by D. M. Guay
“Come on. You know me. I couldn't hurt a fly! You can let me through this one time. What's one little red light between old friends?”
He turned on a crooked grin and a lot of charm. Dude. I could see why lonely married broads and divorcees were easy pickings. He was a big-time schmoozer, smooth as glass. Morty could use cheesy lines from one of those 1970s How to Pick Up Women guidebooks and actually pull them off. I could tell by the way he was looking at DeeDee that he'd elevated sliding his hooks into human women to an art form. He lathered them up, looked at them like they were the sexiest creatures on earth, the only woman for him, the moon and the stars, until their panties dropped right off. In the sketchiest way possible, of course.
My guts sank. This guy gets laid, and I don't. Nice guys do finish last, don't they? Something hit my foot. I looked down. Stupid angel eight ball. I thought it'd been carried off along with the robber. He must have dropped the ball when DeeDee wrestled the gun out of his hand. Just my luck.
“Dude. Were you seriously gonna let that jerk walk out of here with me? What's wrong with you? I thought you had my back!”
“Nope.” I kicked the ball away and walked back to the counter. Judgmental prick.
I leaned over the counter, handing the Brimstone Blueberry to the impatient devil hand poking out of the mystery wormhole that I was pretty sure led to Kevin's...house? Cupboard? Ring of hell? Not gonna ask, didn't want to know. When I stood up, a guy stepped in the front door. In. And not just a guy. Worse. A hipster.
Sigh. Here we go. I sized him up, trying to determine what kind of desperate he must be to have gotten past the Go Away charm. The robber's desperation was obvious. This guy? Not so much.
He was slim, but with muscles. He kinda looked like a photocopy of Adam Levine made on a machine running low on toner. If you squinted, they looked exactly alike. Dark hair, tight skinny stretch jeans. Tattoos poked out of the collar of his combination cardigan/smoking jacket. (Where do you even buy something like that?) And his hair. Ugh. It was shaved short all around, about the same length as his stubbly well-groomed hipster beard, and there was a pile of hair on top with lots of gel holding it in a perfect coif. He clearly had a stylist. And he screamed chick magnet.
I looked down. I had a budding beer gut and a Taco Bell sauce stain on my cargo shorts. What did I scream? Never mind. Don't answer.
Well then, I better get this tragically hip lame-o out of the store before the giant bouncing blue hell centipede blops out of the beer cave, and this hipster Facebook live streams us all out of a job. I walked over to him. “Hey man, can I help you?”
“Yeah. You can get out of my way.” He pushed me to the side.
Well, he sure was charming. For a hot minute, I thought what's the rush? It'd be fun to watch a swarm of Frito-based hell gnats rip him apart. “Can I help you find something?”
“I'm here to see DeeDee.”
“And who may I say is calling?”
“I'm her boyfriend, loser,” he snipped. “Now get out of my way.”
Boyfriend? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!
That was the sound of my heart exploding into shards, erupting out of my rib cage like a Xenomorph chest burster, then sliding down my leg right onto the floor. Sure, go ahead. Tap dance on the bits. It couldn't hurt any worse.
“When you're a hot chick, it's always a seller's market.” Kevin stood on the cash register, taking nips off a mini bottle of Wild Turkey. “You had to know, right? Babes like DeeDee are drowning in dicks. You didn't actually think you stood a chance, did you?”
Gulp. Yeah. I did. A tiny shred of one, at least. Clearly, my assessment of my prospects was too rosy.
“That's an understatement.” Kevin shook his head and took another drink.
“Stay outta my head, roach! And should you be drinking that? You're underage.” How long did roaches live? Maybe a year?
“I'm fifty-seven, so shut up. And don't judge me,” Kevin said. “It's been a rough night.”
Fifty-seven? Did he mean days?
“Yo, DeeDee,” the hipster called out.
Gah. His hipster hair and clothes and perfect body were bad enough, but did he have to start a sentence with “Yo?” Hello, douche bag! The hipster strutted toward DeeDee, his perfect, angular cheekbones slicing through the air like it was butter. He was tall and broad-shouldered and fashionable, everything I wasn't, and I totally hated him for it.
DeeDee stopped arguing with Morty. “Tristan?”
