by Ray Hecht
THIS MODERN LOVE
Ray Hecht
This Modern Love
ISBN 978-1539580669
Copyright © 2016 Ray Hecht
www.rayhecht.com
Also by Ray Hecht:
South China Morning Blues
Pearl River Drama
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Jack – Andrea – Ben – Carla
1
Jack
“Table of three!” the host shouted, her voice scathing, desperate, ready for the relief of death.
“Where?” he asked.
“Table twenty-two.”
Guys or girls, Jack Davidson thought to himself, his mind half distracted. Not that he really needed to spend much time contemplating. He’d find out soon enough. In his experience, tables of two were often mixed couples but odd-numbered tables of three or five tend to be same-gendered. If all-girl, he may try to take advantage.
He only half thought this, out of habit. Mostly he was going through the motions on pure instinct. Muscle memory. As the job usually entailed.
The other half of his mind was focused on the intermittently vibrating device buried in his left pocket.
What he really wanted was to check and see if anyone had replied to his latest message. However, as a professional in the service industry, he knew when to work and when to play.
From his relaxed darkened corner behind the sink where he often checked his devices, he stayed perched and observed the bus boy. The young Hispanic man—ever eager to please—ran furiously from the kitchen to floor carrying two glasses of water. Jack walked to the doorway and peeked. The bus boy dodged a small yapping dog, as Sharon, the drearily exhausted host, explained to some couple that they couldn’t bring a dog inside. Her shrill voice overlapping with the yelps, melding into a hideous, inhuman cacophony. Poor Sharon, always so stressed out.
Jack casually avoided the scene and took the long way to view table twenty-two. Three women, cackling amongst themselves. Pretty cute, he decided.
Though he only saw them from the waist-up, he imagined their full bodies. Nude, breasts of all shapes. Skin. Hips. Legs. Pubic hair, or lack thereof. Each with unique labia. He wondered how each girl would taste. The dark one, the blonde.
He squinted, trying for a closer look at their faces. Their lips moved. He couldn’t hear. He guessed at how each particular texture of lips would feel about his cock.
One face seems vaguely familiar…
Then again, a lot of women seem vaguely familiar after a six-hour shift and a throbbing case of blue balls.
So over this day, so ready for distractions, he walked over.
“Hi,” he said, with a wide smile, bearing ivory-white teeth. “I’m Jack and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you guys with anything to drink?”
God I wish I could rub one out right now, he pondered.
* * *
When Jack Davidson’s mother moved to the West Coast in the mid-1980s to seek her fortune, she had little notion of how highly stacked the odds were against her. With her privileged Connecticut perspective of Spanish-French heritage, she had no idea what was to come. She took acting classes, slept around, and after a succession of bit parts in poorly-received films (often playing zombies, or variations upon that theme) she decided to give up and marry her neighbor’s accountant’s client’s friend’s manager, whom she had recently met at a birthday party.
Mr. Davidson’s family, specifically the father’s side of the namesake, had emigrated from Scotland to the United States, and had drifted from the eastern seaboard to the westernmost coast during the gold rush in the late nineteenth century. While most early settlers were barely literate, after a series of smart business decisions the family found financial stability and the fathers made sure their sons were educated. Mr. Davidson was the third generation of university graduates in his family, who all became moderate men of moderate means, and happened to be managing the marketing department of a statewide grocery store chain when he met Jack’s mother. The couple married the following spring.
The new wife had a baby soon after, and found herself fulfilled in raising young Jack. Mrs. Davidson’s husband was distant, focusing on work the majority of the time, while the boy was loved unconditionally by his mother. She had dreams for him, and took the adorable child to auditions every weekend from the ages of two to six. He starred in eight television commercials and five elementary school plays.
Jack grew to near adulthood. He had graduated high school, moved several miles away from his mother, and was currently between things in life. A poor student, he already attended two semesters at the nearby City College, but it turned out he wasn’t particularly passionate about drama after all. His college career, to the detriment of his far away father’s judgments (his parents long since divorced), was indefinitely on hold.
Not an anxious man, Jack Davidson was a man of action. He was currently living in the moment. He was pretty much content in making more money than he knew what to do with as a restaurant server, with two years under his belt at Angelino’s Pizzeria, and now coming up on half a year at Bristol’s casual dining hall.
Located in a district on the edge between tourist appeal and artistic street cred, the mid-range restaurant wasn’t expensive but it was trending and most patrons tipped well. Celebrities even showed up on occasion. These days, Jack was more focused on his own sex life than name-dropping selfies, and was unimpressed with the famous faces. Which made for a well-received professional attitude.
For Jack, it seemed more worthwhile to continue doing what he was doing, because he was good at it. The past several years had been fun, as he was in his sexual peak, perfecting the art of seduction, and it seemed he couldn’t get enough.
What use was an abstract concept like the future, when he could be appreciated for his talents in the here and now?
