Slightly Settled

by Wendy Markham

  But what about Mike? Inner Tracey protests. He’ll be there.

  And what about Buckley?

  For God’s sake, I tell the annoying inner Tracey, don’t you ever just shut the fuck up?

  “Naive,” Latisha says abruptly in a loud, lightbulb-going-off voice. “That’s it. You’re naive.”

  “Naive? Me?” I force a laugh, aware that everybody in the vicinity is eavesdropping. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not the least bit naive. I’m about as naive as…as…”

  Dammit. I can’t think of a single soul who’s suitably un-naive, so I just say again, “I’m not naive.”

  “Sure you are. You go around all starry-eyed, thinking some guy is going to come along and sweep you off your feet. You’re just waiting for it to happen.” Latisha waves her finger in my face. “And honey, it ain’t like that. No guy is going to save you.”

  “Save me from what?” I ask, royally pissed off at her know-it-all attitude.

  “Save you from yourself,” she says. “From being alone.”

  I want to lash out at her….

  But I can’t.

  Because when you come right down to it, isn’t she telling me the same thing I’ve been trying to tell myself all along?

  Maybe she’s right.

  Maybe I am naive.

  Then again…

  What if I’m not? What if Latisha—and everybody else I know—is too jaded? What if I prove them all wrong and marry my Prince Charming and live happily ever after?

  I mean, fairy-tale endings have to happen to somebody.

  Why not me?

  15

  When we get to the bar where we’re having Yvonne’s party, the table is all set up in the small back room. We invited twenty of Yvonne’s closest friends.

  Brenda, Latisha and I have about five minutes to put a chocolate penis at every place and blow up the balloons—also shaped like penises. The porn shop had a very limited inventory. It was penises or boobs, and we figured penises would be apropos for all the guests, except Yvonne’s lesbian friend Char.

  Soon the guests—including the guest of honor—trickle in. In no time at all, everyone is doing flaming rum shots and telling raunchy jokes.

  “What time is Bodacious B supposed to get here?” Brenda whispers to me, about an hour into the party.

  I check my watch. Uh-oh.

  “Fifteen minutes ago,” I tell her.

  “Maybe you should go call Raphael.”

  “Good idea.”

  I’m on my way to do just that when I spot a short, balding, bespectacled guy hovering in the doorway. He’s wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, obviously some displaced office drone, probably stood up by a blind date.

  “There’s a private party in here,” I tell him politely.

  He looks nervous. Pale, too. He’s almost as white as his rumpled dress shirt.

  “Is this the bachelorette party?” he asks.

  I eye him warily. Okay, how does he know that?

  “Yes,” I say slowly, thrown by the the, “it’s a bachelorette party, but…”

  Then it hits me.

  Mental Note: Kill Raphael.

  “You’re not…”

  Nah. He can’t be. He’s the furthest thing from buff-and-black—not to mention bodacious—that I’ve ever seen.

  But he’s just standing there. Why is he just standing there, with that expectant look on his face?

  He can’t be. Can he?

  I clear my throat and try again. “Are you Bodacious B?”

  “No.”

  Sheer relief.

  “I’m Steve. Bodacious B is my roommate.”

  He’s Steve. Thank God, thank God, thank God he’s Steve.

  Then again…

  “Where’s Bodacious B?” I ask Steve.

  “He, um, got called out of town on business, so—”

  “Called out of town on business?” I cut in. “What kind of business? He’s a stripper.”

  “Okay, the thing is, um, not really.”

  “He’s not really a stripper?” I swear Raphael is so a dead man.

  “No, I mean he really is a stripper. But he didn’t really get called out of town on business. He just told me to say that, but, I, uh, guess I’m not a good liar.”

  No, you suck at it.

  “So where is he?” I ask through clenched teeth.

  “He’s in jail.”

  He’s in jail. That’s swell.

  “For what?” I ask, like it matters.

  “Soliciting,” he says, like I should’ve known. “He needs me to go bail him out, but I’m short on cash, so…”

  I wait.

