fleetloop's Stories

The Last Night of a Married Man

2008-10-05T22:21:42Z

“It’s my last night as a married man,” I slurred, “Want to have some fun?”

She went from assuming what I had said to processing what I actually did say in two distractingly elegant blinks. Her mouth opened, but the vacuum of nothing to say snapped it shut. “How am I suppose to answer that?”

This was what I told my buddies as we ordered another round of beers. Obviously she had walked away, shaking her head yet secretly excited she had a new terrible pickup line to share with her friends. I had slunk back to the boys, unsure if this night should resemble a bachelor party, or have a night-before-root-canal vibe. Then I get a tap on the shoulder: “Uh, this might sound, uh… but I’m actually getting married next week, so if we, you know, do you think it would sort of… cancel each other out…?”

Shocked, I look to my guys for guidance. They nod encouragingly, and I follow suit. “Yeah, of course. It’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

“Isn’t that what your ex-wife used to say?” quips Dave. Sadly, it was true.

Heart. Broken?

2008-07-08T17:21:38Z

The endless back and forth: will she? Won’t she? Will I? Should I? It gets exhausting in the same way as those daily life questions get. White or whole wheat? Beef or chicken? Blue t-shirt or the striped polo?

I gave her an unspoken ultimatum. Either I get something back, anything back, by the next time I could see her, or I dismantle the entire operation and move on. I wasn’t looking forward to the latter. She was wracking up quite the points in the “awesome” column, while the “flee” side of the page remained relatively empty. I had a crush, bad, but things couldn’t remain as is. Creepiness was on the horizon, and I was doing my best not to be that guy, the one who just kind of hangs out and “chats”.

The imaginary deadline approached. Yes, this is the healthy thing to do. Move on. There are other grapes on the vine, more flowers in the meadow. But then it came. A Happy Birthday email, with a photo. A mannequin being pulled into the sky by a flock of colourful balloons. Insides gooey. Will go see her now.

The In-between Me

2008-07-08T17:19:42Z

The in-between me had taken punches from both Fate and Free Will, so many that it was tough to tell who was hitting me, and why. But they both double-teamed me, knocked me out and stole my wallet.

The in-between me made some crazy promises about ‘forever and ever’, based on some shaky intel. But the in-between me had to live his life, you know? When’s the right time, does it just happen or do you choose? I did both, or both happened to me. For six and a half years I was on a team with someone who didn’t want to play the game, which made scheduling practices a problem. When I was finally let go on waivers, I bumped into someone with the same problem. The same, but very, very different. After that, I went with a wildcard, and discovered more I didn’t want.

The in-between me found out he was a large, not an extra large, a melancholic and not deeply depressed, over medium and not scrambled.

The in-between me hung out with the actual me, who asked him, “Why you got to be like that? Just let it go.” And he did.

The New Me

2008-07-07T17:20:44Z

The new me played it cool. Light and breezy. Asked some questions. Didn’t babble on. Changed topics often.

The new me did not once say, “I’ll see that with you!” or “Next time I go, want to come with?” Nope, the new me was right there in the present – falling deeply, painfully in love with her eyes and her laugh and her vintage mime pants, but only in that moment. The new me knows better.

We reminisced about Paris and Berlin, high-fived over our mutual lack of cellphones and enjoyed a scenic bike ride back to the hood though the bright summer evening. I looked over to her pedaling beside me, smiled, and saw an image I could enjoy every single day of my life.

But the new me knows there’s little to be done for a self-described ‘anti-socialite’. The new me wants to see what life has to offer. The new me is not a tour guide.

The new me still has a huge crush on her, and can’t wait to see her tomorrow, but knows how much of a better friend she’d make than a failed lover.

New me, how’d you get to be so smart?

The Old Me

2008-07-05T16:40:14Z

The old me would have laid it on thick, with a full blown charm offensive. For every statement that lost her a point, the old me would have shrugged it off, or worse, thought it was something I could work with.

“I’ve seen ‘Anchorman’ thirty times,” she boasted. The old me would have wanted to watch it with her, so she could tell me exactly what she found so funny about it. The old me would have found any excuse to spend any time with her, even if I had to sit through that nonsensical, painfully unfunny third act again.

The old me would have invited her up, tried to make a second date, asked to see her tomorrow. The old me would bring her a gift the next time I ‘popped by’ her work, maybe a blue freezee or a hot chocolate. The old me would have given her a call, asked her if she wanted to go for a bike ride – it’s such a nice day.

The old me would have wanted it to work so badly, that I wouldn’t let her leave my thoughts. The old me would have had his heart needlessly crushed.

Luckily, I’m not the old me.

