Grand Adventures

by Dawn Kimberly Johnson

  Time to set her straight.

  LOL.

  “I’m waiting for someone.” Short, sweet, and actually true—but not what you’re thinking, girlfriend. Randi’s no more my type than you are.

  Would be nice if my eventual reward for slowly sautéing to death on this stupid bench was the arrival of the guy of my dreams. But no.

  Randi is a lot of things, but definitely not that.

  For starters, she’s not even a guy.

  So, honey, though I’m sure it’s not much of a consolation, turns out we’re both coming up short in the love department today.

  She gets it. The brief, unguarded flash of disappointment arcing across her face is instantly, expertly overwritten by a practiced and slightly world-weary “whaddevah” smile. Well played, darlin’, well played.

  Something else we have in common.

  Girlfriend here is no stranger to rejection. Doesn’t let it slow her down much either. She shifts her weight over to one hip, shifts the dog over to one arm. Cants her head to the side. Even though I can’t be any clearer I’m not buying what she’s selling than spelling the “NO” out to her in fifty-foot neon letters.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained?

  A perverse part of me wants to give her points for persistence.

  I need therapy. And a stiffer spine.

  She gives me a sweet and slightly mournful smile. “So, I don’t suppose you’d wanna….”

  Um… please take the no and go. Haven’t I suffered enough already? Stuck here, in this merciless heat, brains broiling in my skull, waiting for a woman who does everything with the watch I gave her for Christmas but use it and one of these days might completely fuck me up and not show at all.

  You know, I wouldn’t care what she did if I weren’t here right now.

  However, as Betty said to Joan, “Butcha are!”

  I’m 95 percent sure Randi will show. To be fair, she’s never not turned up when either of us has scheduled a meet-and-greet. Eventually. Epic tardy excuse locked and loaded. On the downside, she’s racked up some spectacular fails on the punctuality front, usually due to stuff she claims she never saw coming. When she gets here—whenever she finally gets here—I’ll bet the story will be good. It usually is. As consolation prizes go, I’d prefer to wait for it to come out on Blu-ray.

  I’ve known Randi for five years, and I feel like I’ve spent three of them as her BFIW. As in best-friend-in-waiting-for-her-to-show-the-fuck-up. After the past demidecade, you’d think I’d be used to her “fashionably late” ways, but speaking as one who comes up just this side short of completely OCD about my day planner….

  Not so much.

  Not that bitching about her scheduling shortcomings does me any good. Every time I whine, she promises me she’ll make it to our next rendezvous on time, and like a fool, I believe her. Hope is gullible as shit, and so am I. Just because something has never happened doesn’t mean it never will.

  I’m roused from my Randi reverie by a miniature growl from the animated pissing plushie that started this. Oh, honey, are you and your person still here?

  Having secured my attention once more, the plushie’s female bares her teeth at me in an enormous faux smile. That doesn’t look too bad on her. She’s actually kinda pretty. Short and nicely fleshed, with amazing eyes—big and brown, brimming with genuine pixie charm, somewhat offsetting the slightly “Snooki” thing she’s got going.

  No visible tats? Not something you see much these days.

  She hefts the dog, deciding to give the conversation thing one last go. “Sorry again. About Precious peeing on you.”

  Child, you did not call that obnoxious pile of fur “Precious.”

  At this point of personal despair, I’ve got nothing on the response front but mercifully am spared the agony of further conversation by the timely arrival of a long-legged, irrepressible slobbering mound of massive Great Dane loping up and thrusting its huge saliva-encrusted head onto my lap. Denver! Finally! Can I have an amen?

  The oversized drool machine has arrived; ergo the leash holder cannot be far behind.

  The intrusion of Miz Martin’s massive mutt into the scene pitches Precious into a furious, foaming, squeaking frenzy. In its insane efforts to wriggle out of his girl’s grasp, the stupid little futz ball morphs into a pint-sized tsunami. I’m assuming he wants to go after Denver. What the pissing wonder thinks he’s going to do with a mountain of Great Dane capable of chewing him up and crapping him out without breaking a sweat after he gets him, that’s what I’d like to know. Lucky for him Denver was raised with a psycho Chihuahua, so he’s used to having his limbs gnawed on by canine gnats with delusions of grandeur. He takes shit like this in stride.

