He handed me two of the peachiest shirts I had ever seen. Not even real peaches are this peach. One had a regular collar, the other a V-neck. I was beginning to sorely regret my decision to attend this party. When it comes to fashion, I’m about as clueless as they come, but I was starting to think that this color worked on Ryan Gosling simply because every color works on Ryan Gosling. I pictured myself walking in and hearing people say, “Hey, who let in the giant peach from James and the Giant Peach?”
Now I had a big decision ahead of me: Did I buy the regular shirt or did I go for the V-neck? My instinct was telling me to go with the regular shirt, but my newfound hipster friend was sporting a V-neck, and I may go as far as to say that he looked quite dashing in it. Feeling super confident from this successful foray into hipsterdom, I pushed my luck and attempted some knowing banter.
“Why do they call this a V-neck shirt anyway? Does the V stand for vegan or something?” Sunshine paused long enough for me to hear my words hanging in the air and feel our rapport shatter at my feet.
“I’m pretty sure the V stands for the shape that it is making,” he responded, very slowly, for some reason. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I guess we weren’t going to be best friends. “I’ll just take the …”
He scrunched his forehead, staring me down to see if I was going to say it.
I mouthed the words vegan-neck followed by, “… T-shirt. Thank you.” He rang me up in complete silence and I was out in record time with my new Peachy V.
I got home feeling slightly optimistic about my new shirt. I realized I should’ve probably tried it on before buying it, but I have a weird thing about putting on clothes outside the confines of my own bedroom, especially in store dressing rooms. I never really feel like there’s enough room to actually figure out if I look good in what I’m trying on. Like, how would this shirt look if I was trampolining? There’s no way to know. I also rush my dressing room experience because I have this paranoia that people will think I’m stealing clothes. I go as far as to make an exaggerated point of showing them everything I brought in as I’m on the way out. It’s silly, I know, but ever since Winona Ryder got caught shoplifting, I have avoided dressing rooms like the plague.
Having said that, I definitely should’ve tried on the damned shirt. My prominent neck tan line and chest fro did not make for a good look. No wonder hipsters look so “fabulous” in V-neck shirts; they have perfectly spray-tanned skin and “fierce,” hairless pectoral muscles. I hadn’t exposed my chest to the sun since the summer of ’92 and my pecs were about as toned as the queen of England’s thigh muscles (and I’m being generous there). The question now was did I wear the shirt or did I forget about the theme and go up there looking like my usual Johnny Cash self?
Right around the time the party sounded as if it was starting, my good friend Luke showed up. I had specifically invited him knowing that I was more likely to meet a lot of women as a result of his outgoing personality. I’ve never seen anyone work a girl quite like Luke. The man experiences no shame. I rarely ask girls for their phone number, due to a fear of rejection. Just picturing a girl in the uncomfortable position of wondering how to say no to me is enough motivation for me to be single the rest of my life. And even if I know for sure that they want me to step up to the plate and ask them out, I still can’t do it. The worst of these moments was when I was having a very flirty chat with a premed student I had met at a bar. At the end of the night, she stood there just waiting for me to make a move. But there was still that 0.001 percent chance that her elated smile was just politeness, which left me to say, “Well, hopefully, you’ll be my doctor one day.”
Luke, on the other hand, will strut up to a group of single ladies and blurt out, “Let me get all of your numbers in order of age, please.” The most shocking part about this is they actually do it. His phone is like the Mecca of cellular devices, housing the names of thousands and thousands of girls, most of which he’s only glanced at once.
“What are you wearing?” Luke asked in judging tones.
“What do you mean? It’s a V-neck shirt.”
“You look like the giant peach from James and the Giant Peach.” Uh-oh.
“You do know this is a pastel-shirt-themed party, right?” I asked him.
“You do know that no one actually dresses up for themed parties, right?” I had been wondering why he was wearing a gray cardigan.