  “So, what?” I ask finally.

  So he wants a loan? Because he’s definitely come to the wrong place for that. Between this party and Christmas, yesterday’s paycheck is spoken for, and anyway, I don’t even know Bodacious B, and I’m not about to put up bail for him. The nerve of some people….

  “So I’m going to do the job,” Steve says logically, “and then I’ll use the money to get him out.”

  “The job?” I echo. It takes a minute to sink in. “You mean, this job?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re going to strip?”

  “Yeah. I, uh, do it all the time.”

  He’s right. He’s a horrible liar. His neck is all blotchy above his tie.

  The last thing I want is to see more of his blotchy skin, but he’s a determined little bugger.

  “My stage name is, um, Sexual Steve.”

  “Sexual Steve?”

  This can’t be happening.

  “Look,” he says apologetically, “I know you’re thinking I’m no Bodacious B. But that’s partly because of how I’m dressed. I had to come straight from the office…”

  I look him up and down. Somehow, I find it hard to believe that there’s a hunka hunka burning lurve under that Gentlemen’s Wearhouse suit and polyester-blend button-down.

  “Just let me do this,” he pleads. “I promise I won’t let you down.”

  Poor guy. I can see the sheen of sweat on his balding head. How can I hurt his feelings? I’ll have to let him down easily.

  “Listen,” I say, “Steve…”

  Or should I call him Sexual?

  “I’ll give you ladies a really hot show.” He’s almost pleading now. “Honest.”

  I doubt that. I really do.

  Because he couldn’t be hot if you poured rum over him and lit him on fire, and because only little boys who are lying say Honest.

  But it’s either Sexual Steve or nothing, and I promised everyone full frontal male nudity, so I sigh and say, “Fine. Do your stuff.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Listen, you wouldn’t happen to have a boom box with you, would you?”

  “Um, no. I don’t usually carry one. Sorry.”

  He looks around at the roomful of chatting, drinking women.

  “They don’t carry boom boxes either,” I tell him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay, I’ll just wing it without music. Which one is the bride?”

  I point to Yvonne, who’s standing under a No Smoking sign puffing away on a menthol.

  “That old broad is the bride?”

  Yeah, and the ugly little weasel with the paunch is the stripper.

  Some party, isn’t it?

  As Sexual Steve goes to stash his briefcase under a chair, I can’t help hoping maybe I’m wrong about him. Maybe he will give us a really hot show.

  Uh-huh.

  As I was just telling Latisha, I’m not naive.

  Oh, noooo.

  “Hey, who’s the creepy little dude in the glasses?” Brenda asks, sidling up to me.

  “Him? He’s Sexual Steve,” I say nonchalantly. “He’s pinch-hitting for Bodacious B.”

  She sputters and chokes on her drink.

  “Tracey…” she says when she can speak again.

  “I know. I’m sorry. Bodacious B is in jail. What else ca
n we do?”

  Brenda goes into full Joisey-girl mode. “We can kick the little motherfucker out of here on his scrawny lily-white ass, that’s what we can—oh shit, look. He’s starting.”

  The room has fallen eerily silent, punctuated only by the throbbing bass from the barroom jukebox next door. Sexual Steve has removed his glasses and is standing there blinking. There’s a red slash across the bridge of his nose from the glasses.

  He gives a hollow-sounding, warbling, “Hellooooo, ladies!” and starts unfastening his tie.

  Unfortunately, the knot seems to be stuck, and his hands are shaking like crazy. After much fumbling and a few curses, he finally unfastens his collar buttons and pulls it over his head.

  “Dear God, no,” Latisha says under her breath as Sexual Steve sashays over to Yvonne, swinging the tie around like a cowboy with a lasso.

  I hear her mutter, “What the fuck?”

  Sexual Steve loops his tie over her head like a noose, snagging it on her sprayed pink bouffant on its way down.

  “Get the hell away from me right now before I step on you,” Yvonne barks, patting her showgirl hair back into place.

  He scuttles back to the front of the room.