  I could probably learn a thing or two from him.

  Nah.

  Precious’s momma looks like she’d prefer having a house fall on her to dealing with her little bundle of joy’s obvious lack of self-control. “Pee-Pee! Quiet! Behave!”

  I begin to understand from what well springs the source of this poor creature’s rage. In a rare and fleeting moment of unaccustomed charity, I experience the slight stirring of sympathy toward the nasty thing.

  Then I remember my jeans.

  Obviously mortified by her inability to control three pounds of writhing fur and teeth, my new wannabe friend moves off, muttering threats at the hysterical puppy powder puff in her clutches in a futile attempt to assert her authority.

  Good luck with that. I got problems of my own.

  At least yours doesn’t slobber.

  Speaking of which….

  As if Peeing Precious’s initial insult to my new threads wasn’t bad enough, now I have a drooling Dane’s head in my crotch.

  Give me a fucking break.

  Denver! Fuck me with a fork! Hello, new jeans here!

  I fling the wretched dog off me before I’m completely slimed by the reams of ropy saliva it’s enthusiastically excreting. “Denver! Sit, goddammit!”

  On the other side of the city would be good.

  The dog heaves a huge, reluctant sigh of protest before complying, settling its bony butt on a patch of green directly in front of me, brown eyes trained expectantly in eternal canine hope I might have something in my pocket for him.

  No, and I’m not glad to see you either.

  Twin tendrils of clinging drool drip languidly from its gigantic jowls.

  Ew.

  I’ll never get used to how big this dog is. Even seated, the damn thing can almost look me in the eye. Definitely makes a better door than a window, but if I sight out over the top of his skull, across the park, in the direction he came… ah, what do we have here?

  My salvation from canine saliva approaches.

  Look, Denver, here comes your momma.

  Finally.

  The Dane’s elegant, erect ears neatly frame Randi’s slight, still-distant form striding confidently across the pee-slicked dog-park turf with her customary healthy enthusiasm. As usual, bearing “I know I’m late, but here’s a bribe” offerings. I don’t have to be able to see the Starbucks logo on the cups to know what she’s packing and where she’s been.

  So, the caffeine side trip accounts for ten minutes of tardy. What kept you for the other forty-five?

  While I’m as fond of overpriced caffeine beverages as the next guy, at this point I’d definitely prefer punctuality over a gratis latte.

  When Randi finally arrives, it’s possible my greeting comes with a side of surly. “What took you so long? I’ve been sitting here for, like, an hour, sweating my ass off, getting peed on by every four-legged thing with a penis, and you’re pissing around getting coffee? Here’s a thought. Why can’t we just go straight to Starbucks and cut the dog park out of the equation?”

  Randi ignores me, settling on the part of the bench I’m not sprawled indignantly over, arranging herself with aloof grace before handing me my coffee. She sips on her own, flipping me a sweet, saucy grin signifying she doesn’t give a shit about my snark.
“You’re welcome. You know damned well this is the only time I have to walk Denver on Wednesdays, so don’t give me any attitude. Besides, you’re the one who wanted to talk to me, remember, so I believe that means I get to dictate terms. Not you. You wanna talk, we’ll talk. In the damned dog park. Denver and I are hanging here till I have to take him home and go to work.” She cuts her gaze down to her right wrist. Where her watch is. What do you know? She’s actually wearing it. I may die of shock. “In less than thirty minutes. That doesn’t work for you, there’s the gate. Don’t let it hit your ass on the way out.” She takes another sip. “Those are your options, buttercup. So stop whining and start talking. Clock’s ticking.”

  Randi’s a real “bottom line” kinda person. One of the reasons I like her so much.

  She also isn’t afraid to call “bullshit” when she sees it.

  That I’m not so crazy about.

