moment, that I don’t need those cigarettes anymore.
Then I walk back into the office.

“Shit man, they want a leaf with a guy in it in the logo but it has to look like the letter O somehow I don’t even know where to start with this can you do it we have like fifteen minutes!”

 I whip out a machine gun with a knife on it and tear my way up and down the halls. Blood sprays like rain, I’m eating people’s brains and cackling madly.

“Sure, don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks Andrew!”

Back at my desk, my head pounds away. My fingers whip up multiple solutions. It’s not about being creative, it’s about getting it done. And that bothers me.

The Camels beckon, I do my best to ignore them.

It’s not just the nicotine that’s the hard part to stop. It’s all the little moments and details around that as well, that keeps you coming back.

It’s the jobs like mine where you opt for a six minute breakaway, rather than going Rambo on innocent coworkers. It’s the moments of peace that you just want to yourself. Without cigarettes, you lose those moments.

But you gain lung strength, stamina, stink less, spend less, and there’s less chance of cancer later on.

So risk explosive rage (but while in great health!) or keep smoking and keep subduing.

Wish me luck kids, I’m trying to quit again!

…Right after I smoke this final damsel.

Fixing Peter the Drunk

The sun’s recently set. Night time has arrived a bit early, but there’s still a hint of the day’s warmth.

I’ve just picked up some last minute prints from Office Max to get a head start on tomorrow.

On the way back to the office, coming down Scottsdale Road I see a lone car up ahead. 

A dark blue Cavalier, swaying slowly in and out of the empty lanes.

Thunderbird approaches, my turn off. 

I should just go back to my little life. Go back to the office, finish this job, and be safe. Be normal. Blend in.

I watch Thunderbird get closer and closer… and let it pass me. For some reason, I decide to just keep watching and following behind the Cavalier.

This person isn’t texting, where there’s a slow floating to one side, then a quick jerk of a correction.

He’s drifting from the far left lane, to the far right lane, and back again in long gradual sweeps. I get just close enough to read his license plate. But I don’t call the police.

There’s minimal traffic coming from the other side, and with a divider between us and them. So I don’t feel too worried about Cavalier Driver hitting someone head on. As he lingers to the left, I cringe in anticipation of him nailing a tree, or rolling over the median and flipping.

The light ahead of us turns red. He slams on his brakes, way too early, coming to a screeching halt about 100 feet from where he should have.

I stop beside the Cavalier, and take a close look at the driver.

He’s got a college kid face. Curly brown hair, with a lousy goatee.

He has the windows down, seemingly using the cold winds in an attempt to keep awake. He’s leaning forward, almost nose to the steering wheel. His eyes close heavily for a moment, then force themselves open a few times.

I want to say something to him, but what?

The light ahead of us turns green. It takes him a moment to notice, but he does eventually, and we continue on.

I stay, very obviously, even with him, keeping an eye out for police. When he drifts into my lane, I move over a bit. He hasn’t glanced in my direction once. He has no idea I’m even here.

When you’re this drunk, everything and everyone you interact with isn’t fully real. Never entirely solid, your environment is more like a movie being played, where normal fears and consequences are so distant in your mind it’s almost as if they don’t exist at all.

I begin to see other cars off in the distance ahead. I’m running out of time.

Cactus turns red. Cavalier man stops, this time in the crosswalk.

I watch his face this time as well, knowing this is a longer light.

It’s quiet. I can overhear him talking to himself. “You… you can do this. I can… I can do… I can…” he holds his face in his hands, rubbing his cheeks and eyes.

Oh man.

I can’t yell at him for driving drunk. I don’t want to scare him, or make him angry. I don’t know what kind of drunk he is. Or why he’s drunk. There’s only one safe question to ask a stranger who’s clearly inebriated.

“Hey! You hungry?” I holler.

He looks to the left, then in his rearview mirror. His eyes are wide open, startled. Was he hearing things?

“Dude! Over here! We’re going to Jack in the Box! You comin?”

 He follows my voice with his drunk head and finally sees me.

“What… no one told me you were… you were goin’ there. Yeah… yeah I wanna.”

“Cool man! Follow the white truck! It’s going to make a U-turn.”

He nods as his eyes close again. The light turns green and I gas up a bit ahead of him.

I blinker to the left lane with him floating around behind me too closely.