* * *
Weighing his options, he carefully considered each young lady as he scribbled down their orders.
One was tall, and blonde. Another had thick-rimmed glasses and small patches of primary-colored nails along her slender fingers. Half-Asian, perhaps? That would be hot. The third sat at the far end of the booth and had olive skin, dark hair, and haunting eyes over smeared makeup. For a moment he could’ve sworn she winked at him.
Don’t I know you from somewhere? he considered asking.
After several moments of inner contemplation, he decided against using that line.
“We serve breakfast all day,” he said. They continued ordering, peppering in slurred-voiced questions, their collective hangover obvious. One was a vegetarian, or a vegan, or used to be a vegan but it was too hard, or something. He scribbled away, processing as little as possible.
“Long night, ladies?” he asked with just the right inflection.
“You have no idea,” answered the dark-haired mystery, while the other two giggled girlishly. It was late afternoon and he noticed their plastic wristbands from the night before still attached. He was almost jealous of their fun.
After choosing the most appropriate hangover food, the order was done.
“I’ll be right back with your coffee, and we’ll get to the eggs before you know it.”
“Thanks, Jack!” the blonde said.
He suppressed the instinct to look back as he walked away and entered the kitchen.
Conflicted, he took out his phone with his left hand and
slapped the order to the cook with his right.
His phone blinked with possibility.
Five text messages. Ten social updates.
And a heart-shaped three hovered over his Minnderrr icon.
Jack Davidson weighted his options, and decided to flirt with neither the blonde nor the dark-haired girl with the foggy eyes. None of them.
Instead, he served eggs and veggie bacon and gluten-free biscuits and gently nudged them on their way. They seemed to like him. After the bill was paid, he collected his tip and threw it in the pile. Twenty percent, he noted. Not bad.
Ready to get out of there, he went and asked the boss if he was still needed.
There was a minor celebrity—a singer with a couple of hits from the mid-90s—about to be seated at one of his tables. The manager asked if he wanted to stay a bit later. Jack politely declined, and gave the table to one gleefully grateful server.
Then he gave eight dollars to the bus boy, who appreciated it. Six more for the hostess, and Jack pocketed the rest. He lingered for an extra minute to stretch out the final hour before clocking out, and said his goodbyes.
The other servers had plans to meet up at Dan’s place to get high, as someone had recently ordered a new water bong, and Jack said he might make it but was careful not to be committal. “We’ll see. Catch up later. Gotta go!”
“Jack’s got a date,” Sharon said, teasing.
“Let’s hope so,” he muttered to himself.
He was working on it. The chase was on.
Chasing who, he wasn’t yet sure. Details like that would get sorted out as the evening progressed.
So far, there were several options. The texts from coworkers, and one from his mom, needn’t be replied to. More importantly, one from Janelle—the quiet girl he had gone out with last week—she happened to reply to his query of free time and pizza. She had something to her that he liked, the back-and-forth was good, and he did want to see her again. However, she hadn’t put out last week and she struck him as the timid type. If pursued, he may or may not get some action; it would hardly be a sure thing.
Meanwhile, two out of the three women on Minnderrr who hearted his carefully selected gym pics had so far replied to his copy-pasted conversational topic:
– What are your top ten date films? he’d ask. – This is a test. Answer carefully, if you dare.
It was a method that worked well many times over. Get them talking about movies; nearly everyone likes movies. Ideally, that would evolve to talking about some DVD he had (or, more likely, use his roommate’s Cablevein account). Then they could get to his bedroom the sooner the better.
He’d already done this routine a dozen times before. In truth, he was starting to get bored with it. But he figured he could keep going for several more lays, and then start anew with a fresh strategy.
Besides, he hadn’t gotten laid in a full week. Work was stressful and he simply wanted the path of least resistance, to get it over with as quickly as possible. He was anxious, tired, and horny.
On the short drive home, Jack quickly pulled out his Grapephone at every stoplight to study each profile pic. One girl bared a shoulder of sweet, milky skin. Another held a camera in front of a mirror with a tight midriff, exposing her slightly-protruding belly. They were each moderately attractive in their own right, but not overdoing it either. Hopefully, as Jack had figured out, they didn’t think of themselves as overly hot. He sensed it with these kinds of girls, an air of desperation, and knew if he picked the right one he was on his way to getting easy action this very night.
Finally, he screeched home.
“Hey, man,” he said to his roommate, a portly engineer who was unemployed. Always in front of the computer, his little shrine taking up half their humble living room space.
“Jack, good to see ya. How was work?”
“Exciting as always,” he said, deadpan.
He should have showered immediately, but was too impatient, quickly darting to his bedroom to shut the door and collapse upon his bed. He unzipped his pants and let his left hand wander down while he used his right thumb to control his touchscreen. He tapped away.
Last chance, he opened up the browsing option on Minnderrr. So many faces. So many possibilities.