Luke curiously walked over to a vent hidden behind an old leather chair in my living room. After a few moments of examining, he opened it as if he were Sherlock Holmes at a crime scene. The conversations coming from the growing party upstairs grew louder. He sat back down on the couch cross-legged and slowly closed his eyes in a very Zen manner.
“So should we head on up there?” I asked the question as if I were an untrained Jedi speaking to Master Yoda.
“Not yet. Just listen we will,” he responded without opening his eyes.
Unfortunately, one of my many compulsions is that I absolutely cannot be late for anything. It doesn’t matter if I don’t even want to be there; I have to be early. I think this comes from something my mom said to me as a child: “Charlie, always remember never to be late; otherwise people won’t like you.” What’s completely absurd is that every single member of my family is late to everything, but for some reason I can’t shake my mother’s contradictory words of wisdom. Luckily for Luke, he had not listened to his mother growing up.
All I could do was fixate on the clock on my wall. With every tick, my anxiety grew stronger and stronger. Luke remained in a meditative state just listening. To distract myself, I wrote the girls a letter.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“I had the shittiest day, all I wanna do is get wasted.” I remember you saying the same thing last week when having the best day.
After eavesdropping on a debate about the all-time-hottest movie ghost (Patrick Swayze narrowly edging out Beetlejuice), Luke finally opened his eyes. “I can’t believe you listen to this all day.”
“I know. It’s horrific.”
“Horrific? This is absolutely amazing.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“This actually might be the greatest thing to ever happen to us.”
“Us?”
“Dude, you’re getting a sneak peek at the other team’s playbook,” Luke said.
“I think I’m going to come clean tonight. Tell them I can hear everything they say.”
Before my optic nerve could transmit the visual information of his movement from my retina to my brain, Luke was inches away from my face with his hand around the back of my collarless neck, squeezing it tight. I was stunned and could find no way out of his grip, which was fine because, quite honestly, it felt like a really good deep-tissue massage. He came in real close and whispered, “You will not tell them a thing. Do you understand me?” I quickly nodded. “I’m doing this for your own good.” I nodded again. It’s not that I can’t hold my own, but it would’ve been foolish to fight a guy who’s a good six inches taller and has fifty pounds on me.
As if she knew I was in danger, Claire yelled from upstairs, “Oh my God, Cosmo’s new horoscope says I should hook up with a guy because the moon is waxing. I don’t know what that means, but I’m totally gonna do it.” This made Luke ease up on his kung-fu grip, prematurely ending my free massage.
“This vent doesn’t lead to an apartment, Charlie. It leads to heaven. I must meet these angels, particularly the one confused by lunar phases.” I took a deep sigh of relief. I guess it was time to party.
THE GIRLS ON DRINKING
Dear Girls Above Me,
“No joke, I’m never drinking again—Wait, is Jen’s party tonight?! Next week I’m never drinking again.” A quote from every Friday.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“You know the worst part about not having a job?” Not making your own income? “Being the only one getting drunk during the week.”
D
ear Girls Above Me,
“The worst part about these stupid antibiotics is I can’t have any alcohol. I’d rather die.” I’d rather be on stupid antibiotics.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“Here’s the plan for tonight: we stay in, drink red wine, and do kegel exercises.” Let me know if you guys need a spotter.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“If we wanna leave her party, say the words, I’m super drunk.” This might be confusing as you actually get “super drunk.”
Dear Girls Above Me,
“My version of white water rafting is to down a bottle of chardonnay.” My version of white water rafting is white water rafting.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“He only had beer! I mean, obviously I wanna get drunk, but I’m not gonna get fat while doing it.” So beer is what kept you sober?
CHAPTER TEN
I stood in a packed room that, to my left, stank of alcohol and marijuana, which had been steadily wafting in from the balcony. To my right, a lethal mixture of Prada perfume and Hugo Boss cologne enveloped the living room. For the record, I prefer the alcohol and marijuana.