I make a slow U-turn, watching him attempt the same. His back tire nudges the median curb.

We creep up to the Jack in the Box together, he follows me into the empty parking lot and parks sideways across three spaces.

I get out of my truck in a hurry and meet him outside his driver’s window.

The car sputtered and shut off abruptly. I glance inside and notice he’s asleep, face on the steering wheel, his right hand taking a nap on the shifter.

I pull up the door lock in the window sill, and open his door.

“Come on man! We’re starving!”

He jolts awake and reaches with both arms towards me in a panic, “Get me… get me out of here! I’m stuck!”
He’s not stuck. But I pull him out of his dead Cavalier anyway.

He leans on me, and puts his face within licking distance of my own. His breath is like gasoline, “Dude… dude… I’m p-… I’m Peter.”

“Right on Peter, I’m Andrew. Let’s roll.”

I half carry him into Jack in the Box while he slurs something about his dead buddy’s name being Andrew.

He starts leaning/falling towards the front counter, so I corral him into the nearest booth instead. He plops into it too hard and looks around apparently confused at his suddenly different surroundings.

“I’m gonna get one of those sirloin burgers with everything on it. You want one too?”

“Yeah… I… yeah, yeah gimme uh… gimme one a… one those things.”

I order two of the sirloin burgers. Not hungry myself, but this guy needs some time to sober up. I’m not sure why I’m doing this. I thought of the heroin kid at the office, and how I let him leave.

“You wanna Coke?” I holler back at Peter.

His head is down on the table, sleeping again.

So I buy us each a Coke, too. Maybe the food and caffeine will help him.

I stand by the counter, waiting for our burgers, letting him sleep a moment. When the burgers arrive, I hear him groan into the table, so I take them both and sit with him quickly.

“Here you go, eat up, Peter.”

His head pops up, there’s slobber connecting from his mouth to the table. He doesn’t notice it. Peter just stares at the burger wide-eyed.

I push his burger towards him, then begin opening my own.

He takes his sirloin burger out of its box, and starts biting into the entire thing, without removing the paper wrapping first.

“Ohh… mmff… mmm oh man. Oh man thank you.”

At least he’s eating. That paper can’t be any worse than the booze he drank.

He eats, and eats. Every bite seems to send a beach vacation down his spine. He loves that burger way too much.

Peter licks his fingers, slams down the entire soda in a gulp then leans back on his side of the booth, overcome with satisfaction. His eyes, though still very glazed, stay open now. He’s looking up at the ceiling, as if imagining the stars beyond it.

“Feeling better?” I ask him.

“Yeah, thank you. What was your name again?”

“Andrew.”

“Yeah, yeah that’s right. How did we get here?”

I laugh at him, and he smiles, embarrassed.

“We lucked out, that’s all,” I tell him, “So what’s the deal? Pretty early to be this drunk on a Wednesday? Where’s the party?”

He looks at his hands, pondering whether he should tell me.

“Are you drinking to remember, or drinking to forget?”

He crumples in his seat.

“To… to forget.”

I know that look. Too well.

“What did she do to you?”

He puts a hand over his face, it muffles his sad response.

“She… she cheated on me. Like right in my face, too.”

“Did you try to fix it?”

“Yeah but she dumped me anyway. Says I’m a… she said I'm a loser.”

“How long were you with her?”

“Since high school.”

“Oh wow.”

He tries to sip from his straw, finds the drink empty, then falls back into his seat disappointed.

“Yeah I know. And you know what else? It’s gonna sound really, really lame.”

“Try me,” I say, sipping my own soda.

“She was the only girl I ever had, man. She was really something special.”

“That doesn’t sound lame at all.”

A smile appears then vanishes just as quickly from his mouth.

“So why the driving drunk?”

“Oh I don’t know. I just… I guess I just do it to see what’ll happen.”

“If you want to kill yourself, just use a gun,” I tell the table.

He chuckles at me, “Yeah that does sound pretty stupid, when I say it out loud, huh?”

“It’s okay Peter. It’s okay to be depressed for a while, it just shows how much you loved her. Just be depressed in the living room, not on the street.”

“You’re not gonna tell me to like, ‘go find other chicks, she was a bitch,’ and bullshit like that?”

“I’m sure she was a great girl at one point. And you’ll find another one when you’re ready. Just don’t think of her as your only reason for living.”