Meet Your Implied Lawyer

2008-07-02T16:05:49Z

As your implied lawyer, I need to go over a few of my implied duties and obligations, make sure we’re clear on things.

I show up Sunday morning in business casual. Nothing too fancy, but most certainly slacks. This will contrast nicely with what you will be wearing (most likely an old t-shirt and crappy shorts). I will call you ‘Andrew’ and not your prefered ‘Andy’, and if asked I am an ‘old family friend.’ I will say as little as possible to your landlord, but most likely I will say nothing. Just smile and be a presence. Say nothing, imply everything. My tiny, expensive looking camera will always be in plain sight, but never used. This is to imply I can easily document whatever occurs, but won’t need to. Let’s keep this friendly, shall we?

Finally we come to the matter of my implied retainer: grilled calamari, BBQd Korean short ribs and plenty of tall boys are a start. Maybe some chips later on. And a few G&T’s if necessary.

If my services are required again, I will show up in a suit and imply agitation.

My Neighbor's Bathroom

2008-04-03T20:21:24Z

I don’t really know my neighbors, but I know their bathroom habits. The woman takes a loud shower every day at 5:30 in the morning, while he enjoys coughing like he’s trying to get rid of a few nicotine-soaked hair-balls.

How do I know this? My landlord, in an inspired hack and slash fit of apartment reallocation, positioned their lavatory directly beneath my bed, and boy, can it amplify sound! I can hear each gargle, clip or plop down there, and I’m pretty sure they can hear every snore, belch or splooge on this end.

I tell you this because there was just an especially heroic coughing session, followed by a smash, which climaxed with a loud crash. Then silence. Maybe a bit too much silence.

What should I do? I mean, I don’t know their names. Do I knock on their door across the hallway and say, “Hello, I was just listening in on some of your bathroom activities and suspect there might be something wrong…”? Or do I wait for the wife to deal with it when she gets home from work?

I’ll probably just wait.

The Thing I Need

2008-02-11T21:15:19Z

Just have to pick up that one thing. A specific item, nothing special. Reminded myself this morning – “Don’t forget to get one of those,” I reminded myself. This morning. I know where I’m going to get it – a store by the place I’m working has these things. Lunch time or coffee break? We’ll see how boring the day is and how much I need to get out of the office. I can even visualize it within the store. In the main entrance, a few aisles over, on the right side, the second-to-top shelf…

And someone is there. 99% of the time. Right in front of the thing I need. Usually a person who has a problem italic_hurrying up_italic. An old lady, someone with an enormous baby carriage, a crazy person, it doesn’t matter. Right there. I could just push past them and grab the thing, but I was looking forward to seeing what sizes were available, or ‘sub-brands’ (“Now with Hershey’s Chocolate!”) or even a competing product. But now I have to shift around, do a lap around the store and lose any kind of excitement I once had.

Pros and Cons

2008-02-05T20:20:11Z

Should I break up because of her tragic un-coolness? Because at almost 30, she still lives like a student? She pan-fries her cooked pasta for Christ’s sake. FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES . Do I ignore her infinite sweetness, her smarmy demeanour and absolute unselfishness in the sack?

Do I distance myself from someone who cries about how things weren’t suppose to be this way, and how she was suppose to be still married to her cheating husband? Or breaks up with me the day before our trip to Paradise? ONE DAY BEFORE . But her passion, sense of adventure and kindness makes me think again.

Can I leave behind an immature drunk who doesn’t have a driver’s license or even a credit card, but looks at the world in such an open, loving way that I can’t help but get swept in and ask her to spend the rest of her life with me?

But why should they love a depressed, workaholic jerk who they “can’t really talk to”, but treats them like gold and shows them what a life worth living might look like.

We make choices, and they make us.

Carl Asks Something

2008-01-11T16:20:13Z

“Listen man – you’re gonna think this is a crazy question, but I need to know what size penis you got.”

Carl can be an interesting friend sometimes. Hushed, whispered calls late at night: “Don’t hang up; just listen…”, highly inappropriate emails to my office that take down the company’s Exchange server and unexpected knocks on my front door, usually when my elderly parents are over. And now this.

“Why do you need to know this?” I ask in my usual tone of mild defiance and inevitability. Then he slaps me. Hard. On the side of the head.

“Come on son, does it sound like I’m fucking around here?” Yep, that’s Carl for ya’. Classic Carl. Once more I ask myself why I associate with this person, and once more I know the answer to that question far too well.

“OK, OK, relax. It’s like medium, medium large. Biggish? Like, this long, I guess… fuck man, what do you want?” He just nods seriously, jots down something on a scrap of paper, then walks away. I’m know I’m never going to find out what’s he’s really up to.