The more people behaved foolishly around me, trying desperately to look like extras in a Captain Morgan commercial, the more I missed my ex and the ease with which we had a good time. Everyone says they love the “honeymoon” period. For me the “honeymoon” period is nothing but a series of contrived feel-good moments, plucked from those tedious ensemble holiday rom-coms. I’m a strong advocate of living my life in the “comfortable” period. Who wants to wear a suit when you can wear pajamas? But that’s probably the very thing that broke us up. She never did like my bedtime flannels.
As far as I could tell, every single girl in the room was wearing a pastel-colored shirt. Some went with the traditional Palm Beach country club look, while others altered this convention (with scissors) to go for more of the “conservative slut” look. And there I was, one of only two guys who actually dressed up to suit the theme of the party. The other guy wore a chartreuse Lacoste shirt and matching suede shoes, which all went horribly with his naturally orange hair. He stood all alone in the corner of the room, bobbing his head off-beat to the music. When he became aware of my arrival, he raised his glass of Pinot, toasting me, and yelled out, “We’ve got ourselves a party!” I wasn’t exactly sure why two men in delicate-colored T-shirts were the linchpin of a great party, but I had no interest in finding out.
“The name’s Wyatt,” he yelled out to me over a sea of gyrating people.
“Cool.” I had to give him something, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be my name.
“We should totally chill all night ’cause we’re in these shirts, you know?” This made me want to change my shirt immediately. Thankfully, all I had to do was walk down a flight of stairs.
I bolted for the exit. Luke was already mingling with multiple female contenders, so I felt zero remorse leaving him alone for a moment. As I approached the door that would lead me out of my current nightmare, a couple of familiar voices held me back.
“Hey, you can’t leave yet!” Claire called to me in a drunken lilt.
“Yeah, you aren’t allowed to leave for like three hundred hours,” Cathy added.
I slowly turned around, hoping they were talking to someone else. They weren’t. “Hey, you guys.”
“You guys? You’re the guy! Hi, my name’s Claire.”
Was I that unmemorable? Did I look that much different in a pastel shirt? I had literally sat on her couch and almost started sobbing in front of her when I landed on my ex-girlfriend in the texting game only twenty-four hours ago. How did she not remember me? Surely Cathy was bound to know who I was.
“Claire, you idiot. You know him. That’s Stephanie’s new lawyer boyfriend!”
“Oh my God, that’s you! Now I remember!” Claire’s eyes lit up.
I tried reasoning with them. “Wait, what? No, I can assure you that’s not me—”
“Of course that’s you! You’re all smart, using lawyer words like assure.” They had a point; I did use that word.
“I’m pretty certain that’s a common word in the English language,” I said, unsure why.
“Uh-huh. Certain, common, you can’t even pretend not to be all smart,” Cathy shouted.
“And you’re wearing such a cute shirt,” Claire said to me in her forever-whining voice. Shirt-ah.
“I was actually thinking about putting on something else. The men here don’t seem to be participating in the theme.”
“Don’t change! That’s so Lamesville, USA! Hey, where’s Stephanie?”
“She’s on her way.” I guess I’m officially someone who is defeated easily by females. Not only did I accept my role as the boyfriend of Stephanie, a girl whom I’d never met, but I was also somehow persuaded to stay in my Peachy V. Looked like it was going to be a “Charlie and Wyatt” night.
As Cathy and Claire prepared celebratory shots, I directed my attention over at Luke, who seemed to be deep in conversation with Bridget. I could only imagine the rehearsed bullshit he was feeding her. This is how their conversation went in my head:
BRIDGET: And that’s when I realized I was destined to save the beluga whales.
LUKE: You’re an incredible human being. You know that, right?
BRIDGET: You think so? It’s just, they can’t fight the fight on their own.
LUKE: I know, I know. So … speaking of beluga whales—
BRIDGET: Yeah, I’ll totally suck your dick.