He nods, thinking about it. His gaze bounces between me and his hands for a moment, then he asks

“Ok, Andrew. You’re… you’re really nice. Are you from AA or something?”

“Hell no.”

He laughs, relieved, so I do too.

Peter seems to have taken those bits to heart. His demeanor lightens up and we talk about what he’s doing at ASU, and where he wants to work.

We go outside, he offers me a cigarette which I decline in favor of my own. He tells me his phone number, says we should hang out. I put it in my phone and call it, but don’t save the number.

We chat for a bit longer, I observe him closely to make sure he’s sobered up enough before I let him get back in his Cavalier. Eventually, after we both laugh at his terrible park job, he shakes my hand and opens the car door.

“Hey, thanks man. Thank you,” he says from his driver’s seat.

“Don’t worry Peter, you’ll do great. Just keep your head up, okay? You’re worth it. Just go home and sleep.”

“Thank you, I will. I’m right down the street from here. Thank you!” he starts his Cavalier, and waves at me as he pulls into the street.

I watch him drive away, staying perfectly in the lines.

Here’s hoping Peter made it home safely. 

The Sick Intruder

I’m at the office, pulling an all-nighter. It’s around midnight. Outside, east of Thunderbird and Scottsdale road, there are no cars. No people, no sound.

I have the door open, lights on, headphones blasting.

I’m aligning some text when I see movement in the corner of my eye. The hallway light dimmed and then brightened abruptly, as if someone just walked by.

I remove my headphones and listen closely. I hear shuffling feet, like someone’s dragging them in a painful stupor.

This business area of Redfield road is ghostly quiet at night, there are no residential complexes of any kind. Why is there someone here at this hour? I didn’t see or hear a car pull in, this man is on foot.

I grab a ballpoint pen in my fist, and will stab this man’s neck if I have to.

I move slowly from my seat, silent, listening for his position.
I hear fumbling in the kitchen. He’s turned on the faucet full blast. He’s groaning, sniffling a very runny nose.

I’m behind him now, just a few feet away.

He’s young. Can’t be more than 22 or 23 years old. His weakened frame slumps under a dirty hooded sweatshirt. His jeans are tired, with dark hair and an unkempt beard.

I watch him vomit in the sink, then grab his mouth as if struggling to be quiet.

I can’t kill this boy, he’s already dying.

 I put my pen in my back pocket.

“Can I get you something?”

He jumps, spinning to face me with a watery-eyed glare.

“It’s okay. You’re safe here. Let me get you some water.”

I take a bottled water from the small refrigerator, approach him slowly and hold the bottle out to him.

He hesitates, wiping slime from his mouth.

After looking me up and down a few times, he grabs the water quickly and starts chugging it, never taking his eyes off me.

His eyes. They’re sunken deep, panicky black holes, with a thin layer of clammy sweat from every pore. He’s sick. And I think I know from what.

“You don’t look so good buddy. Why don’t you have a seat,” I nod towards the large leather couch by the front door.

He looks at the floor, then back at me, then the floor again.

“You can talk, can’t you? I already told you, I’m not calling the cops.”

“Yeah… yeah okay,” his voice is embarrassed. He’s in the spotlight now and has some explaining to do.

He tries to appear normal, but he’s too far into withdrawal. His body is shivering, his sweat stinks unnaturally. He makes it to the couch and collapses onto it, grimacing.

“You got a few bucks you can spare… you know for the bus.”

The bus, cute.

“How many hours in are you?” I ask, sitting down beside him.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

He grabs his stomach, leaning forward, containing a monster in his gut.

“I… I don’t know. It’s been like twenty six hours or so I… I think.”

“Twenty six hours? Jesus. You’re dying by now.”

He swallows, his face is white, “That’s what… that’s what it feels like man.”

“I’d offer you some food, but you can’t eat right n-“

“-Oh God no. No food. No food…” he’s rocking back and forth now, his muscles are tearing themselves. His feet kick around, grasping for relief that doesn’t exist.

“I’d let you sleep here, there’s a bed in the back. But I don’t want you stealing shit the moment I let my guard down,” I tell the coffee table.

“Aw man, I won’t steal nothin-”

“-Yeah you will. Because I would if I were you.”

He doesn’t argue with me. Just keeps rocking back and forth, gripping his stomach tightly. His eyes water, he’s gasping for air and spitting poisonous mucus into the trash can I gave him.

