The Spectacular Now

by Tim Tharp

  I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at her. “I can’t do it if that’s how you’re going to be.”

  Of course, part of me is thinking I really could physically do it, but that wouldn’t be any good. The whole magnetic thing about sex is you want the other person to want you. I mean, that’s what separates us from the animals. That and haircuts.

  “Are you thinking about Marcus or something?” I hate to mention another guy’s name when I’m in bed with a naked girl, but it’s a question that has to be asked.

  Her eyes clench tighter.

  “Are you, like, in love with him?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him right now.” Her bottom lip’s trembling.

  “It’s just a yes or no thing. I’m not asking for a whole essay.”

  “I don’t know.” The tears start to track down. “Maybe. I’m, like, really confused right now.”

  “What about me? What about this afternoon?”

  “That’s what’s got me so confused.” She pauses and sniffs. This is looking like it’s going to be one of those real red-faced, high-snot-content kind of cries. “This afternoon has been wonderful. It really has.”

  “But?”

  “But, you know, it’s just one afternoon.”

  “There’ll be other afternoons.”

  “I know. And believe me, I don’t have fun with anyone like I do with you, but I can’t go around having fun all the time. I have my serious side too.”

  “Hey, I’m serious. I’m one hundred percent serious about not being serious. Now, that’s a commitment.”

  “I know you are.” There’s just the slightest upward curve at the corners of her mouth. “But you know how it is with Marcus—he has a plan. He doesn’t just talk about making a difference in the world, he does something about it. It’s just that sometimes it’s too much. I mean, he already has this whole plan for where our relationship is going and how I can go to New Mexico to college with him, and after a year we’ll start living together and then get married right after we get our degrees.”

  “Married? He’s already talking about getting married? After what, two weeks? Does this guy not know the definition of creepy?”

  “And sometimes he makes me feel like we’re responsible for fixing every homeless, poor, starving, downtrodden person in the whole city. And you know me. I do care about those things too. I do. You’ve heard me talk about them a million times. But I can’t think about it all the time. Sometimes I have to let loose, forget about everything else, and just live in the right now.”

  “Of course, you do. Everyone does. You go around worrying about that stuff all the time and next thing you know you’re giving yourself an aneurysm. You have blood spurting out of your ears. Doctors are wheeling you into the emergency room, yelling ‘stat’ and ‘code blue’ and everything. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “No, I don’t want that. But I don’t want just Thursday afternoons either. I don’t want just moments. I want a whole life.”

  “Cassidy, don’t you know—life is made out of Thursday afternoons. You just keep having them one after the other and let everything else take care of itself.”

  She opens her eyes and gives me a warm smile. There’s love in it, but not the kind that sticks. “I wish it could be like that,” she says. “You don’t know how much I wish it could be like that.”

  “It can be. You just have to believe.”

  “I guess that’s my problem,” she says. “I’m too realistic.”

  I can see where this is going—and it doesn’t end up in Happily-Ever-Afterland either. The best thing for me to do is head her off and get there first.

  “That’s all right.” I kiss her on the forehead and pat her shoulder. “You and I’ll just be friends, then. You come to me when you need a laugh. You can have your real life with Marcus.”

  She reaches up and strokes my cheek. Tears stream into the corners of her smile. “You really are magic, Sutter. And I wish that was enough. I really do.”

  I want to tell her it is. I want to swear to the king of the king of the kings it’s enough. But this afternoon the magic has all run out.

  Chapter 36

  Friday night I get drunk with Jeremy Holtz and Jay Pratt and break stuff. Nothing big. Lawn ornaments, bird baths, flower pots. Mainly, they do the breaking, but I kick the shit out of a couple of shrubs. It feels pretty good.