Let's Get a Cab

2008-01-03T18:34:38Z

This one worked, but it took a while to pan out: “Wanna go somewhere quiet and make out?” I thought the direct approach was the best, and with the outfit I was wearing (a sleek black tux) I had all the confidence of a seasoned entertainment reporter.

Two parties later, we were in a cab back to my place. This New Year’s was shaping up nicely. All I was looking for was some spontaneous fun with as little drama as possible, and this delightful young woman was providing both. Things were almost working too smoothly.

This is the point in the story where she turns out to be a man, or I wake up without a kidney or on a raft in the middle of the lake. Maybe she’s a crackhead who invites all her friends over to party at my place, or some saucy satanist who is into kinky castrations. Or she dies on my couch and I have to hide the body for some slapstick reason.

But no. My real problem is waiting for her to call me. Or should I call her? It’s her move to make. And honestly, am I interested, curious or just lonely?

Dating by iPod

2007-12-30T20:46:20Z

I couldn’t believe my luck. On the side patio, having a smoke, alone. Here’s your chance fuckface, I thought, and walked on over with the biggest non-threatening smile I could muster. “As a waitress, I know you must get this all the time,” I started, “but how would you like to go out with me?” She looked at me. I wasn’t some stranger; she had seen me around. “Yes, I do get this all the time,” she answered, “So how about this: let me hear whatever song you’re listening to right now on your iPod, and if I like it, you’ve got a date.” A nice move, I have to admit, but one that scared me shitless. What the hell was on my iPod anyway? This could either impress the pants off of her, or give her a good story to tell the other waitresses and keep me out of this bar for a long, long time. I tried weakly to defend myself as I handed over the buds, “I listen to a little bit of everything…” She nodded skeptically and pressed ‘play’ on my little blue Shuffle. Dear God, I hope I got Hall and Oates off of there in time…

The Hobo Party En Route

2007-08-30T20:18:48Z

We shouldn’t be driving. Good thing we weren’t. Possum again surprised us by a) being the most sober after a completely unnecessary Tuesday night on the town and b) convincing Carl he could drive his beloved 1992 Ford Taurus GL wagon uptown to see if a certain scrap of paper did indeed have the correct address of a women who claimed to have taken a liking to Possum’s hobo charm. And now me and Carl – the only two guys in the car with jobs, bank accounts and our own toothbrushes – are reduced to wingmen, grateful for bookish roommates, annoying neighbors or visiting ‘friends’. But that would have to wait. The two of us screamed like roller coaster virgins and tried not to spill our pint glasses and Possum was barreled down the sidewalk. “Look for a condo,” Possum yelled back at us, “She said she lived in a condo.”

“Condo!” Carl shrieked, and Possum hit the brakes, skidded around and dunked the Taurus nicely right in the middle of a public fountain. Miraculously, we managed not to spill a single drop of beer.

Call For Help

2007-08-28T22:05:36Z

She’s not getting up. She’s not getting up to help me. Dear God, I almost kill myself in front of this woman and she does nothing? Pain… I’m in pain… blood, from somewhere. Oh, good, someone else. He’s stopping… no, over here, not her… me! Good thing these bushes are hiding me so well… My arm… hurting, Jesus, look at it! Broken, that’s broken… HEY ! Over here! Remember me! No, don’t sit down! Man down! Maybe I can move… ugh… not so much. Just crawl… man, my bike is busted. HEY ! OVER HERE ! No, don’t take an olive, don’t share a fucking laugh, HELP ME ! Did she just look down here? My arm, my arm is fucking hurting… dude, maybe you can help. Stop flirting and look over here. Maybe I can reach my bell… RING RING RING . That got their attention… dude is looking over, she’s going into her bag, maybe call 911? RING RING … yeah buddy, someone down here… HEY ! Lady, what’s with the wine bottle…? What? Hey, HEY ! She just… smashed that guy in the fucking FACE ! Hey… blood… arm… mhn….

My Very First Trap

2007-08-28T19:44:41Z

It was a trap. I had set my very first trap. A basket, a blanket and a bottle of wine, flanked by a bike path on one side and a nice view of the ravine on the other. The day was clear, my sandals were casually slipped off and I was ready. I first got the idea from a documentary I caught the last few minutes of the night before. There was this plant that lured clueless insects into it’s clutches, then liquefied and digested them whole. I figured this was a fitting punishment for Jeff, who had certainly pollinated enough young flowers in his time, so I devised my own devious version. Jeff always biked this route home from work, and I know the sight of me in the park in my thinest summer dress would be all the bait I needed. When he stopped to snuggle up next to me, I would flatter him and offer him some calabria paesana olives, then bash his fucking face in with the wine bottle. So imagine my surprise when the guy who I thought was Jeff gets his front tire caught in a crack and bails face first down the ravine.