by Craig Birk
Chapter Six
The Ruse
4:01 p.m.
“I don’t appreciate your ruse ma’am. . . .
Your ruse. Your cunning attempt to trick me.”
– Randal Graves, Clerks
Roger required four minutes to pack to Alex’s satisfaction. Twenty minutes later, Mike was successfully assimilated into the driver’s side back seat and the crew was officially on US Interstate 15 northbound, just past Scripps Ranch and advancing toward Las Vegas. Unfortunately, there was heavy traffic and progress was slow. Madonna’s American Life played on the Harmon Kardon stereo. Roger and Mike simultaneously declared the music selection to be “really gay,” but they were overruled by Alex and Gary who had joint control of Alex’s iPod which was hooked up to the car’s auxiliary connection.
Mike was now wearing a Ken Caminiti Padres jersey that his younger brother bought him last month for his thirtieth birthday. It complemented blue Nike shorts and white Nike sneakers. Other than the sporty outfit, he looked a bit like Chandler from Friends, though as one girl once told him after several glasses of wine, “not as cute and funny . . . but still cool in that bitter kind of way.”
After a slight lull in the conversation during which Alex was trying to decipher what Madonna was saying about a double latte, Gary broke the silence, turning fully around in his seat to talk to Mike. “All right, dude, I gotta hear about it. First of all, congratulations,” he said.
Mike: “Oh, thanks man. Yeah, I am pretty pumped about the whole thing.”
This comment elicited Alex to glance back in the rearview mirror, eyebrows slightly raised.
Gary: “So tell me about it. Where did you find her?”
Mike: “Well, you know, it was pretty much the standard procedure. I just got an agent and looked at a bunch of options and picked the best one I could afford.”
Gary: “No shit. Is there a large range in the prices?”
Mike: “Of course. Some of the really nice ones are just ridiculously expensive, but there were some really attractive choices that were within my limits.”
Gary: “Did you look at pictures online?”
Mike: “Of course, but ultimately you need to go in person and really get a feel for each one. It’s a huge commitment so you need to make sure you take the time to examine all the details and kick the tires and check under the hood, so to speak. A lot of the choices that look good at first actually have big flaws that only reveal themselves after a thorough investigation. Actually, I really enjoyed the whole process. It is more interesting than I thought.”
Gary (laughing): “Of course, I can imagine. That sounds sweet. Was the agent Russian?”
Mike: “Um . . . No. It was your typical twenty-eight-year-old blond chick who lost a dotcom job up north after the bubble and moved down here. Standard stuff.”
Gary: “So she was American?”
Mike: “Yeah, from Chicago I think.”
Gary: “That’s strange. I wouldn’t have thought they would be open to letting Americans get into the business.”
Mike: “What do you mean? I think she even went to State down here. Didn’t really make it in San Francisco but has her shit together and is good at sales. You know the type. Typical real estate agent.”
Gary: “Okay. I am confused. I thought we are talking about the people who found the girl you are marrying. What are you talking about?”
Alex chose this moment to re-enter the conversation: “Hey guys, do you want to hit a strip club tonight, or wait until tomorrow during the afternoon to kill some time? I heard a rumor that Crazy Horse Too may be closing because it got too skanky, but maybe the Rhino or Club Paradise?”
Mike: “Sure, whatever, Alex. Marrying, Gary? What are you talking about? I haven’t even been on a date in nearly four months.”
Gary, whom Blair often accused of being too trusting, finally smelled the rat. “Mike, are you, or are you not, getting married? Is this or is it not a bachelor party trip?” he asked in a deliberate and deep tone.
Mike laughed heartily. “Married? Shit, I’m all for it if you can find me a nice bitch this weekend with big tits and maybe a trust fund. Maybe we will run into Britney Spears at Ghostbar and she will want to give it another try. But I wasn’t planning on it. I just closed on a new house in Del Mar. I thought that is what you were asking about.”
An awkward silence dominated the car for the next several seconds. Somehow the fact that they were only going twenty-seven miles an hour made the situation even worse. Madonna was complicit in letting the moment sink in. She ended her song and paused lengthily before Hollywood began to play.
Gary was the first to speak. He looked directly at Alex. “Alex, you mother fucking, mother fucker. This is not cool. You called Blair and lied directly to my wife. Basically that means I have now lied to her about this whole trip as well. This is fucked. We are fucked. I am fucked.”
Alex tried to sound calm: “Okay, I knew we would have to deal with this at some point, so I just have to say, I really think you are focusing too much on the negative here.”
Gary: “The negative? The negative? What is the positive? You are out of your mind. This is a very bad situation. Just turn the car around.”
Alex: “It is cool. Nothing is fucked here. We are just normal Americans trying to have a good time. Everything will work out fine. Just watch.”
Gary: “What the fuck are you talking about? What does this have to do with being American? This has to do with me being married. Turn the car around at the next exit.”