  Saturday night there’s a motel party. About once a month you can count on someone renting a couple of adjoining rooms at some local motel for a birthday bash. This Saturday it’s for Bethany’s friend Courtney Lane. They play softball together. I don’t know her all that well, but Ricky invited me to tag along with him and Bethany. Finally. I was beginning to wonder if he didn’t really want me around her. Of course, maybe he just felt sorry for me after I told him what happened with Cassidy on Thursday.

  Personally, I always thought Courtney was kind of boring, but the party’s at one of the nicer motels by the airport, so there is an outside chance it could still be fun. At least it’s interesting to finally get a chance to really study Ricky and Bethany as a couple.

  On the drive out to the motel, they try to make me feel included at first, but that only lasts about five minutes. Then Bethany starts in on the subject of how her parents are adding on an extra room to their house and how they’re planning to decorate it in an early French style or something like that. You know—the kind of boring topic that girls like to talk about but that makes a dude’s eyes glaze over.

  Funny thing, though, Ricky jumps right into the conversation. He’s all about how he’d design his own house and what kind of furniture he’d put in it, and Bethany comes back with her own ideas. I can’t believe it. It’s like they’re practicing for the day they buy a home together.

  To me, this seems like a big rookie mistake on Ricky’s part. Any time a girl starts to talk about the FUTURE I try to change the subject pronto. I don’t do conversations about homes, weddings, careers, or kids anymore. Topics like those are quicksand. They’ll pull you under before you know what happened.

  One time, when I was dating Kimberly Kerns, she dragged out the what-kind-of-house-do-you-want topic, and I said I’d like to live in a tree house. For some reason, that made her mad, like I was being disrespectful or something. It was ridiculous. I mean, have you ever seen some of those cool tree-house condos they’re building in Costa Rica?

  Anyway, it’s like Ricky and Bethany have completely forgotten that I’m even in the backseat. They’re going through each room of their imaginary house, describing everything from wall hangings to coasters. As Ricky’s best friend, I figure I better head them off before they get to the nursery.

  “So what’s this package you have back here?” I cut in, referring to the brightly wrapped box on the seat next to me.

  Ricky says it’s the present they got for Courtney, and I’m like, “Were we supposed to bring presents?”

  Bethany goes, “It is a birthday party, you know.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “but usually a motel birthday party’s just about getting blasted.”

  “Well,” says Bethany. “This one’s just about having fun.”

  I’m like, “What’s the difference?”

  “Don’t worry,” says Ricky. “I’m sure everyone isn’t bringing a present. You can just think of paying the cover charge as your gift.”

  “What? A cover charge? Presents? What are these people, a bunch of capitalists?”

  Ricky gets a chuckle out of that, but not Bethany. It is weird, though. Why should I pay a cover charge? I’m bringing my own whisky.

  I have to admit this motel is a cut above the usual for these kinds of parties. There’s a downstairs club, an indoor pool, a workout room, and an atrium with pool tables, Ping-Pong, and arcade games. The adjoining suites are pretty plush. Much bigger than the usual.

  Unfortunately, there is almost no electrical charge to the party atmosphere. When we first arrive, there are only six people sitting aro
und talking. A microscopic boom box leaks out some lukewarm tune so softly that you can barely hear it. Presents are piled in the corner and there’s a fat white Wal-Mart cake on the bureau. They have two ice chests, one with beer and the other with Cokes.

  That’s right—Cokes!

  Good thing I have the trusty flask.

  Right from the first, it’s clear that I won’t get in much socializing with Ricky. He and Bethany are lost in each other. They stand there talking, staring into each other’s eyes, with no more than a couple of inches of space between them. They’re even doing the double handhold. Next thing you know, they’ll be calling each other honey-bunny.

  Here’s my problem with the public display of affection—it’s undemocratic. It’s like here’s this couple and they’re reigning over their own little universe and no one else is invited. My universe is way too vast for that. Once I get a girl alone, it’s different, but until then I’m like, Come one, come all! Bring your cousins, bring your dogs. No one’s excluded. But here’s my best friend, practically building a border fence to keep the rest of us out.