  Also not wild about being called on my crap. But she’s right. She has a supertight schedule she’s bending considerably to fit me in. Though it pains me to the depths of my soul to admit this, I am aware the world doesn’t exist to jump through the personal hoops of Peter Walker whenever he whistles.

  Neither does she.

  I’m being a toad. Taking my crazy out on her again.

  Like I do every time he calls.

  After a stupendous slurp, I hear a huge sigh from the mind reader beside me. “Don’t tell me, Peter, let me guess. Wade called again.”

  It would freak me out how well she knows me except for how much time it saves. “How did you guess?”

  Big snort from Smart-Ass Woman. “Are you kidding me? Every time you get in touch with your inner asshole and start acting out like this, it’s usually because he’s reached out and pushed your button.”

  That’s no longer as dirty as it sounds.

  Not for a long time. I think if I was okay with that, I wouldn’t be doing what she’s saying right now.

  Not that I’ll ever admit it. Especially to her. “Acting like what?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Peter, you can be such a knob. You really want to get into this right now? I can go there if you insist, but don’t you think a far better use of my limited time would be for you to cut the crap and tell me what he’s done or said to get your panties in a wad? Or what stupid thing you’ve agreed to you need me to talk you out of? Your call. I’m good either way, but make up your mind quick. This is your time, Daisy Mae, but I haven’t got all day, and neither do you.” She taps her wristwatch. “Ticktock.”

  That thing I said before about how much I like how well she knows me?

  I take it back.

  “What makes you think it was stupid?”

  “You’re not getting back with him, are you?” She looks as horrified as she sounds. “Not again! Not after the last time!” The huge, wrenching concern for me in her luminous brown eyes when she leans forward and clutches my arm—hard—really warms my heart.

  I kinda love when she cares about me enough to draw blood.

  Of course, when I say love, I don’t mean love. Randi may have a big place in my life, but there’s a huge hole in my heart she’ll never be able to fill. Not her fault; it simply is what it is.

  Which is a pity, ’cause she’s been a better friend to me than most of my lovers.

  Especially Wade.

  There’s a lesson there. Perhaps it’s time I learned it.

  With some difficulty and a modicum of wincing, I unclench her fingers from my bicep and sandwich her hand between mine. Partly to reassure, but mostly to prevent any more gouging. “No, no, of course not. I’m not that stupid.”

  If I say it enough times, I might actually believe it.

  She isn’t buying it. She glares at me through mascaraed slits, like a suspicious raccoon. Honey, you and I have to talk about this thing you and Maybelline have going on. As in, sometimes less is more. “Peter, what has he talked you into?”

  Moi? Blink, blink.

  “Nothing. Really.”

  The squint intensifies. “I don’t believe you.”

  I’d be deeply wounded by her lack of faith in me if I weren’t familiar with my own track record. After the many times this Peter has cried wolf, I can forgive her for calling bullshit.

  All right, enough fun and games. I should stop fooling around and get to the reason I called this party. Having the rotten relic responsible for the worst case of heartbreak I’ve suffered so far in my too-long young life burning a hole in the recycle bag on the bench beside me is really what’s got on my last nerve. Time to produce the noxious piece of my personal history I thought was long gone along with the guy who originally introduced us.

  It’s baaaaack! Seems it wasn’t happy with ruining my life; no, it had to go and show up, just when I thought I was finally getting a handle on this getting-over-Wade stuff. All the time I thought my personal space was cleansed of its evil influence, it’s been lurking in the hall closet, like some unexploded emotional bomb ticking away, waiting for its chance to take me out.

  I could have sworn I pitched the unholy thing down the garbage chute after the last time Wade called to reclaim something he’d supposedly left behind. In the aftermath of that unfortunate interlude, I went through the apartment with extreme prejudice, conducting what I thought was a final purge of the remainder of his abandoned castoffs.

  And one of them was me.

  Thank you, Carly Simon.

