by Lisa Ferrari
MERCIFULLY, I MAKE it to work.
I clock in.
And only 9 minutes late.
Because I drove like a maniac the whole way.
And I forgot my bowtie.
I see Chris and he is all over me, asking me about Kellan. While we talk, he actually makes a bowtie for me out of a piece of cardboard. He colors it black with a Sharpie and tapes it to my shirt. From a few feet away, it actually looks pretty good.
I go out to the ballroom to find that the gang already has all the tablecloths on the tables and they’re setting glassware.
I grab a rack and join in. The big blue plastic square rack is still warm and wet, as are the 16 water glasses. It obviously just came out of the dishwasher. Clearly we’re pilfering every spare glass we have in order to handle a wedding this size. Cold water that reeks of soap, onions, and mildew drips all over my pants.
Oh well….
Terry sees me and says hi. He notices my cardboard bowtie. He takes a look at my pants and shirt, wrinkled and covered in smeared, black ant corpses. He slices and dices me in a way only a fashionable gay man can. “You smell like perfume and…burnt coffee?”
“Yeah, I spilled some of my Americano on my shirt.”
“Burning the candle at both ends, Claire bear?” he asks. “The new hunk got you missing too much sleep?” He leans in close. “Don’t worry, honey. I’d quit this job this instant for a man that fine.”
Everyone teases me good-naturedly, but it goes into my mind and messes with my head; are they right? Sure, my adventure down to L.A. was, like, AMAZING and totally one million percent unprecedented and beyond my wildest dreams….
But…
Is it having an adverse effect on me?
I’m late for work, forgetting stuff, neglecting my chores, my apartment is a wreck, my car is filthy, I almost ran out of gas, I haven’t been reading or writing or doing my usual activities....
It’s simply been all about Kellan and going to the gym and then to eat and back to his place.
But OH MY GOSH do I have the hots for him.
Never in a million years would I have ever DREAMED that such a beautiful, sweet, kind, over-the-top dream-hunk sexy guy would be into me.
As I place water glass after water glass around each of the 30 round tables, one part of me knows I should go slow and not lose my identity.
But the other part of me doesn’t give a flying Fig Newton.
That part, the greater part, wants to lick his abs and do…other stuff.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
Every time I drop my empty rack on the pile and grab a full one, I sneak a peek at my phone; I look for new text messages; I sneak a peek at his Instagram page; I look at my gallery full of pics from the weekend: first class…the red Ferrari…the silvery-blue Lamborghini…our hotel suite…the show…the club….
It all seems like a dream.
I check the time; 4:00 p.m.
Just nine hours ago, Kellan and I were eating breakfast together and looking through the window at the streets of Hollywood. We were alone together in our suite after what was quite possibly, no—was absolutely the BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE.
LATER, ONCE THE room is set, the candles are lit, the ceremony is in progress, and we’re ready to receive the guests and begin dinner service, I see there is a new pic on Kellan’s Instagram.
It’s of him at home, working out, doing bench press.
He’s wearing only a little black Speedo thing.
It looks really good.
He must’ve been out swimming. He captioned it:
Had one of the best weekends of my life. THANK YOU Hollywood Classic. THANK YOU Lamborghini of Newport Beach. THANK YOU Chateau Marmont. Feeling strong today. #Repping405 #NoSpotter #NoSleep #KindaDumb #NothingVenturedNothingGained #HiClairice
HOLY POP TARTS! He totally dropped a greeting into his post.
Suddenly, my heart melts and I know…
No….
Yes!
Are you sure?
YES! I’m sure that I want to fall in love with him.
Something so small and seemingly insignificant….
Yet it means so much to me that he took the time to mention me, that he thought of me, that clearly I am in his thoughts.
Wow.
Kellan Kearns.
I read the comments on his post. There are 1168 likes and 347 comments. Most of them are about benching 405. Some guys call him a pussy. Others ask how to overcome a plateau on their bench. A few wonder why he referenced the Lamborghini dealer; is he getting another Lambo?