Mistaking my daydreaming for gazing longingly at Bridget, Claire leaned into me and said, “I won’t tell Stephanie you want Bridget.”
“Oh, no, no. I don’t want her at all.”
“Oh my God, are you gay?”
“No, it’s just that I’m in a relationship with … Stephanie. And I care about her very much.” Who had I become, Mr. Ripley?
She leaned in even closer. “I may be drunk, but I can tell you’re lying. I know you don’t really love Stephanie.” Well, at least she was right about something.
I had no idea how to respond to her. I was living this lie too hard to remind Claire that I was her downstairs neighbor.
“Come on, go talk to her. She’s way easier than she looks.” And with those eloquent words of wisdom, Claire shoved me in the direction of Bridget and Luke. I faintly heard Claire say to Cathy, “A V-neck does not suit Stephanie’s boyfriend at all.” In my head, I immediately started composing a letter:
Dear Urban Outfitters,
I recently patronized your establishment and was helped with my purchase by a bespectacled man named Sunshine. I would like to bring it to your attention that he let me buy a new Peachy with the V-neck, even though I obviously would have looked better in the regular collar. There were also thoughts in his head comparing me to a giant peach from a clay animation feature film for children. I have no hard evidence of this but strongly suspect it to be true. Is this the kind of customer service you’re comfortable providing? Enclosed, please find my address, where you can send my full refund and a photo of Sunshine being fired.
As I came nearer to the chattering couple, I bookmarked my mental letter. Luke stared me down with widened eyes, as if he were trying to tell me something. I paused, not understanding our form of communication. I mouthed a what, hoping for a clearer signal, but all I got were larger eyes and a raised upper lip. Did he want me to save him from this conversation with Bridget or was he telling me to leave him alone? I tried using a few on-the-cuff hand signals, hoping that might clarify things a bit. It didn’t. Bridget, of course, had no idea any of this was going on as she rambled on.… Wait, did I just hear her say beluga?
Luke mouthed back at me, “Ticktock,” I believed.
Ticktock? Well, that could have meant any number of things. Maybe he was making a reference to the amount of time he was wasting talking to Bridget and wanted me to get him the hell out of there? Or maybe he was signaling me to tell the DJ to play the Ke$ha song “Tik Tok”? Or may
be he was sweetly informing me of a bomb he had planted and was allowing me the opportunity to get out of Dodge? So many possibilities, each of them equally likely. But after he aggressively mouthed ticktock a few more times and pointed to Bridget with his eyes, I decoded that he needed me for my saving skills.
“Hey, guys,” I said to the floundering couple. At least Bridget seemed to know me as someone other than Stephanie’s boyfriend.
“What are you doing here?” Luke replied in what sounded like a combative tone. I guess he was playing along as if he didn’t need my services, so that Bridget wouldn’t suspect anything. This made me out to be the bad guy, but sometimes those are the sacrifices that need to be made for a friend in need.
“Luke, I’m gonna need you to come with me to the foyer,” I said with the utmost confidence.
“Wait, why?” Bridget asked me. I don’t blame her. The poor girl must have really felt as if they were making a connection.
“Sorry, Bridget. Just need to chat with my compadre here. I got an emergency call from one of his family members.” And with that I whisked him away, leaving Bridget alone with no one to talk to for a few seconds until the next guy approached her.
Meanwhile, Luke was giving an impressively concerned performance.
“What the fuck happened? Is everyone okay?”
“Luke, you can stop now. She’s not even looking over here.”
“What the hell are you talking about!?”
Hmm … Could there be a slight smidgen of a possibility that Luke and I had gotten lost in translation somewhere? Would that mean that I not only yanked him away from a girl guaranteed to give him a great blow job, but that I also guided him to believe a family tragedy had occurred? Don’t feel too bad; this is Luke we’re talking about. He’d have been more distressed over the missed blow-job opportunity than the dead relative.
Dear Girls Above Me Page 8