  Watching Sexual Steve strip is like sitting in the dentist’s chair waiting for a root canal.

  You can go for the novocaine—or in this case, a couple of flaming shots—but it doesn’t fully numb the pain. You know what’s coming, you wince, you close your eyes, you squirm, and you try your damnedest to avoid the inevitable, but in the end, you just can’t.

  It’s utterly excruciating and it drags on, and on, and on, and all you can think is, I’m actually paying to be subjected to this?

  I look around at the others as Sexual fumbles with the plastic white buttons on his dress shirt. They’re mesmerized.

  Not in a good way.

  He struts around the room, removing one piece of clothing after another, bumping and grinding and shoving his crotch in front of a few of us like he’s expecting tips, moving on when we recoil in horror.

  The best thing about a root canal is that when it’s over, nobody is naked.

  The worst thing about Sexual Steve stripping is that when it’s over, Sexual Steve is naked.

  A moment ago, I thought nothing could be more heinous than him gyrating, doughy and blotchy, in his tighty whities, but I was wrong.

  “Well, hello. Check it out. Looks like Sexual Steve is turned on,” Latisha murmurs.

  “At least somebody is,” Brenda grumbles.

  Looking smug, Sexual Steve takes a bow.

  There’s a reluctant smattering of applause. Actually, it only comes from me. The others are too busy being repelled.

  “Thanks, Steve, that was, uh, great.” I shove his bail money into his hand and start to hustle him out.

  “I need to get my clothes,” he reminds me, settling his glasses on his face once again.

  Oh. Right. His clothes. Thank God for those.

  I expect him to grab his stuff and slink out of here, but a miraculous transformation seems to have taken place. Gone is the cowering nerd of yore.

  Sexual Steve has been liberated, proudly embracing his nudity. He flaunts his manhood like a flag-bearing honor guard, sauntering around the room collecting his clothes, stopping to make conversation here and there, apparently oblivious to the guests’ blatant aversion.

  Finally, he makes his exit.

  For a moment, dead silence falls over the room.

  Then Yvonne’s friend Tammy swallows hard and says, “I feel queasy.”

  “Maybe it’s all the rum,” I suggest.

  “Yeah, or maybe it’s revolting Sexual Steve and his disgusting penis,” Brenda snaps.

  “If I hadn’t sworn off men ten years ago, that would’ve done it for me,” Char the lesbian announces.

  “I think that just did do it for me,” Yvonne says, fanning herself with her cigarette pack.

  “Flaming rum shot, anyone?” I offer.

  Tammy is still clutching her middle. “Maybe just some ginger ale.”

  The party breaks up pretty quickly after that.

  In fact, it’s barely nine o’clock when I let myself into my apartment. Much earlier than I expected to be home. I’ll have time to clean the bathroom, which desperately needs it, pay all my bills that have been piling up and maybe even do a little reading before bed.

  Or…

  You could call Jack.

  Nah. He didn’t really mean it when he said that. And anyway, I’ve got a lot to do before I go away, so…

  The message light on my answering machine is blinking.

  “Hi, Trace. It’s me, Jack. Just calling to say I hope you had fun tonight, and if it’s not too late when you get back, give me a call. I’m here.”

  I smile.

  Then I dial.

  An hour later, dirty toilet and bills be damned, Jack and I are sprawled on the couch in his living room. We’re eating Chinese food out of cartons and channel surfing, when a key turns in the lock.

  “That’s Mike,” Jack says when I look at him in panic.

  “I thought you said he’d be out late tonight.”

  “It is late, for Mike.” Jack laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s no big deal that you’re here.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, because I’m right back into the whole awkward dating my boss’s roommate thing. I set aside my chopsticks, the moo shu pork suddenly churning in my stomach.

  “Positive. Mike loves you.”

  Two seconds later, Mike, who supposedly loves me, steps over the threshold with a woman I recognize as Dianne.

  “Hi!” Mike says, looking surprised. “I thought you had a bachelorette party tonight, Chief.”

  “I did. It just, um, ended early.”

