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“You sure know how to clear a room.”
“Thanks, I learned it from you. Now quiet. I wanna see this.”
……
First of all, he’s so friggin’ hot. I bet he smells like heaven. Yum. When he opens his mouth, I realize that’s where the hotness ends. Not so great with the public speaking. He sounds stiff, stilted. Like he’s rehearsed every morning over his toothbrush for a week. He’s been prepared, but not in a good way. More in the dented, canned, manufactured way, and incredibly, he’s still got a bit of an attitude.
He’s his own worst enemy. I actually flinch when he speaks. “The website and now portal app, I’m happy to say, did start as an homage to my mother. You could say she was my first customer. Dying, teetering on the edge of life and death, the only name my mother would call out was my father’s.”
Who talks like that? I look at my brother picking his toenails in the corner, and can’t imagine homage ever coming out of his mouth. These two went to college together?
He stumbles on the last word: father. I notice a slight tremor to his hand as he reaches for the Spin Show mug and takes a long drink. I hope there’s alcohol in there.
“Man, he looks nervous. Do you think that’s full of whiskey?”
I smack the back of the couch. “I was just thinking that!”
John Quinones, the interviewer of the evening, takes this opportunity to jump in. “That would be Darby Dixon. Co-CEO of Dixon Line Distillery and their conglomerates.” Mason takes a drink, tries to nod, and spills his drink down his front. The liquid in question dribbles right down his cornflower tie before the camera cuts away.
Randomly, I wonder if whiskey leaves a stain. Maybe through the magic of TV it will be dry by the time he comes back on. I can’t wait.
They can’t pick a worse time for the photo montage.
The screen fills with picture upon carefully selected picture of none other than the man in question, his father. There is no paternity test needed. He is definitely Mason’s sire. Same steely blue eyes with flecks of ice. An old Polaroid, grainy and out of focus, shows him holding a towheaded toddler. Mason?
The next picture is just of Darby, holding the wheel of a sailboat, the ocean visible behind him. He’s smiling off into the distance. There’s gray at the temple, stealing the blonde. He looks peaceful, fulfilled maybe.
He’s standing in front of a huge building with a rustic barn façade, hugging who I can only assume is Mason’s grandmother. I pause the last, seeing a teenaged Mason sulking in the background. I want a better look. The face doesn’t look familiar, but it’s hard to say. Ronny brought all kinds of boys through our house. After a while, their faces all just turned into one big pimple.
Ronny assumes I’m trying to get a better look at the patriarch and blurts out. “That man’s a total dick. Do you know he threw a full whiskey bottle at Mason’s head one time? For absolutely nothing.”
I keep my eye on the TV, looking for signs of this abuser that Ronny speaks of. “Did it hit him?”
“No, but it broke against the side of the pool, shattering everywhere. Kids were stepping on glass. It was a total nightmare. Party over.”
During the montage of pictures, the screen splits. Mason, unaware, is caught swiping at his tie with a napkin. Now he’s got a big wet ball of lint on his chest. No TV magic. I sigh.
He never makes eye contact as the pictures continue. Just keeps messing with that damned tie—practicing avoidance? Without looking up, he mutters. “Yes, that’s the one.” I can see from my loveseat that he doesn’t want to talk about his father.
The interviewer senses his unease and goes in for the kill. “I wonder, was your father off running the family business? Is that why he wasn’t at his dying wife’s bedside?”
Mason drops the damned tie and gets real still, glares at him, and I lean in closer. “It’s public knowledge that my parents were officially separated at the time of her death.”
Undeterred by the look of scorn, the interviewer plows forward. “Even so.” He waves his hand in between them. “One would think that after twenty-five years of marriage, he could take a sec and pop in for a quick hello.”
He’s a slimy bastard. He knows full well that Papa Dixon was not out running companies, and tries to make it sound like he was out ruining virgins. Maybe he was.
I’d be careful if I were you, John. He looks like he could take you.