Most of the comments are complimentary.
But a few grab onto the Clairice reference and make a few Silence of the Lambs jokes.
I shouldn’t read any further.
I know I shouldn’t.
At some point, some asshole hater is going to spill the beans on who I am and those effing TMZ photos of me trying to get my fat, cellulite-ridden ass out of the Aventador will surface.
I take a deep breath. I tell myself to focus on Kellan and the fact that he said hello; NOT on the haters and the keyboard warriors and the douchebags.
I fix an image of Kellan in my mind, recalling with as much clarity and detail as I can the moment we were standing on the table at Crow Bar.
Kellan and I had that moment.
That moment was ours.
We owned it.
It was more than mere words we were reading.
It felt…real.
It felt…genuine.
I wasn’t sure where those tears came from. But at that moment, I touched Kellan’s heart, his soul.
And he touched mine.
Or else he is simply an amazing friggin actor and absolutely should be making movies.
With that, I put a smile on my face and say good evening to each and every person who enters the ballroom.
THROUGHOUT DINNER SERVICE, I remember what Kellan said about me being the only one who can carry trays. For the first time, I take pride in doing it.
And…do the trays seem lighter?
My pants feel funny, too. And so does my shirt.
It could be the steamed ants or the old food or the half gallon of perfume I squirted into the dryer, but my clothes seem a little loose. Normally, my stupid tuxedo shirt is choking me, even with the little white stretchy button extender.
Could it be that I’ve lost weight?
I haven’t weighed myself. But could it be that maybe I’ve dropped some fat? Or even just some water? I’ve been eating really clean, all the food Kellan has been teaching me about. He did say it’s common to drop some water weight in the beginning, to lose the bloat caused by all the junk food.
Once dinner service has concluded, the hard part is over. The newlyweds cut the cake and take to the dance floor for their first dance. I carry the humongous cake out of the ballroom and all the way around through the restaurant and kitchen and into the back room where we cut it and plate it. Serving the cake is easy. The trays are light and I can carry two, one in each hand.
Once we’ve finished serving cake, I’m in the back room, taking a moment to drink some unsweetened iced tea. My phone pings. It’s a text from Kellan.
My heart leaps.
How’s work?
Good! Just finished dinner service.
That was a lot of trays.
I’m sweating.
I’m hoping he’ll make some funny innuendo about sweating.
Me too.
A moment later, a pic arrives in my inbox of him doing cardio, completely soaked. He’s still wearing his little black Speedo shorts, and some white Nike Shox shoes. His massive, muscled, bronzed body is shiny and dripping with perspiration.
Oh wow.
He’s working hard, but he’s smiling. At me.
I love this picture. It feels like a private moment between the two of us; one not open to international scrutiny via social media and the brazen, phony bravery provided by online anonymity.
I text back:
God you’re gorgeous.
I have a moment of doubt; should I really say this?
But it’s what I’m thinking, so I say it.
I have an urge to send a selfie back to him.
I examine myself in the long mirror on the wall next to the door to the cart barn, where all the golf carts are stored each night when the golfers have finished with them.
I look like ass, so I unbutton my tuxedo shirt and pull off my cardboard bow tie and unbutton the vest and toss my hair so I sorta look like a sexy blackjack dealer.
The fluorescent lighting sucks but the pic actually comes out half decent. Better than I expected. I send it to Kellan.
My phone pings with his response.
You’re gorgeous, too.
Wow.
I like it.
Chris comes into the back room and catches me with my shirt open and my boobs half out.
“What’re you doing?”
I fan myself and fluff my shirt and vest a little. “Nothing. Just getting some air. I’m so hot. I just carried 90 trays.”
Chris nods and to his credit tries, but ultimately fails, not to look down the front of my shirt at my cleavage and black bra.