Jesus. Tristan? Seriously? Shoot me. Even his name screamed panty dropper. Lloyd? That screamed la la loser. Remind me to legally change my name to something hot, like Mr. Sexy Sleekpanther. (I'm officially taking suggestions.)
“What are you doing here?” She asked. “How did you even get in here?”
“What do you mean? I walked in. It's a store. Anyone can walk in,” he said.
Her eyes were wide. I knew she was referring to the Go Away charm, but Romeo, oh excuse me Tristan, didn't. I was marginally consoled. By the very fact that he made it inside, we all knew he must be some flavor of desperate, no matter how good he looked on the outside. Take that, Tristan. Mr. Sexy Sleekpanther's got your number.
“But it's after midnight.” DeeDee was still thinking about the charm.
“I had a show tonight. Remember? At the Ace,” he said, clueless.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
That's right. Fish it out of him, girl.
“Who is this guy? Are you dating a cop now?” Tristan looked Morty up and down.
“Who am I?” Morty grinned, obviously amused. “I'm a real man, Loverboy. Who are you?”
High five, Morty. Troll him!
“Wait.” Tristan turned back to DeeDee. “Is this the guy who was at your place the other night? I heard a voice. Was it him? You said he was just a 'friend'.”
Yes, he actually made air quotation marks when he said friend. Ohmigod, I hated him. Then, it hit me like a ton of friendzone bricks. The other night? Wait. Tristan heard my voice. That monster snore? It was Tristan. Oh, my God. He was there, snoozing it up in her bedroom while I drooled up her sofa! Yep, that's right universe. Keeping stomping on the exploded remnants of my heart.
“She wishes it was me,” Morty said.
“A cop? Are you serious?” Tristan sized Morty up, shoes to hair then back down. “And even if he weren't, he's so...”
Astringent, full-bodied with a hint of sketchiness and a deep, strong smarmy note? Yep. He sure was.
“Gotta go, sweetheart. The window of opportunity on my three-way is closing fast. We can sort this out later.” Morty snorted and adjusted his, um, package, if you get my drift. (Dude, he really was carrying a nightstick down there.)
“Stay away from my girl,” Tristan said, trying to feign tough with a threatening index finger pointed at Morty's chest.
“Slow down there, Loverboy. She's her own girl. But don't you worry, champ. When she's done with you, I'll be around to pick up the pieces.” Morty rolled on over to me. “I'm good to go. The red light was a mistake. I owe you one.”
“Lloyd. Do NOT let him leave here, do you understand?” DeeDee said. “Keep him busy while I sort this out.”
Great. I stepped in front of the glass doors, a deflated, friend-zoned husk of a man.
DeeDee turned to Tristan. “What are you doing here?”
“You missed my last two shows. You haven't returned my texts. You stopped liking my Insta posts. What's your deal?”
“Is that why you're here? You know I'm busy. I work, and I go to school. I've got a lot going on. Things to do,” she said. “Honestly, I don't understand why you're so upset. We aren't, like, serious.”
Aaaaaaaaah. No, that wasn't a scream. That was the sound of relief, a lifting, ever so small, of my spirits. DeeDee was giving Tristan the blow-off. Praise Jesus!
And, bonus. Morty didn't make a run for the door like I'd anticipated. Instead, he put his arm around me and turned around to watch the Tristan/DeeDee drama
unfold. He was tuned in on them like it was the last game of the NBA finals, the clock was about to run out, and the score was tied. “You might get a shot at her after all, kid,” he said. “Bet you twenty this guy's going down in flames.”
One can hope, right?
“Not serious? You're kidding.” Tristan the ever so hip and handsome ran a shaking hand carefully over his needlessly complicated hair. “You've been all over me for weeks, flirting like your life depended on it. Hanging out every day. And don't forget all those things you did to me when we were alone. I know you want me. You can't get enough of me. Now you're saying it isn't serious? I don't think it gets more serious.”
Gulp. La la la la. I'm not hearing this. Except I totally am, and it's breaking my mushed heart even more, and it's kind of pissing me off a little! What did she do to him when they were alone? No. Shut up. Don't answer.
“Trist, listen. We had fun, but it was only a fling. A whirlwind. And that's all it was ever going to be. We talked about it. You straight up said you didn't want a girlfriend, and I told you I was cool with that,” she said.