“You… you don’t know what this is like man,” he utters, barely audible.

“Are you sure about that?” I roll up my sleeves, “Look.”

He leans over, and stops rocking when he sees my arms. “You… you have no veins…how long were you…”

“Few years,” I tell him, rolling my sleeves back down.

He goes back to rocking, his legs won’t stay still for a second. He feels really stupid now.

I ask him how he got here. Now that he knows I’m on his side, with genuine understanding, he doesn’t hold back. He confesses his entire night to me. Starting off with how he called his dealer way after operating hours, got in the guy’s car, asked for a front, and got kicked to the curb. The curb right down the street from my office. He says he was walking around, desperate for somewhere to hide, and that my office was the only place with lights on. So he took the risk and came inside.

“You realize chances are you’d get arrested, beaten up, or thrown out just showing up in a random office. This is the LAST place I’d expect to see someone like you. This town has no patience for drug addicts, man. What were you thinking? It’s almost guaranteed you’d end up in jail, where it’s pure Hell. Especially when you’re sick,” I tell him.

He tries to respond, but vomits in the trash can instead.

“All right, come on. Let’s clean you up. Get up,” I stand, grabbing his wet hand and pull him off the couch.

He stumbles to the bathroom. I watch him in the doorway as he splashes water over his face. I notice him avoiding his own reflection in the mirror.

“Look at yourself,” I tell him.

He’s leaning over the sink, his shoulders shake beyond his control.

“Look at yourself. In the mirror.”

He slowly brings his gaze up and faces himself. His eyes beg for escape. Freezing sweat, a mixture of snot and vomit down his chin. His skin isn’t white anymore, but ashen gray.

He growls, closing his eyes tightly, his lips shiver. Here it comes.

“I hate this. I… I hate this,” he whimpers.

“That’s not you, that guy in the mirror.”

“I’m such a fucking loser. I hate this. I want to die. I hate this… so much.”

“You’re not a loser, man. You’ve just been acting like one for too long.”

He grips the sides of the sink hard, straining to gain composure.

But he can’t stop it. The heroin dam in his brain has just burst wide open, letting all the depression, sadness, guilt and regret flood his mind.

Tears are pouring down his face. I don’t say a word, I just watch him burn as I lean inside the doorway.

Every tear down his cheeks angers him more. He’s sobbing, deep and hard gasps of air, choking on his own pain.

“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” he screams at the mirror. He’s gripping his matted hair tightly, rocking back and forth.

I’m not sure who he’s apologizing to. It’s not just me, but to himself as well. To the loved ones that have banished him. Maybe everyone and everything.

I’m watching a complete stranger break into pieces. It’s important not to interrupt this moment. Let it hurt him. Let it leave a scar.

He’s bundled himself up tightly in the corner of the bathroom. He can’t bear to look at himself anymore.

That’s long enough.

“Hey man, you want a cigarette? I’m gonna have one, if you want.”

He wipes his eyes, “Yeah. Yeah that… that sounds good.”

We’re out front in the parking lot. He’s sitting, legs shaking and kicking around.

I lean down, lighting his smoke for him, then light my own. I take a long drag, letting the bathroom moment leave us in the breeze.

“You… you got anything that could make this go away?” he asks.

“Nope. Nothing. Not even a Vicodin.”

He groans, grabbing his face and doubling over.

“But I can do you one better. It’s late, really late. But I’ll drive you to a detox center if you want.”

He doesn’t respond, staring at his vibrating feet.

“Not Lark, that place sucks. I’ll drive you to Community Bridges in Mesa. They’re good people there, man. They’ll help you.”

He’s thinking about it. His mind is screaming at him, back and forth. Even the most rational brain is torn to shreds in his current situation.

He stands up, too quickly. “N… no. No.”

“What, you got some place to be?”

He doesn’t. And he knows it.

“Come on, man. Fuck this crappy life you’ve been living. Get it all back. Get it all back now.”

His lips curl up, he’s about to cry again. He covers his face with a shaky hand, and starts walking away into the night.

I should grab him. Punch him, throw him in the truck and take him to get the help he wants but can’t accept. But I don’t. For some reason, I don’t.

A passing wind hits him hard, chilling him to the bone. He keeps walking, getting smaller in my sight until he vanishes around the corner.

Andrew Wrestles a Lesbian.