“Listen, everyone is going to the Turtle again tonight. Do you want to come? You can bring muscle boy if you want.” Chris perks up suddenly. “Hey, tell him to bring the Huracan!”
“Um, hang on. Let me check.”
I text Kellan and ask if he wants to go.
He says sure.
I ask if he’d mind bringing the Huracan.
He says sure.
Chris literally jumps into the air with excitement.
SUNDAY NIGHT AT the Glass Turtle is hopping.
The Glass Turtle is a local place. It’s certainly a step above dive bar. They have karaoke regularly. The drinks aren’t obscenely priced. There is a nice wooden deck out front where people can sit and hang out and smoke.
After everyone at work finishes cleaning up, we clock out and caravan to the Turtle. I manage to drive to a gas station where I fill up and clean my windshield.
I get a text from Denise:
Hey Claire Bear.
Want 2 CUM 2 chez moi
2nite for
Girlpower
and raunchy internet porn?
It bugs the crap out of me that she doesn’t capitalize “Internet”. But such is the trend of our ever-changing language and the laziness of our ever-devolving culture.
Can’t.
Going to Turtle w/work people.
Fun.
Kellan is coming.
Holy huge Harambe ballz! I’m there.
And she is. She’s already there when I arrive. I don’t know how she beat me here from the gas station, but she did.
We all perch on red stools seated around a big rectangular table. I’m drinking unsweetened iced tea. Rex is trying pathetically to engage Denise in conversation. She’s pretty much ignoring him.
I’m craning my neck, trying to see through the front window and out into the parking lot. Everyone teases me about waiting for my boyfriend.
I don’t think he’s my boyfriend.
Not yet.
But a girl can hope.
And pine.
And yearn.
And long for, ache for, hunger for, lust after….
Why’d I have to grow up to be a walking thesaurus instead of a lawyer or a sports medicine clinic owner?
At least then I’d be able to afford some Jimmy Choo Leopard Print Pony Platform Sandal fuck-me shoes like Denise is wearing, instead of sitting here in my Walmart men’s work pants and tuxedo shirt rife with steamed ants.
A green car pulls in.
I hear it before I see it.
Everyone does.
The big crowd of people on the patio stops talking and looks. Most of them pull out their phones and record as Kellan parks and gets out.
Oh sweet baby Jesus. Kellan looks…divine.
He’s wearing dark blue jeans with the cuffs tucked into shiny black boots that look tactical yet dressy, and a sexy white V-neck tee shirt. How can jeans and a V-neck look that good?
His hair looks amazing. As always. It’s just sort of slicked back but dry. I think it just does that by itself. Maybe it dries that way. I’ve never seen him comb or brush or style his hair at all. Ever.
Everyone out front starts going bonkers over Kellan freaking Kearns being here, in his crazy green Lambo.
And OMG his muscles. It must’ve been the workout and cardio he did today because he looks even bigger and leaner than he did on stage last night.
“God he looks good,” Denise mumbles close to my ear.
A red BMW Z4 convertible pulls into the lot and parks next to the green Huracan.
Stacy gets out.
“Oh… What is she doing here?”
“If I had to guess,” Denise replies, “I’d say cunt blocking you.”
Stacy oozes out of her little red sports car like a supermodel Miss America porn star.
I glance at Denise. “Now aren’t you glad you didn’t get a Z4 the other day?”
“Totally.”
“Come with me. Be my wing woman.”
Denise and I go outside and greet Kellan. Kellan gives me a big hug.
Everyone standing around is like WTF?
I can feel it.
Especially with Stacy right there in her little daisy dukes and beige strappy sandals and little black tank top and perfect D-titties.
Chris comes outside as well and as a way of diffusing or at least redirecting the tension, I introduce him to Kellan.
“Oh, you’re the one who wanted to see the Huracan,” says Kellan.
“Yeah.”
“Be my guest.” Kellan hands Chris the sexy black key fob with the shiny gold Lamborghini Bull emblem on it.
“Are you serious?”
“Sure.”
