I'm with Stupid

by Elaine Szewczyk

Genres: Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A hilarious tale of girl meets boy, girl falls in lust, girl discovers boy is not playing with a full deck... When Kas meets William while on safari in South Africa he seems perfect-a gorgeous park ranger, both kind and brave (he saved the tour from certain death by water buffalo). Her two best friends, Max, an endlessly scheming personal trainer, and Libby, a jobless bombshell, would like to get their hands on William...but he's only interested in Kas, an editorial assistant at a struggling New York literary agency who thinks William is out of her league. The two have a fling, and Kas returns home to New York wondering if she'll hear from William again. So when he finally sends an email, she's delighted. Until she opens it. The email is not quite the love missive Kas expected. Did she misjudge William? A miscommunication ensues, triggering a rapid-fire series of comic developments that, within days, bring William to New York , now under the impression that Kas has offered him a place to live. As he unveils his big plan to take Manhattan by storm and make his fortune, Kas finally recognizes how limited William's intellectual capabilities are: He makes Kevin Federline look like Albert Einstein. Readers are along for the outrageous ride as Kas copes with her new roommate's eccentricities, including a preoccupation with the Psychic Friends Network and a passion for collecting Big Apple-themed souvenirs, and the realization that her dream man is a comic nightmare. "Elaine Szewczyk is smart and funny, and knows that New York bars and African safaris have something important in common: When it comes to dating, it's a jungle out there. If you savor Sophie Kinsella or Lauren Weisberger, you'll want to add her to your reading list."---Chris Bohjalian, author of MIDWIVES, THE DOUBLE BIND, and SKELETONS AT THE FEAST "Spirited, irreverent, bilious, and above all funny, Elaine Szewczyk's bitter cocktail provides a much-needed antidote for the chick-lit genre..."---Adam Langer, author of Ellington Boulevard , Crossing California, and The Washington Story

Release date: July 24, 2008

Publisher: 5 Spot

Print pages: 336

Sample

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my loving parents, Maria and Stanislaw, and my brother, Robert; my grandparents Aniela and Stanislaw Szewczyk and Anna and Jan Nieckula; my cousin Peter, who encouraged me when I needed him most (I can’t confirm it, but I think he puts laugh pills in my potatoes—there’s no other explanation for why I have so much fun when he’s in the room); my cousin Bob, who always thinks there’s time for Jack and Coke, and his family, Janka, Jacob, Thomas—and counting; my goddaughters Gabriella and Klaudia; and the rest of the family, including Andrzej, Maria, Jacek, Jasiek, Zbyszek, Zosia, Hania, and Krzysiek Szewczyk; Anna and Franek Szewczyk; Maria, Brigida, and Wiesiek Kraj; Helena, Jan, Ela, Grzesiek, and Piotrek Hodorowicz; Aniela, Józef, Dorothy, and Bernadette Luberda; Gienia, Józef, Daniel, Andrzej, and Ania Szewczyk; Gail, Wally, and Alex Szewczyk; Tadeusz, Maria, Robert, and Emily Nieckula; Józef, Czeslawa, Adam, Ewa, Sylwia, and Hania Nieckula; Wojciech, Teresa, Piotrek, and Pawel Nieckula; Ela and Staszek Dawiec; and dear family friends Teresa, Jan, and Tomek Piskorz. Thank you to my wonderful editor Caryn Karmatz Rudy and the 5 Spot staff, and to my agent, Jeff Kellogg. Finally, thank you to Renee Orvino and Danny Sciortino (our friendship inspired the energy of this book); Amarula Cream and the staff of Brown-Forman, especially Rick Bubenhofer; Maxime Cescau (known in at least one French village as “Le Sugar Shorts”) and his gracious parents, Patrick and Ursula; Colleen Corrigan; former baby model Ryan Darrah; Elizabeth Einstein; Matt Englund; Katie Hasty; Charlie Hrebic; Kirkus colleagues, past and present, Andy Bilbao, Karen Breen, Molly Brown, Tracey Davies, John Kilcullen, Eric Liebetrau, and Chuck Shelton; Ryan Kniewel; Jerome Kramer; Walter Lamacki; Patty Lamberti (for getting me to SA) and Dan Swan (for getting Patty); Adam Langer; John Lerner; Kristin LoVerde; Pete Nawara; Susie Nevin (this woman needs a talk show, seriously) and her partners in crime, Andy, Lily, and Marytherese; Chris Orvino (how dare you, sir?) and little Johnny, who has one hot mama; Elizabeth Passarella; Project Jenny Project Jan; Mark Sadegi; Nikki Tait; Ted Waitt (!); Eric Wetzel; Teresa Wisniewski; Josh Yaffa; and to Mordecai Corbin, who explained without words. I’m glad you made that long journey to Beirut.