After a long day at work, I stop by a nearby dive bar for a few lonely drinks.

I didn’t plan on making any friends, or even talking to anyone. Just a couple Long Islands, then I’d drive home and go to bed quietly.

So I’m sitting on the dark end of the bar, getting fuzzy, grungy Nirvana playing overhead. And I can’t help but overhear a ruckus on the opposite end of the tavern.

It’s a group of 20-somethings, all riled up over who knows what. There’s a hot chick, three guys with beards drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, and an obvious lesbian. The lesbian’s standing up now, beer in hand, hollering about how she could ‘kick anyone’s ass.’

The guys make no effort at arguing with her. One just hollers back “Oh you totally could! You’re buff as hell!”

My vision’s too fuzzy to notice her wide shoulders. Otherwise I would’ve kept quiet.

“I’ll arm wrestle ANYONE in this bar and OWN them hahaha!” lesbian shouts.

The sad lineup at the bar doesn’t say a word, but my drunk mouth does.

“Pfftchh… FINE. Bring it. I’ll arm wreshhtle you.”

The bar turns its gaze at me. Some snicker, others shake their head.

“Oh? We got a pudgy one that wants to get beat,” one of the 20-somethings say, thumbing in my direction.

Lesbian sets her beer down, then leans her neck hard to one side. I could have sworn I heard a crack sound from it. Her face is serious, staring right at me. Whatever’s been bothering this girl her whole life shall be avenged through defeating me.

My body takes me over to a small table with two stools. I sit on one end, and she sits on the other.

I’m still thinking this is a joke, then she rolls up her right sleeve. Her arm wasn’t a normal arm. It was cut from stone. It had bicep veins and forearm veins that glistened in the light. Chiseled, like cold steel.

Great Andrew.

I remove the straw from my Long Island and pound the rest of the drink in one gulp. Then put my own arm up and we lock hands.

The bar crowd is watching, seemingly eager to see this lesbian crush me. This’ll be a good story to tell their friends.

I closed my eyes, and thought about Karate. It’s easy to tear off a tree’s branch. But tearing the trunk in half is impossible for any man to do. Make yourself like the trunk of a tree.

One of the bearded fellows tells us to GO, and the amount of thunderous energy from this girl’s arm was unbelievable. I wasn’t pushing back yet, just holding her there. I kept my eyes closed, imagining my upper body as one large, locked object. 

She’s straining and grunting, veins pulsating otherworldly rage.

Just holding our hands in place was draining me fast. I could feel the lactic acid building up in my arm, shoulder and back. I was running out of time.

Then a strange thought popped into my buzzing head.

This isn’t a woman. This isn’t a man either. This is like Jillian Michaels. Part machine, part nightmare. 

Send Jillian Michaels back to the kitchen.

Her friends are cheering her on “He’s got NOTHIN on you babe! KILL HIM!”
Her face is getting red now, her forearm exploding like a thousand suns.

I thought of everything I hated. Everything I regretted. Every sad moment I wish I could take back but couldn’t. I balled it all up in my chest, and sent it to my arm in one burst. Even my mouth growled.

To my surprise, the back of Lesbian’s hand smacked hard against the wooden table.

I beat her. I won.

The bar was dead silent. Even Billy Idol seemed reduced to a whisper.

I was about to get up and cheer, then I looked at her. She was rubbing her arm, looking horribly sullen in a way I can’t put into words. Her bottom lip quivered. Her friends were watching, and she let them all down.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I reached towards her, but she recoiled back in her stool.

“Don’t be sad. I’m pretty sure I just got a hernia from that. You could still kick my ass, you totally could,” I do my best to console her, with booze on my breath.

“You’re stronger than you look. You work out at all, man?” she says to the floor.

“I do lift… Jimmy John’s subs sometimes.”

“Dude I LOVE Jimmy John’s!” her entire demeanor changes. She smiles a big smile, showing evidence that she was once a pretty girl before turning herself into She-Hulk.

“Hey! Nother round for the crazy guy!” one of her bearded friends shouts.

They all came over and shared a few laughs with me. I joked with them about lesbians beating me up, they bought me three PBRs (which is hipster poison, but I didn’t want to be rude) then I waved them all goodbye.

Even now as I write this two days later, the entire right half of my body still hurts. J

Andrew Fails with Four Men.