  More people file in, mostly couples. A lot of softball chicks and their dudes. Then Tara Thompson shows up single, and it’s pretty obvious that something fishy is going on. It’s very likely that the main reason Ricky asked me to come along was to hook me up with her. Of course, I like Tara. Tara is great. I’d date her in a second if it wasn’t for the Cassidy fiasco. But that’s what pisses me off. Ricky knows that. I’ve told him I can’t ever date her. And still he’s plotting against me.

  Now, not only is the party lame, it’s awkward. I’m standing around with a group of guys who are talking about tennis of all things, while Tara sits across the room next to Courtney, shooting glances my way about every fifteen seconds. There’s nothing to do but put a heavy, heavy dent in the flask.

  Okay, I could go talk to her. After all, she’s probably the most fun person here. But then I’d just be leading her on. When we sat together in the botanical gardens that night, everything was cool. I had a girlfriend then. It’s like having a force field around you that keeps romantic expectations at bay. Tara and I could talk about anything. We could even hug. But it was just as friends.

  I try going into the adjoining suite. It’s less awkward, but the lame factor is off the charts. Everyone’s sitting around while this girl named Taylor something plays guitar and sings contemporary Christian songs. No one seems to think this is an odd choice for entertainment at a beer bust. And it’s fine with me, really. Even Jesus needs to party now and then. It’s just boring.

  Naturally, I feel the duty to inject a little zip into the proceedings. So, when the song’s over, I stand up on a chair and go, “That was fabulous, Taylor.” I give her a round of applause. “Now, let me try one. Taylor, see if you can play along with me.”

  I start in with a Sutter Keely original off the top of my head, something with a Caribbean feel.

  Listen to Sutter Keely

  Listen to the Sutterman

  He’s the king of feely-feely

  He’s the master of romance

  “Come on, everybody, dance along with me!” I go into a sultry hip swivel.

  Let’s do the raunchy rumba

  Let’s do the nasty dance

  Give me the humba-bumba

  Down in me underpants

  Yes, yes, yes,

  Down in me underpants

  Now, you’d think everybody would get into the spirit and want to sing along but no. They’re like, “Give it up, Sutter. We want to hear Taylor play some real music,” and “Aren’t you supposed to be in rehab?”

  Ricky and Bethany are standing in the doorway between the two rooms. Ricky’s grinning, but Bethany has this look on her face like I’m a poodle that just shit on the rug.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m only trying to be of service. I didn’t mean to break up your funeral or anything.”

  I hop down from the chair, walk over to Ricky, and go, “When you’re ready to leave this mausoleum, I’ll be downstairs at the arcade games.”

  Chapter 37

  I’m not really a big arcade-game guy, but anything would have to be better than this motel party. At the restaurant downstairs, I get a 7UP to go, and as I’m heading to the atrium, I hear a girl shout, “Yo, Carmine!”

  Walking across the foyer with three of her friends is my old girlfriend Shawnie Brown from back in my crazy-for-black-hair-and-brown-eyes phase. Carmine is my name in the Italian mobster routine we do whenever we run into each other. In fact, we’re both Carmine, so I yell back, “Oh-ay, Carmine, how ya doin’?”

  She says something to her friends, and they head on to the elevators while she comes over to me. She has a very sexy walk. “I’m doin’ bravissimo, Carmine. Whatchoo doin’ heah?”

  “Nuttin’. Just tryin’ to put some distance between me and dem stiffs upstairs at dat lame-ass party. You know what I’m talkin’ about?”

  “Ay-oh, I was just goin’ to dat party. No good?”

  “Fuggettaboudit.”

  “No, you fuggettaboudit.”

  “Aaaay, you’re breakin’ my balls heah.”

  “No, you’re breakin’ my balls.”

  We could go on and on this way, but we crack each other up too much.

  “So, really,” she says when she gets done laughing. “The party’s lame?”