  “Stripper problems,” Jack puts in. “Trust me, you don’t want to know. Want some Chinese?”

  “No, thanks,” Mike says. “We just ate.”

  “I’m Dianne,” Dianne announces, stepping toward me and sticking her hand out. “Since nobody’s making introductions.”

  She shoots a snotty glance at both Jack and Mike.

  “I was just about to,” Mike says, suddenly nervous. “Dianne, this is Tracey.”

  “Hi,” I say, smiling. She does seem a little Hilton Sisterish, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “I figured out who she was, Mike,” she says. “Nice to meet you in person.”

  “You, too.”

  Suddenly I feel underdressed in my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt and socks. Granted, I’m just sitting on the couch, and she probably hasn’t changed since work. But I didn’t look anywhere near that put-together at work today, either.

  Dianne is wearing a navy-and-green plaid wool suit that sounds ugly but looks great, and she has on sheer navy hose and navy pumps that match perfectly. Her gold jewelry is real. I know this because Jack told me; he said she picks it out and Mike buys it for her. I also happen to know that his credit cards are almost maxed out and he’s always broke because he spends every penny of his salary on Dianne.

  “So I guess you got over that breakup, huh, Tracey?” she asks.

  “Um, yeah.”

  “That’s great.” She smiles. “I mean, just a few weeks ago you were heartbroken, and now look. You have Jack.”

  “Yeah.” I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see his reaction to the fact that I “have” him. A lot of guys don’t want to be “had.” Doesn’t Dianne know that?

  “What are you two doing for Christmas?” Dianne asks, all friendly.

  Who two?

  She’s looking at me.

  We two? As in, me and Jack?

  She can’t be serious. Does she actually assume we’re spending the holidays together?

  “I’m going upstate to visit my parents,” I tell her.

  Jack remains silent, other than crunching some Chinese noodles.

  “Is Jack going with you?” Dianne wants to know.

  I look at Mike. He’s busy ha
nging up his coat.

  I look at Jack.

  He smiles pleasantly, crunching some more noodles.

  “No,” I tell Dianne. “He, uh…”

  What the hell am I supposed to say? I don’t even know what he’s doing for Christmas. Should I ask him to come home with me?

  My parents would freak out. They think Christmas is for family. Only family. The year before Sara and Joey got engaged, they didn’t even want him to bring her to my grandmother’s for our Christmas Eve fish dinner. I can’t show up with some guy from New York I’ve been dating for two weeks.

  Jack saves me by saying, “I’m going skiing with my family in Colorado over Christmas, Dianne. I could have sworn I told you that.”

  “Did you? I guess I forgot.” She yawns. “Well, good night, everyone. Come on, Mike.”

  He trails after her obediently.

  “I told you,” Jack says, as soon as they leave the room. “She’s a—”

  “Shh!”

  He shrugs and grabs another handful of noodles.

  Only when I hear the door close down the hall do I say, still in a whisper, “She’s not that bad.”

  “She’s a bitch on wheels.”

  “I didn’t think she seemed bitchy. She was making conversation.”

  “She was being nosy. Why does she care what you’re doing for Christmas? Every time I bring somebody home, she puts them through the third degree.”

  Okay, I know I’m not the first girl he’s had in his apartment, but I don’t really appreciate feeling like one in a constant parade.

  Jack sees my expression and adds hastily, “Not that I bring people home much. Not lately, anyway.”

  “Because of Dianne?”

  “No. Because it’s been a while since I met somebody I wanted to spend much time with,” he says, putting his arm around me.

  He pulls me close and kisses me.

  Then he says, “So you told me you went through a breakup, but you didn’t mention that you were really heartbroken.”

  “Aren’t breakups always heartbreaking?” I ask.

  “Not necessarily.” He shrugs. “My last few weren’t.”

  “Were you the dumper, or the dumpee?”

  “The dumper.”

  “Right. Only the dumpee gets their heart broken.”

  “I take it you were the dumpee.”

  I make a face. “Yeah. Can we talk about something else?”