He swiped up. He swiped up again. With every swipe, another chance at happiness. Anything could happen. All the universe’s realities opened up to him, branching in every direction. If he could only choose one path.
Older women. Younger women. Thin women. Thick women. Smiling women. Still-faced women. Resting women. Bitch-faced women.
Modelly. Big-breasted. Bony-armed. Full-lipped. Fake-eyelashed. Long-haired. Every color. Every angle. Every heart.
There was no better way to judge the future but with a single photo, the ultimate capture, the defining moment. And it was enough.
After thirty or forty swipes up, with very seldom downward swipes of rejection thrown in, he went back to his conversations.
Still only three to juggle. Not too tricky.
– Hi Janelle, he wrote. – Work is asking me 2 stay late. I may or may not be able to make it… Gimme a hour to decide, is that OK?
She replied with a happy face almost immediately. A warmth overcame him; he was happy that she showed interest. Also, he speculated that she might be one of the desperate ones. Would be good to know.
Plan C, he mentally checklisted.
Next, Minnderrr girl 1. Her profile was showing skin, and he bombarded her with lines about his favorite sex scenes in film history. Usually involving tight clothes and fashionable underwear. He shared observations about how easily they threw their clothes off, while in real life it’s often more tricky, what with zippers and all.
– Ur funny, she replied.
– Don’t I know it, he smugly typed, with a shy emoji to balance out the impression.
Minnderrr girl 2, the chubby one, was more enthusiastic. She was into art films. Jack decided to bring up male nudity, as in its notable rise in Hollywood films of late.
– I dont mind, she said.
– So progressive of you.
– I kinda like it…
His dick stretched and grew hard in his left hand as he read and typed and clicked. He buried his hand deeper, feeling the skin at the base of his thighs, and then explored up his scrotum, squeezed, and with free fingers he typed. – Maybe I’ll give *you* a free show……
A procession of laughing yellow faces followed.
Jack had found his girl. After graduating the conversation to a popular pic-sharing app, the chat was concluded with concrete plans to meet Minnderrr girl 2 at the café across from his apartment—his common locale for quick dates, and then texted the other two with a – See u, and didn’t even read their replies when he automatically responded with – OK~.
The dance. He may have fumbled a few times, but he had showed off some moves after all. Always did feel a bit proud of himself when the music ended. Still, this was only an intermission and the main act was coming up. Perhaps there’d even be an encore.
With a hundred minutes left until go time, he vowed not to check his phone. It was bad form once a plan was intact. It took all his willpower after a full day of phone game, but it was his well-learned routine and he knew better than to ruin it. And, it was just plain rude to check one’s phone on a date.
He switched off the power, and turned on some tunes from his aging laptop. Blaring hip hop scratched from the paltry laptop speakers, as pathetically loud as they could go. He did fifty pushups and thirty squats. Not the full workout, but he was too uneasy to concentrate. A quick shower ensued, followed by floss and mouthwash, and he applied some cologne and hair gel. His fingertips felt the softness on his temples, and he jotted down a haircut within the week for his mental to-do list.
After finding some casual wear that exposed his upper chest, Jack realized he was ready to go but still had a good hour to kill.
It wasn’t like he could be early for a date.
So he decide
d to play some video games with the roommate.
* * *
“Hey buddy,” Jack called out as he entered the sacred shared space.
Ben was sitting in the same place he always did, parked in front of the living room’s PC. Of course, each had their own laptops in their private bedrooms, but Ben insisted on needing the full power of an old-school PC tower plugged into the wall. He was constantly seen there. Because of work, supposedly. Freelancing or something, so he claimed. He always came through with the rent, so Jack couldn’t complain.
“Hey man,” said Ben, and eyed Jack’s outfit up and down. “Going out?”
“Yeah dude.”
“What kind of evening activities this time?”
“Just meeting some chick.”
Ben looked to the floor for a split second. “Oh,” he said.
Jack felt sympathetic, and asked, “What’s up with that girl you went out with last weekend?”
“We, um, had a fight.”
“Shit.” Jack hopped over the sofa and turned on the myriad panels of the entertainment center, one by one. The widescreen television, then the Q-Set gaming system slowly loaded up. “Guess that was a long time coming. Do you, ahem, want to talk about it?” he asked while crouched down, digging for the headgear and controller below the shelves. He dug his hand into pools of wired spaghetti, chargers and blinking lights and HDTV cables and USB ports and plugs of red, white, and yellow. “Where the hell?” he stage whispered. “Ah,” and he found what he was looking for.
“Talk about it? I don’t know. Not really. No big deal. I mean, I’m over it… Um, what are you gonna play?”
“I want to brush myself up on Casino Heist, get myself in the mood.”
Casino Heist being an extremely violent game which in no way would help set up the mood for a romantic evening, Ben understood the joke and laughed. “I’m down for that,” he said, taking the hint.
“Pull up a chair, bro,” he said, throwing him the second headgear set. “That is, pull up a couch.”