“Is this guy bitchin or what?”
Chris and Kellan walk over to the Huracan.
Denise and I follow.
As does Stacy.
Along with about 50 other people.
Chris gets behind the wheel and Kellan slides down into the passenger seat. Kellan tells him to fire it up.
Chris lifts the little red switch cover and presses the Engine START/STOP button.
The throaty V-10 roars to life. Chris is giddy like a child.
“Wanna go for a ride?” Kellan asks.
“Shit yeah!” proclaims Chris.
“Chris,” I interject, “you’ve had three beers.”
“Oh. Shit. You’re right.”
“Some other time,” Kellan assures him.
All the while, Stacy is hovering close by. She’s between Kellan and me. I haven’t seen her since last night at the show. She looks beautiful and perfect and I’m wearing my stupid men’s work pants and dead ant-stained tuxedo shirt. My clothes are even more wrinkled and more foul and funky than they were this afternoon when I left for work.
We all head inside.
Everyone starts flipping through the thick, well-worn binders, trying to choose a song to sing for karaoke.
Everyone wants me to sing.
I never sing.
And I’m not planning to tonight.
But I’m nervous.
Really nervous. I start drinking Captain-and-Cokes. Chris offers to buy Kellan a beer so Kellan orders a Budweiser on tap.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a guy who drinks domestics,” says Chris.
“The absolute best beer I ever had,” says Kellan, and about 50 people listen intently, “was at a little pizza joint in downtown Palm Springs called NYPD pizza. You know what it was?”
“What?” says Chris.
“A Budweiser on tap.”
“Budweiser? Really?”
“Really. It was crisp, sweet, fresh, not skunky. It must’ve been a fresh keg. It was delicious. Guys like to be snobby about American beer the way they are about American sports cars. But my Stingray and th
at Budweiser beg to differ.”
People begin ordering pints of Bud, including Chris. And Stacy.
Several people ask Kellan if he’ll sing.
Each time, he merely shrugs noncommittally.
I never sing.
We all watch the same short little redhead woman in her 50s sing Blondie’s “One Way Or Another” for the millionth time. She doesn’t move. She simply stands there and stares at the floor while she sings. She’s a regular here at the Turtle.
“At least she’s up there doing it,” Kellan observes.
It occurs to me that today is Sunday and it’s been exactly a week since Kellan and I met.
And what a week!
I wonder if I should mention it to Kellan. The Captain Morgan Spiced Rum makes me want to. Truthfully, it makes me want to climb into his lap and put my tongue in his mouth. But I don’t.
I mention our one-week anniversary to Denise. She says that if Kellan is into me, he’ll think it’s sweet. If he’s not, he’ll think it’s pathetic and unimportant.
As I’m formulating my thought into words, and summoning the courage to actually speak to him, he says he wants me to sing.
“Oh, no,” says Denise, “Clarice never sings.”
“Okay,” says Kellan. “But I’m not going to sing, either. You sing, I sing. You don’t, I don’t.”
Everyone at the table objects. Loudly. They all want Kellan to sing something.
Kellan levels those ridiculously-sexy blue eyes at me. “Sing.”
I shake my head vehemently. No freakin’ way do I want to go up there dressed the way I am and butcher a song.
Kellan leans close to me. “Just keep your eyes on me. Like in the club last night.”
Oh boy.
Now that he’s said that…I kinda want to do it.
I say okay. I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room first. I drag Denise with me. But actually we go to the bar and I slam two shots of Jaeger and order another Captain-and-Coke.
Denise cheers me on. “That-a-girl.”
Kellan and I go to the DJ and submit our songs.
Kellan is called on stage first. He does an outrageous rendition of Bon Jovi’s “Livin on a Prayer.”
Everyone who was outside comes inside.
Everyone in the bar records it on their phone and uploads it and within minutes it’s all over social media.
Kellan says he doesn’t care; he’s having fun. And it’ll probably give him a boost in supplements sales.