  After fishing the wretched thing out of the bag, I flop it in my lap where it lies, limply draped across my thighs, the diaphragm side of the chestpiece mocking me like some mocking Cyclopsy thing. “He wants this back.”

  Randi frowns at it before cocking a skeptical eyebrow at me.

  “That’s a stethoscope.”

  “Your powers of observation are stunning.”

  She curls her upper lip at me. “A stethoscope. You’re kidding, right. A stethoscope? What could Wade possibly want with a stethoscope? We both know he’s not into cosplay. He’s not even a med student anymore.”

  Actually, he never was to begin with—he just told everyone he was because he thought it made him sound impressive. One of the many red flags fluttering around him like he was a man-of-war the night we met that should have clued me in to what a bad idea it would be to let him shiver me timbers on a regular basis.

  Don’t go there. Talk Like a Pirate Day was two weeks ago.

  But she doesn’t need to know that. I also have no intention of enlightening her about Doctor Dangly and the Bad Patient. Definitely some things about Wade and me she would be much happier going her whole life without ever finding out.

  Me too.

  Somebody once said mixing a little truth in with the lie makes the medicine go down easier. Something like that. Mary Poppins? Maybe not. “I don’t know why he wants it, but he wants it. I had no idea it was still in the apartment.”

  Oooh, that’s a pissy face. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. He called and told you where it was.”

  “You know so much, I should stop talking and let you take the rest of it.”

  “Try not to act like you’re twelve all the time, ’kay? So where did he tell you it was?”

  “Hall closet. Could have knocked me over with a tongue depressor. I had no idea it was there.”

  Or for how long. I don’t know if I should believe his story about leaving it behind in the wake of his original dislocation. Wade and I have this history. They don’t exactly mesh. His version changes whenever he needs things to work out in his favor. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the last time I looked in that closet, so I can’t say for sure the steth has actually been there for the past eighteen months and wasn’t in fact planted there for me to find now the last time Wade smarmed his way through my front door.

  From the growing sneer on girlfriend’s face, we’re going to the same place.

  Randi nods knowingly. “Hall closet, huh. Been there since he moved out, he says. Forgotten in his mad rush to dump you, he claims. And now for some bizarr
e reason, a year and a half later, he needs it? My ass!” She snorts indignantly.

  Called it. And here comes the lecture.

  My friend Randi. The gift that keeps on giving me shit.

  “OMG, Peter, you’re such a smart guy, but every time that smiling sociopath shows up, you turn into this….” She throws up her hands and growls with frustration. “Bubblehead! Why do you keep buying shares in his crap factory? Especially when he’s dicked you around like this before. He hasn’t learned any new moves. He doesn’t need to! You know he’s lying. He didn’t forget it. He probably planted it there behind your back the last time you made the mistake of letting him through the door. Insurance for the next time he was between victims and wanted to sleaze back into your life and your pants for a few brief fucks before fucking you over. Again.”

  She’s not telling me anything I hadn’t already reluctantly worked out. Although I probably wouldn’t have been quite so blunt about it.

  I give her my best grumpy face. “You know, once, just for the hell of it, you could sugarcoat the hammer before you bash my brains in with it.”

  That gets me a huge guffaw. I love this woman. She can be completely heartless when I really need her to be. “You’re kidding, right? You’re gonna sit there and tell me giving you shit about what an total, complete, absolute, huge—”

  “You’ve made your point, move on.”

  “Dumbass you are about him hurts your feelings more than that dick face has? Give me a break! That shithead has been nothing but a big black sucking hole of ‘oh, I’m sorry, was that your heart I just stomped the shit out of?’ since the day you met. He’s pulled this same lame routine—what is it?—five times now? Breezes in whenever he pleases, walks all over you, and then—oh look, there he goes—when he’s got whatever he wants. And you keep letting him in and handing him a free pass to ‘let’s fuck Peter over’ land every time he knocks. I don’t know who’s worse, him for doing it or you for letting him.”

  Ow. Randi. Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.

  Truth hurts, doesn’t it, asshat? So does open heart surgery with a rusty knife.

  Ask me how I know.