Alex: “Okay, but let’s think about this for a moment first. Just hear me out. Listen, this was the only way I could get you to come with us. And you know that is true. I only told Blair that Mike was getting married for you – so you could enjoy this weekend with us. We are going to have a great time and when we get back, we can just wait a week or so and then just tell her that the engagement broke off cuz, like, um . . . I don’t know . . . maybe Mike fucked the stripper we got him or something. Maybe he even caught a disease or something. It will be cool.”
Mike, who had not planned on further participation in this conversation, chimed in at this point: “Hey, Alex – usually I don’t care what kind of shit you pull, but I don’t want to come off like the asshole to my friend’s wife. Did you think of that in your little scenario?”
Alex: “Okay, sorry buddy. You’re right. And I don’t have all the details worked out right now, but it will be okay. No strippers. I am the asshole here; you don’t have to be.”
Mike: “And I don’t want any diseases either.”
This elicited a chuckle from Roger, who up until now was also pretending to ignore the whole situation and was instead trying to get updated football lines on his cell phone.
Alex: “You’re right, Chief. Bad story.”
Mike: “I mean, at least not without really getting laid.”
Everyone turned toward Mike, equal parts confused and disappointed.
Gary got them back on topic: “Just get off the next exit and take me back. We aren’t fucking moving anyway.”
Roger suddenly realized he had a vested interest in the outcome: “Dudes, I got a double shift covered on a Saturday for this, so someone better still be taking me to Vegas.”
Alex: “See, The Rodge is the voice of reason. Fantastic. Okay, Gary, how about this - we get to Barstow, you call Blair and tell her that I made the whole thing up and you had no idea until then. But at that point there is really no way you can come back. And I am the asshole.”
Gary: “So, what, the topic just didn’t come up for two hours?”
Alex thought for only a moment: “Right, because I told you and Roger not to mention anything until we got to Vegas because Mike told me he didn’t want the trip to be considered a bachelor party because he didn’t want strippers because his fiancé would be pissed and he wouldn’t go if it was a bachelor party. Therefore, he would only go if you and Roger didn’t know about the engagement until the second night of the trip.”
Gary: “But there is no engagement?”
Alex: “This is true, but if I lied to you and Roger separately then no one’s the wiser and no one is talking about any engagements. We are all just going to Vegas. But then somehow you caught on to my ruse and immediately call Blair. However, by then we are in Barstow and everyone else still wants to go and there is nothing you can reasonably do. I am the only asshole. We go to Vegas and have a blast.”
Gary: “She is going to be pissed and is going to make me get on a bus and get my ass back to San Diego no matter what you douche-bags are doing.”
Alex: “I don’t think so, Gary. I don’t know too much about married chicks, but the one thing I know about women is they all want to seem “cooler” than other girls. If the word got out that she made you come back on a Greyhound from Barstow, she would appear as a bitch and decidedly un-cool. She won’t want that.”
Gary thought about this for a moment: “You are a clever asshole sometimes. You don’t care that my wife hates you?”
Alex switched from his sales voice to his compassionate voice: “I do care, G-Balls. I like Blair and I am happy for the two of you. But the truth of the matter is, I have seen you in person maybe twice in the last year anyway, so I don’t think this is going to, like, fuck up the great situation we have now or anything.”
Gary knew that it was a problem that he very rarely saw friends who didn’t also have kids anymore. “I’m still pissed,” he said, but the conviction in his voice was gone.
Alex: “I know. Look, I am sorry. Really. I just wanted all of us to go to Vegas and have a good time together. I mean, for me, personally, these days it is kind of a bummer. Five years ago all you had to do was send out an email with the subject “Vegas” and within thirty minutes eight guys had booked flights. Now I am lucky if I can get The Rodge to come with me.”
Roger: “What is that supposed to mean?”
Alex: “Sorry, dude. You know I love charging Vegas with you. I just mean that it doesn’t take much for you to want to go to Nevada, which is a good thing. Look, the point is just that we never get to do anything as the four of us anymore. I know it was fucked up to lie to your wife and I know you were going to buy new steak knives and all that this weekend, so I am sorry. But how about if we move on and have a great weekend?”
Gary: “Jesus, man. You are a fucking dickhead sometimes. Total fucking dickhead.” He paused. “Fine, let’s go. But I am still pissed. Are you paying for dinner?”
Alex: “Absolutely. N9NE at the Palms tomorrow. Steaks and martinis are on me.”
Gary: “Fucking dickhead.”
Roger, now content that the trip was still on, lost interest in the conversation and made a statement: “Okay, if we are all still friends, I am going to pass out now. One of us was up all night having sex.”
Mike (with more than a tinge of jealousy): “You are not still killing it with the hostess are you?”
Roger: “No, no. It’s one of the regulars. She is like forty and just got divorced. Crazy in bed. Fucking brilliant.”
With that Roger slouched into the corner of the car and pulled out a Viejas Indian Casino hat and pulled it down over his face. He lifted an empty twenty-ounce bottle of Coke until it disappeared under the cap, spit into it, and issued his parting words for the moment: “Okay, you double-headed-dildos, I’ll see you later. Wake me up when the Stanford game comes on the radio.”