  “Remember that party we went to sophomore year at Heather Simons’s house and it turned out her parents were there?”

  “That bad?”

  “Maybe not that bad, but close.”

  “What a waste. And I’m just starting to get a good buzz on too. What’s in the cup, whisky and Seven?”

  “Of course. Want a sip?”

  “Sure.” She takes a drink and hands the cup back.

  I explain the weak beer situation upstairs and suggest I buy her a 7UP of her own so that she can fortify it with some of my Seagram’s.

  “There’s a Ping-Pong table in the atrium. You up for a match?”

  She gives me a sly look. “You know I’ll kick your ass, just like in the good old days.”

  “No way,” I tell her. “I’m on steroids now. My head’s grown six hat sizes.”

  She laughs. “I’ll still kick your ass.”

  Turns out the only reason Shawnie got sucked into coming to Courtney’s party is her friends thought there might be some cute guys. This is news because she’s been dating a dude named Dan Odette for about six months. I ask her what happened to him, and she goes, “He got on my nerves. Too possessive.”

  “That’s always the way it is with the dangerous bad boy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before I started dating him?”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “No, probably not.”

  “I guess we’re just a couple of singles out on the town. It’s fabulous, huh?”

  “So, you don’t miss Cassidy?”

  “I’m way past that.”

  “Just keep telling yourself that.”

  After we score her a 7UP and doctor it thoroughly with whisky, we head to the atrium. She wasn’t kidding about the Ping-Pong. Out of three games, I don’t win a single one. That girl always could bang out some serious Ping-Pong, no matter how much she’s had to drink. It doesn’t bother me, though. I’m not one of these macho dudes who thinks it’s some kind of disgrace to lose to a girl. It’s just a joke when I suggest we head over to the workout room so I can wreak my revenge by beating her at weight lifting, but she’s up for it one hundred percent.

  She’s like, “Spot me ten pounds?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ll spot you fifty pounds and still beat you.” Which, of course, is an exaggeration. Shawnie’s no weakling.

  The workout facility is pretty nice. Since it’s Saturday night, we’re the only ones weird enough to be in there, but they don’t have weights, just treadmills and exercise bikes. That’s okay. I’m never at a loss for ideas.

  I saddle up on one of the bikes a
nd go, “How about a race?”

  She grins. “You’re on.”

  It’s pretty hilarious. There we are, side by side, pedaling away like a couple of Lance Armstrongs. We’re both doing the commentary, and, of course, I’m winning in my commentary and she’s winning in hers. The thing is, though, that riding a bike—even if it is stationary—can be a challenge after a few stout whiskies. At least it is for me. Just as I’m imagining myself shooting down the homestretch, my foot slips off the pedal and I go crashing to the floor, cracking my head on the left handle-bar along the way. This is not a minor tumble either. I mean, it hurts.

  Of course, Shawnie can’t quit laughing. I’m sitting there checking my forehead for blood, and tears are streaming down her face.

  I’m like, “Hey, I’m injured here,” and she’s like, “I’m sorry, but you should’ve seen yourself.” She’s still laughing as she comes over to help me up.

  “You know,” she says, “that’s something I always liked about you. You don’t get embarrassed about anything.”

  I go, “Embarrassment’s a waste of time. Now, where’s the hot tub? I need a hot tub. I’m an injured man.”

  Sure enough, they do have a brand-spanking-new shiny hot tub too. It looks like the perfect thing to heal all ailments. Just what I need.

  Shawnie’s like, “You’re not getting in there, are you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Come on,” I tell her. “If I’m going in, so are you.”

  “No way,” she says. “You’re not getting me to take my clothes off.”

  I give her the old eyebrow cock. “Who said anything about taking anyone’s clothes off?”

  And there I go, fully dressed, easing myself down, the warm, healing waters gathering around my chest.

  “You’re crazy,” Shawnie says.