“Hey, who said anything about girlfriend? You're the one who brought that up.” Tristan tried really hard to play it cool, aloof. Look, I'm pretty dumb when it comes to relationships, but I know what going down in flames looked like, and this guy was on fire.
“Trist. It's been epic. We've had fun, but neither of us is ready for a real relationship, so let's just enjoy what we had.”
“Oh yeah. This is getting good,” Morty said. “I need a snack to go with this show. Hey Kev, you got anything good back there? Can I have a swig of that?”
Morty slid over to the register, took the Wild Turkey from Kevin and drained what little was left out of the bottle. “Seriously?” Kevin said. “Do you know how long it took me to open that thing? Roaches aren't known for their grip strength. You're buying me another one.”
“Whatever you say, little dude.” Morty went behind the counter and started rummaging around underneath. God only knew what for. There wasn't anything but rocks and weird trumpets back there.
“You know what? It's cool, babe. You're right. It didn't mean anything at all,” Tristan said. “I mean, I came here to end it. Because you ruined it when you went all 'I love you'. Why d'you get all needy? It's not a good look for you.”
“Um, no. That wasn't me, that was you. You said you loved me, and that's why I ended it,” DeeDee said.
“Oh snap,” Morty popped up from behind the counter. He had that weird, old dusty purple gourd in his hand. “DeeDee is stone cold. That's my girl.”
“Hey. I'm sorry if you're hurt. This was all about fun,” she said. “I stopped seeing you because I don't want to hurt you. It's not fair if we're not on the same page. I'm not the type of girl who leads people on.”
“Hurt? Me? Nope,” Tristan said. “No way. I'm fine.”
“He is so totally not fine.” Kevin sat on my shoulder, his four legs holding onto a single piece of popcorn. He was swaying, and he reeked of whiskey. I winced. I didn't even feel him crawl up there.
“You're totally drunk, aren't you?”
“Little bit,” Kevin said.
Tristan was pacing now, his boots carving tragically hip circles in the linoleum. He looked like the type who would have posted ten selfies by now if his face weren't flushed and his eyes weren't wet. He was blinking hard, trying to disguise tears. Nope. Not working. Not so much. We all know you're crying dude. You're not fooling anyone.
“I will not be ghosted. Girls don't ghost me, I ghost them. That's how it works,” Tristan said. “Get it?”
“Yeah. That's right. Chicks love it when you turn the tables on 'em. Works every time. Not,” Kevin said. “Good luck with that, dude.”
“I've got girls lined up, falling over me. DMing me. Swiping right. Waiting backstage after every show, totally getting off on my music,” he said. “You're not special. You never were. I don't need you.”
Oh, great. He was in a band. Of course, he was.
“Trist, don't be like that.” The intimacy in DeeDee's voice, the nickname. Gah! I couldn't stand it. Yep. Nice guys finished last. If DeeDee tossed away hunky indie rock frontmen like fast food wrappers, what chance did I have?
“Phew. I'm starving. What did I miss?” Morty walked up to us. He was about to take a bite of the dusty old gourd that'd been behind the counter for God knew how long when Kevin jumped onto his face and started smacking him with his two front legs.
“Drop the pumpkin!”
“No way, man. It was the only thing back there that was edible! I've gotta fuel up the love machine, you feel me?”
“Fine. Go ahead, then. Eat it,” Kevin said. “But remember, you eat it, then it eats you. I've never personally seen it work, but I've heard it melts your guts out.”
“What the!” Morty dropped the gourd. It thwacked against the linoleum then rolled, unscathed, into the candy aisle. “Why do you have that?”
“Duh,” Kevin said. “Not everything that comes through that gate is a harmless hell perv.”
“Good point. Guess I could do with some Twizzlers instead,” Morty said. “What did I miss? Is Loverboy still going down in flames?”
“Oh Yes. Yes, he is.” Kevin jumped back onto my shoulder. Gah. I'd never get used to the feel of a roach crawling on me, even if he was sentient.
Tristan had changed tactics and was now pointing out all of DeeDee's faults in a bid to convince her that he would be the only man who would ever love her. Jerk.
“Boy, Loverboy does not know how to sweet talk a lady. I mean, read the room, dude. She is not the type of broad you can win back with insults.” Morty was like a live sports commentator at this point, calling out the play-by-play. “You gotta lay icing on a piece of cake that fine. Amateur. I can't believe she let him into her delicious panties in the first place. Jesus, they're probably hanging onto that ripe ass for dear life right now.”