Mason Dixon gives him a sidelong glance before he looks directly into the camera. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But my father was otherwise detained. In fact, when my mother died, he wasn’t even in the country.”
John, not getting the hint, continues. “Detained? Don’t you mean sailing? In fact, when I looked up dock logs for your father’s yacht, he had set sail to Barbados, listing a Sami Rawlings as his shipmate.”
“Oh, was he really?” So sarcastic, Mason. Well played.
“Yes, really. I looked that person up as well. Would you like to know what I found out?”
Say no.
Through gritted teeth, Mason says, “I can’t wait.”
John, believing his interview to be going swimmingly, plows on with a triumphant smirk. “Sami turned out to be Samantha. As in Samantha Rawlings, reigning champion of the Cocoa Butter Cutie Contest two years running. Maybe the vacation was part of her prize package?” He cocks his eyebrow and leans back in his chair.
It’s too much for Mason. He stands, towering over the man and speaks, so deathly quiet I almost fall off my perch trying to hear. “My father always loved beauty. And cancer’s not pretty.”
Then he strode off the stage.
I knew it was coming, but when it does, it’s simply fabulous. The interviewer is shouting his name as a commercial break covers for the hasty retreat.
“Whew, intense.” My heart’s beating out of my chest at that nail-biter of an interview.
“There’s more.” My brother says in a voice that sounds like he wants a quiet place in which to cry.
That sounds good right about now. I sit up and start gathering my stuff that’s managed to get strewn everywhere. “I’m beat, Bromeister. Can you send me the link?” I slip on my flats, forgetting to hide the wince as I do.
Incredulous, his mouth drops open. “What? You’re leaving? Now?”
I jiggle my keys. “I’ve got an apartment to clean.” And then I poke him in the ribs.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” His voice breaks, and I hug him close.
Holding him to me, I whisper, “I’ll be at the docks when you ship out.”
He pulls back. “I’m not going anywhere. I…I…I…can’t.”
“Ronald, I swear to God, if you don’t get on that ship and get the hell out of Dodge, I will give you a personal ass-kicking…with my good leg.”
I tickle him, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Too soon?” I ask.
He holds me too tight to breathe. “Way too soon.”
I know it is, but I want my family back, dammit. Not these pod-people that are treating me with kid gloves. This is exactly the reason I didn’t want them to know.
My mom couldn’t even come to the bedroom door to say goodbye to me, just a muffled “bye,” a watery, “I love you,” through the door.
......
As I drive home, I go over the night. Viciously I think, what if that’s your last goodbye, guys. It’s possible now that you’ve got a daughter… “Dying of fucking cancer!” I scream my truth at the top of my lungs. Even if it’s only to an empty car, it feels fan-fucking-tabulous to finally say it.
The guy in the Yugo next to me is staring right at me. No holds barred, head turned to the side, mouth in an O, as if he can’t believe he’s seeing real live crazy, up close and personal.
Great. Forgot the window was down.
Through a toothy grin, I yell, “This girl’s got cancer,” as I point two thumbs at my own chest.
For some strange reason, he acts like my cancer is catching. He jumps in his seat like I goo
sed him, hits the horn, manages to turn on the windshield wipers, all in his efforts to get away from me. The light turns green, so I go. He sits and gets a blast of horns.
I maneuver into my spot next to the dumpster as my phone sounds. I’ve got a message. Maybe Lola Bear came out of mourning early.
I look down and… Case in point! The jury rests, your Honor!
My real brother would’ve told me to blow it out my ass when I asked for the link. This replacement brother, whom I’ve never met before today, not only sent the link but did it in record time! He also included a
I send off a quick
Mason Dixon
I hate this place. Didn’t want to come back. It’s my own fault for acting like a spoiled brat and storming off the stage last week instead of finishing the taping. Great impression, idiot. I walked right off the stage and right into my waiting car. No going to neutral corners to cool off and reconvening with concessions. Nope, I don’t do that. Concede. At least I didn’t, thinking I was right. But after hearing that I might want to read the contract I signed with the network, a little closer, I’m starting to rethink my battle lines.