It’s a regular Sunday night at Lotus. The football games have concluded. The sports crowd has mostly gone. I only have one other table in the room, and they’re keeping themselves busy with their plates.

I go back into the kitchen to check on some things then return to the seating room.

There are four very well dressed men sitting in the far booth. I’m the only server on, so they’re mine.

As I get closer to them, I notice they look like business owners. Their hair is perfectly groomed, gleaming smiles and bright moods. These guys have an air of importance, but humility, on the surface.

“Evening gentlemen, my name’s Andrew, I’ll be your temporary friend that gets you things.”

They all laugh, perhaps too hard.

“I love him already!” one shouts, festively.

“Have any of you been here before?” I ask.

“Nope,” says one man on the left.

“Ohhh well in that case, scooch over!”

The man on the right gladly moves over, giving me just enough room to sit beside him in the booth.

They seem very amused by this. It’s my usual routine, unique among the servers there. Though a bit unconventional, it always works in developing trust quickly.

I take one of their menus, “We do things family style here. So that means you have to share!”

“Oh, well we never mind sharing!”

I glance around and notice they’re all looking at me, not at the menu. Hm.

“All right well we should get a variety of dishes then,” I point out some of my favorites- a chicken dish, a beef one, a shrimp one, and a combination appetizer, “this should keep it interesting. And I know you’ll all love -”

“-Are you Italian?” one jumps in.

“I bet he is! Oh my GOSH I LOVE his hair! Can I feel it?” a second one exclaims.

“Uh sure why not,” I say.

The man across from me reaches out, revealing a nice Rolex under his suit sleeve, and get this… doesn’t just touch my hair, he runs his fingers through it.

“Oh wow, it’s so thick! I wish I had hair like this!”

“I know me too! It’s so… cute,” the fourth one says.

“Wow thanks guys. Oh by the way, what are we having to drink?”

“Ooo are we drinkin’ tonight boys?” one asks.

They all exchange glances at me, then each other.

“Oh yeah. Oh yeah we’re drinkin’ tonight,” answers one.

“Ok, what’ll it be?”

Rolex guy points across the table at the two beside me, “They’ll each have a Longbeach. I’ll have a Strawberry Mojito, and Bryce,” he thumbs to the smiling guy beside him, “He’ll have a dirty martini.”

“Make it real dirty Andrew,” Bryce says, with a huge grin. They all share a giggle at that.

“Sounds good fellas, should I put the appetizer order in as well?”

“Put it all in babe!” Bryce says. They all laugh at that, too.

With that I was certain- I was playing with fire. But my tip depends on them liking me. Remain friendly, Andrew. But a bit ambiguous. Mysterious, distant, but engaging. Like dealing with girls in college.

So I put their order in, drop off their drinks and keep moving elsewhere.

I conclude my other table, they tell me they loved the food and appreciated the good service. I give them some coupons and send them away happy.

So now it’s just me and the four men across the room.

Oh and the hot bartender. She’s hot enough to melt asphalt. Where most businessmen skip right by me to sit at her bar, these four gentlemen paid her no mind.

Some time passes, and the food is ready. I bring it all out on a large tray and set it along the center of their table.

“So Andrew, are you going to join us?”

I have no other tables, and they know it. I have no excuse to leave.

“Sure,” I say, noticing the man on the right eagerly scooting over again.

I opt to pull a chair up and sit on the end, as if I didn't see the invitation.

“So you guys look like big shots. What do you do?”

“Well he owns a club in Tempe, and we’re partners,” Rolex points to Bryce.

“And you two?” I look to the couple on the right.

“Oh we’re… promoters. Hey! You should come visit the club!”

“What kind of club is it?” I ask, but I think I know the answer.

“A fun one,” Bryce smiles, “You should visit the club soon!”

“Or just visit us,” says one of the promoters. He whips out a card as if he had it ready.

“There’s my number. I’m Todd.” For some reason the rest of them giggled.

I take his card, “Cool thanks Todd. Listen I gotta clean up around here. Enjoy the food eh?”

“We will! It looks so good!” Rolex exclaims.

I finish up my side work. Periodically checking in but leaving quickly. Eventually Rolex takes the bill and pays with his card, I drop it back off and let a few moments pass.

I notice he’s stood the bill booklet up at the end of the table, signaling me my tip is ready.

I approach them one last time, “Great, any last requests within reason?”

They all laugh again, too hard.