“Amen to that,” Kevin said.
“Can you not talk about DeeDee like that?” I squeaked.
“Aw, looky here. We got a gentleman.” Morty punched my arm. “I like that. It's classy 'n' shit. Oh man!”
Something caught Morty's eye. He whirled around and pressed his face against the door glass. “The redhead portion of my three-way is walking into the bar right now. Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Hot damn. She's wearing her fuck-me pumps, too. Yeah. You're keeping those on tonight, honey. That's right. Daddy likes them spike heels. Mmmm. Mmmm. Dammit.”
Morty rifled through his pockets and checked his cop belt. “I forgot my hand cuffs. Shame. She woulda looked good in 'em.”
“Zip it, pervert.” Kevin took another bite of another popcorn kernel. Dude. Where did he get that? “I don't want to miss anything. Oh, wait. I think Loverboy's on his way out. Show's over. Boo!”
Tristan was stomping toward us, eyes pink from crying. Or blinking-not-crying. Either way, pink.
“You!” Tristan grabbed Morty and spun him around. Now, to be honest, I was expecting Morty to get punched directly in the nose. It looked like Morty was expecting one, too. But that isn't what happened. Tristan, instead, clutched the crisp polyester collar of Morty's police shirt and...sobbed. Oh yeah. He let loose. Projectile tears. Snot rockets. The works. “What do you have that I don't have? Hurp. Hurp. Hahurp.”
And no, I didn't add that last part for dramatic effect. Loverboy was seriously ugly crying. Hard. I found it mildly satisfying, but at the same time terrifying because, hot damn, DeeDee was a heartbreaker. She didn't seem ruffled at all, maybe a little annoyed, as she checked another demon-critter-thing in a people suit out of the gate.
“Get your hands off me, man.” Morty grabbed at the door, trying to get away.
“I can't live without her,” Tristan blubbered. Snot dripped into his artisan-curated medium-stubble beard. “Please. Stop seeing her so she'll give me another chance. I promise I'll make her happy. Hurp. Hurp. Huhurp. I can't live without her.”
Jesus, his crying noises were
getting worse. At this point, I'd like to say I was gloating, and I'd like to take the high road and say I didn't cry this hard when Simone kicked me to the curb after three years together, but nope. I can't. I hate you Tristan and everything you stand for, but I feel you dude. Been there.
Morty, however, had no such sympathy. His eyes were wide with terror, his mouth twisted up in disgust. He clawed at the glass trying to get away. Tristan's emoting was making Morty's hard-on of overconfidence go limp. Seriously, he overall seemed a little smaller and more shriveled, as if he himself was phallic. “Get off me, man. You're harshing my vibe! This is not sexy, man. Not sexy! Pull yourself together. Have one of my ladies! I got some spares.”
Tristan sobbed some more. He wiped his nose on Morty's chest.
“No! Not the uniform!” Morty shouted. “I've got ladies waiting, hot to trot! Get him off me, guys! Help!”
“Sorry, man,” Kevin said. “This is priceless.”
“Really, roach? So much for helping a brother out. Nope. I can't. Can't do it. Game over, man!”
Morty grew a little taller and harder as he gripped Tristan by his needlessly complicated smoking jacket cardigan thing and threw him up and away. As in, really hard up and away. Literally. As in, airborne. Right into the cheap cigarette racks we'd just refilled. Tristan slid across the counter, smokes flew in all directions, and then Tristan thump-landed on the floor behind the register. Wow. I did not see that coming.
“Really, Morty?” Kevin snipped. “We just cleaned all that up.”
Morty smoothed out his uniform. “It wouldn't be messed up if y'all had helped me. I can't even with the crying. Desperation is not sexy, and sexy is my jam.”
His breath turned into a white cloud in the air as he spoke. Brrrr. Goosebumps skipped up my arms. Damn, it was cold in here.
“Oh no.” I turned around. A gigantic icy blue face with four white eyes was ducking out of the beer cave. “Bubby's here.”
Tristan stood up behind the counter, wiping tears and dust from his pink face.
“Get him out of here. We can't let Tristan see a giant centipede coming out of the cooler!”