No matter how these chips fall, it won’t be with that asshole Quinones at the helm. So smug, thinking he stumped me with the Rawlings girl. Like my father setting sail with some bimbo from his woman-of-the-month club was anything new. No, that was the line fed to the John Q’s by Gram and me.
We never embellished it any further. Let people think what they want. Make up what they want. We alone knew the truth.
The reason my mom died from her treatable breast cancer? Darby fucking Dixon, that’s why. I don’t know what he said or did, but he’s the reason behind every bad thing concerning my mother.
Gram begged and pleaded with her to get the cancer, the growth that was lodged in her breast, removed. “Do it for your son. A simple mastectomy, some plastic surgery, you’ll be good as new.”
Still she refused. “He’ll never come back if I get that done. He’s a boob man.” Gram tried reasoning with her, bargaining, but in the end, Mom kept her misshapen and malignant breast, unable to resign herself to the fact that if she did have it removed, she’d be just like all of his other women. Artificial, plastic. No, she would never have fake boobs. There would never be a surgery, scars, damage to her body—she remained whole for an absent husband. When we buried her, she still had both breasts. I wonder, does cancer keep spreading? Even after you die?
My dad was already out of the house by then. Had taken the “I have cancer” talk as his excuse to bring up the “I don’t love you anymore” sermon. Even tried to take Gram, the only one besides me who cared enough about mom to stick around. That would have left me, his twelve-year-old son—not even through puberty yet—to deal with the tragedy alone. But Gram stuck it out. The only Dixon worth a shit.
Alone in the green room—which is beige, by the way—I let my lawyers fight my battles for me. I have no interest in the back and forth, only the outcome. I’d expressly stated in writing that I wouldn’t talk about my father as he has absolutely no bearing on the F#ck It List. Where all of my time and energy would be much better spent than sitting here, waiting to see if I have to go forward with this charade or not.
Stan, Lawyer #1, the one in charge of perusing documents, finds the loophole that I was sideswiped with. Will only discuss the father as the interviewer sees fit.
“Un-fucking-believable. You wrote this?” He nods, but won’t make eye contact. “That’s some shitty work, you know that?” It does no good to yell at him. “Leave.” When he doesn’t move, I elaborate, “You’re fucking fired. Go!”
The other one—Lawyer #2, I don’t know his name—clears his throat. I go through them too quickly to learn all the personals. Maybe I should have them wear name tags. He steps forward, and with a nod heads out of the room to meet with the studio heads.
It’s not looking good. I pour a whiskey—not my own. They’re not big on details around here. It’s some knock-off, and I belt back a double. It burns going down, not smooth like ours. Mine and Dad’s. The business. Easy to forget about it since it runs itself. I smirk. Actually Gram runs it, and I just cash the checks.
Dad sails. I build programs. But it amounts to the same. We’ve both left Gram to take care of our responsibilities. It’s what the Dixon men are good at.
It looks like I’m going to be here a while, so I might as well get comfortable. I toggle through my phone but end up on my app, which is running smoothly, no kinks. It’s really just a computer program I built, that I’ve coded. I created an algorithm that’s trained to find patterns in the random. No hocus pocus, nothing with horns.
I’m interrupted by the throat-clearing of my remaining lawyer. Without looking up from the program, I say, “Speak.”
I don’t know how he made it through law school. One look at the sheen on his face and his wringing hands and I know we’ve already lost. “They’re willing to drop the father line of questioning. They’ll even grant your original request of Mia Scrum.”
That’s good. “What’s their contingency?”
“You have to explain the inner workings of the F#ck It List. No holds barred. What do you think, boss?”