“Come see me soon, hon,” Todd says, handing me the booklet.

I take a quick glance in the booklet, noticing a $40 tip on an $82 bill. Then snap it closed. It makes an audible clap concluding my performance. The money is mine now.

“So you guys must know a lot of hot chicks, running a club and all. Any sweethearts you could recommend for me?”

The room got dimmer. Each of their demeanors dropped a thousand miles.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Todd says to his fork, sinking back in his booth.

“Well we’ll work on it. Thank you gentlemen, it’s been a real pleasure. Take care of yourselves,” I smile and leave.

From a distance, I watch them slowly gather their things. One of them pats Todd on the back like his mother just died, and they all walk out.

Andrew Fails with Six Women.

I’ve always been the believer that the purpose in a man’s life is to find the right woman. Marry her, make a family, and then you can enjoy living. Unfortunately, this is a lot harder than it sounds. With women, chances are you'll fail often. But the rejection is worth it, when you finally find a good one. So despite the odds, I've gone on dates whenever I can.

They all started off pretty good, but then something happens and I can’t help but sabotage myself. In the past, I would have feigned interest to improve chances of sex. But lately, I haven’t. I’m thinking more with my brain than with my wiener, and the results aren't good.

To keep this from getting too long, I’ll just fast forward to the good parts. And by ‘good parts’ I mean the thing my mouth said that ended any chance of copulation.

So now I present to you, the Six Most Recent Dates:

1.  1. The Health Nut

She’s sitting across from me, we’re outside on the restaurant's patio. The sun glistens off her dark hair, the occasional breeze placing her in a slow motion fantasy.

She’s looking down at the menu that I’m all too excited to try. I pick out my dish, then look at her in anticipation. She doesn’t seem happy.

The waiter comes by, proper, poised.

She extends a finger cautiously, like the menu could bite her.

“Is there gluten in this?”

“I can’t have any carbs. Are there carbs in the grilled salmon dish?”

“Is the salmon farm raised?”

“What kind of awful things are they injecting the fish with? Ugh. I can’t eat this garbage.”

She flips her hair. Clearly me, the waiter and this place aren’t worthy of her.

Waiter does his best to appear calm and understanding. Leaving to ask the cooks periodically about how much MSG is in the whatever-possible-dish she spat out of her pretty mouth.

She’s gorgeous, be nice Andrew.

No. Wait. This is just the first date. It will always be like this. She’ll always pick apart everything in every place I try and take her to. Combined with how I’m Italian, and love all food, this won’t work. I’ll give her one more chance. One more question and it’s over.

The waiter returns for the 3^rd time, hopeful this will be his last.

“Is your soup made with chicken stock? Is the tomato sauce canned?”

That’s it.

“Yeah and are your ice cubes fat free? Shut. Up. And order something.”

She never talked again.

--

2. The Cute Moron.

She’s sitting beside me at a bar. The lighting is red, fervent, passionate over her skin. It illuminates her softly, accentuating every tempting bit of her.

We’ve befriended a guy next to us at the bar. He can’t stand it anymore, and asks

“So how did you two meet?”

I put a hand on her thigh under the counter to stop her, and speak instead.

“Well I was in this giant castle. It was filled with turtles and ghosts, but I got passed them all. At the end was this giant spiky turtle that I jumped on, slaying him. She was waiting afterward.”

The guy went to smile, appreciating the joke, but she cut in- “Huh that’s not how it happened. We met at a Starbucks.”

“Wow I was saying you were my princess. Are you kidding me?”

She scoffs “What? I don’t like, get you at all.”

“You know what. We’re through,” my mouth said.

Her glossy lips curled, “YOU are dumping ME?”

“Yes and if anyone asks, it’s because you didn’t get an obviously cute Mario reference.”

“Oh my God Andrew. You’re so freaking weird.”

“Yeah I am weird. But you’re dumb.”

--

3. The Fisherman. (Obviously hot girl in perfect shape that keeps fishing for compliments.)

This one was stunning. Even I got nervous the moment I saw her. She’s sitting across from me at Oregano’s.

“Want to split a pizza?” I say to her.

“Uh, I look so bloated today, sorry I’m like soooo fat.”

She takes her manicured fingers and pinches her flat stomach.

“Are you just fishing, or do you seriously have a body image problem?”

“Fishing what? No I’m like so breaking out right now too. See?”