I stand and stretch. Let the cheap knockoff sites begin. “I think that’s what I’ve wanted to do since we got here.” Turning my phone off, I grab my jacket from the back of a chair. “Let’s go.”
……
Mia turned out to be the right choice for me. Demure, ladylike, never one to choke the answers out, she uses a let-’em-talk-till-they-hang-themselves approach with every interviewee. I can deal with that. I grew up in a house with women. What I can’t deal with is a pompous asshole that thinks he’s shining new light on an old family problem.
“We may have started off on the wrong foot. I’d like to reintroduce Mason Dixon of Dixon Line Distillery. Very popular line of spirits. You may have heard of the drink but not the family behind it. I’d like to introduce the only son and co-CEO, Mason Dixon, who now has a new venture.” Her smile wavers the tiniest bit. It’s almost imperceptible, but I notice it. “Which I don’t think…I can say on air.” She looks to me for help.
And I jump right in with a grin. I’ve got this. “Thanks, Mia. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. And you can just call it the Eff It List if you’re more comfortable with that.”
Mia nods encouragingly. “Tell us, what is the Eff It List?”
My tense muscles start to release. The tic in my jaw is gone. I can feel myself becoming putty, just how she wants me. I lean back in the chair and remind myself that loose lips sink ships.
I can’t help but feel a little smug. It’s exactly how I saw this interview going. “At the very basic level it’s a program that finds patterns, connections, routines, sameness in people’s wants…and needs. When there’s a match, a message is sent.
“You can always say no to a match. But if you say yes.” I pause and smile sincerely. I hope. “Your account is charged. Yours and the message sender’s. Decline the message, no charge and no one’s the wiser. No one ever knows they’ve been turned down. In fact, you don’t even know if you have a match until you get the approval message.
“It’s nothing new. There are sites that match people by their likes, interests, proximity. I just tweaked it and built one that matches sexual desires. Plain and simple. But I set my sights higher, turning it into something more. Now it’s a place to mingle with people who want the same things as you. My program is automatic, impersonal. No one’s feelings get hurt, and no one gets humiliated. I just feed the data in via another program, and it gets sorted. I give my customers exactly what they ask for.”
She nods. “What makes your site different than say, Match.com, or one of the many other dating sites?” Her kind eyes and open face are misleading.
She wants me to say it out loud.
“That’s a great question, Mia.”
She beams.
I smile back. “Basically, those sites are for dating. Mine is for fucking.” Bleep. Got too comfortable there.
She cringes. “So it’s a site to hook up on?”
I nod. “Among other things. It’s more of a place to have new experiences. Things you’re afraid—or maybe too ashamed—to ask your significant other for but have always wanted to try. Different experiences that are on your list of things to do before you die or hit menopause, whichever comes first.
“The Eff It List?” She’s good.
“That’s the one.”
“How much does something like that cost?”
I wave my hand. “Pennies, really, when you compare it to the price of a hooker, no, a divorce. Because that’s what usually happens if your spouse finds out you’re going outside of the marriage to check off items on your “F#ck It list.” Bleep.
I see the whites of her eyes. She stares at me pointedly with a don’t cuss face, before smiling and asking, “So, how much does it cost to make your fantasies come true?”
I guess I wasn’t clear. She wants specifics. “It’s a hundred dollars to talk about your fantasies. From the giver and the receiver.”
She peers at me over her black frames. Fakes, I’m sure. She doesn’t miss a thing. “You don’t really believe that, do you? That people are meeting up on your site…just to talk?”
“You’d be surprised. Actually, less than 20% of my clients ever really meet up in person. For them, it’s more about admitting in an open forum that they’re not fulfilled. Asking for what they want, always in a Never have I ever question, really putting themselves out there. And finding someone who’s not only willing to listen but is also of a like mind. And would be up for trying something different. The connection’s already been made. But it may fade if you stress it enough with a face-to-face.” I take a sip and note the complimentary whiskey is mine. It’s as smooth as water going down. Mia does her homework.