She points to her perfect, blemish-free face.

“Yeah I see it. You look like shit. Maybe you should’ve worn more makeup.”

--

4. The Online Girl.

This girl started off lovely, but has since covered herself in a myriad of tattoos, each with conflicting ideals. She’s wearing a black Jimmy Eat World t-shirt, tightly. It reveals her very sporty, fun looking shape.

“So gauges eh?”

“Yeah, aren’t they hot?” She slides two fingers through her right earlobe with ease.

“What’s the goal in mind, when making your ears into rubber bands? Is it so you can hold your cell phone in them or something? That would be pretty convenient.”

“Uh. Ok grandpa. No it’s so I look hot, you know express myself.”

“Why go so big though?”

“It’s addictive. You just want to keep going.”

“Addictive as in ‘well my dad already hates me, might as well go bigger!’”

“Ugh God. You DO sound like my parents. You even look like my dad. Oh gross! You’re gross.”

--

5. The Feminist

I’m sitting alone at the table, eager to eat sushi. In strolls a magazine-cover blonde. The only blonde in this list. She’s got a designer women’s suit on, with a low cut shirt underneath, allowing just a peek at her legendary boobs. She’s chatting on her smart phone, as if I’m an appointment she’d rather avoid.

“Hi Andrew. Yeah I was busy.”

“It’s okay, with what?”

“Oh I had another model shoot. With Calvin Klein,” she says it in a way to show me she’s too good for me.

“That’s cool. I hope you like sushi.”

She takes up the menu, then sets it down. “I’m not really hungry.”

“That’s okay, I know how it is being a model. Well I don’t, but it sounded cool, me saying that.”

She doesn’t smile, just starts texting.

“Tell your boyfriend I said hi,” I gesture towards the phone.

“It’s not my boyfriend. I don’t have one for good reason.”

“And what reason is that?” I ask, leaning forward like a reporter.

“I don’t need one. Men are just, not to sound rude, but men are just things to be used.”

“I see. Yeah we’re just tools, every one of us. So I figure we split some spider rolls, maybe some sashimi and a round of sake?”

“Fine,” she says, finishing another text.

I eat most of the sushi. I try to keep the conversation going, but only get short responses throughout the date.

“So are you trying to get with me or something?” she eventually spits out.

“This is a date, right. How am I doing so far?” I ask, eating the last bit of salmon.

“You’re too short,” she says to her iPhone.

That’s it.

My body stands up, and my voice drops, “Okay. Sorry. I’d pay for the dinner, but I’m tired from being used. I’m brainless and poor, you know. Nothing more than a seed donor.” 

Our eyes meet for the first time, then.

I burn through her skull with my gaze.

The phone trembles in her hand. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, uncomfortable in her chair. For that moment she’s much smaller than me, and she knows it. Her mouth stutters half a response as I napkin my hands and walk out.

6. The Materialist

We made it through dinner. She laughed at my jokes, smelled good. I liked her so far. Now I’m taking her home in my 1999 white Dodge Dakota. It’s an average pickup truck. Nothing I’m proud of, but I keep it clean.

From the passenger seat, she says

“Hey Andrew. You’re cute and all, but that shirt. What is that from, Express or something?”

“Yeah, I got it from Christmas last year.”

“I thought so. Express is so lame. We need to fix you,” she pats my hand, like she’s comforting a retarded kid.

“And this… this truck or whatever this is. My ex-boyfriends had BMWs. They’re nice, you should… you should get a BMW!”

“Oh. Yeah okay. Let’s stop by a dealership on the way home,” I say, as plainly as possible.

“I don’t think any are open this late. WAIT there’s one down on Camelback I think. We could pick out a nice white convertible!” she’s being serious. This isn’t a joke.

“Sounds good babe. You know I never thought of that before, just BUY a new BMW. Why not?”

“I know right? They’re so sexy. You’d be sexy in one,” she’s glowing now, like she just struck gold.

So I take us down from North Scottsdale to Camelback road, she’s all excited telling me where to turn to get to the dealership.

We pull into the parking lot. Perfect new BMWs gleam a rainbow of dreams I’ll never achieve.

“Why don’t you get out and start looking, while I find a place to park!”

“Okay!” she exclaims, giddy.

I watched her close the passenger door and skip off towards a sparkling M3.

Then I drove away.