Part One

The flight to South Africa is scheduled to depart in approximately two hours. I am at the airport, waiting at the end of a long check-in line, when I see him from across the terminal: a lone police officer, pushing four enormous designer suitcases stacked on a rickety metal luggage cart. The cart’s loose front wheels dart from side to side like the eyes of the village crazy. The cop is wearing a dark blue uniform and matching hat. There is a nightstick hanging from his belt and a shiny badge over his heart. His polished shoes are standard-issue black. When our eyes lock he removes the nightstick from its holster and begins rapidly swinging it in the air in a circular motion. A mother grabs the back of her young son’s red suspenders and pulls the boy toward her. “Get out of the way, Jimmy!” she screams and shields his head.

I squint at the police officer then glance at my friend Libby, who is sitting beside me. She is perched on her suitcase, wearing sunglasses, her head tilted back like she’s relaxing on a beach of fluorescent lighting. She turns over her piece of watermelon bubble gum, pops a pink bubble, then holds out the pack. “You want some, babe?” she asks in her lulling voice, the auditory equivalent of two NyQuil doses. “I bought a bunch of packs so our ears won’t hurt from the cabin pressure.” I tell her not yet and with my foot absently push her an inch closer to the counter. Just then someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn and flinch. It’s the cop. “How goes it?” he asks. “Ready for our safari?” I do a double take. It’s my friend Max. Um, he’s a personal trainer, not a cop. Libby pulls her sunglasses to midnose. “Why are you dressed like that?” she asks. He frowns at her: “I don’t know, Fonzie. Why are you wearing sunglasses in an airport? You need a job.” It’s true. Libby does need a job. She was laid off a few months ago and hasn’t made progress in finding a new one. I have unemployment check envy. But now’s not the time to discuss that.

Max twirls his nightstick like he’s a Keystone Kop then gently pokes me in the stomach with it. “The reason I’m dressed this way is because I just came from Richard’s apartment building,” he explains.

Revulsion slowly spreads across my face like a blot of black ink on paper. Richard Stein is the guy I dated for two months. He made a fool of me this past Valentine’s Day, which was just three days ago. I haven’t fully recovered.

“I knocked on all his neighbors’ doors,” Max coolly continues. “I told some of them that Richard is under investigation for organ trafficking, I told a few others that he is a convicted flasher and that, if he is seen around the building in a coat, neighbors should under no circumstances make eye contact, although it would not hurt to say ‘We know about you’ under their breath as he passes. My crowning moment occurred at apartment Nine-C, where I told a sweet granny that Richard is running a retirement home scam. She was taking notes.” He tips his hat. “He’s not going to be popular there. You’re welcome.”

I put out my hands. My mouth falls open. Wait, what? Max puts the nightstick under my chin and manually closes my mouth. “I must have forgotten to tell you,” he says. “Did I forget to tell you? Yeah, I’m getting revenge on Richard. I’m not going to physically injure him, just really, really annoy, confuse, and inconvenience him.” He begins stripping off his uniform, underneath which he is wearing civilian clothes better suited for a sixteen-hour plane ride. “The plan is to loosen the screws in his brain just enough so that pieces start falling out and it hurts to think straight.” He stuffs the uniform in a suitcase then removes two stacks of papers. He places one on each arm. Suddenly he looks like Moses via Charlton Heston holding up a pair of Ten Commandments tablets. “Okay, I have no time for you two right now,” he says. “I have to pass out these flyers. On my right I have five hundred with Richard’s name and phone number advertising cheap laptops for sale, fifty dollars or best offer, and on my left I have five hundred advertising Richard’s male escort service. Yes, he has one. He just doesn’t know it yet. And as long as you’re asking I should mention that this morning I put up flyers on street lamps all over town advertising an open house at Richard’s place and about fifty advertising sheepdogs and greyhounds for sale. I’d love to be there when people start calling him up.” He tilts his head and lets out a burp, thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Gesundheit,” Libby offers. I turn to her and ask if she knew about this. She crosses her legs and nods. “Kind of,” she admits. “But not about the police thing. The other day I walked in on him while he was on the phone making doctors’ appointments in Richard’s name for oozing blisters or something.”

Max corrects her: “It was bunions, not oozing blisters, although that’s not bad, Lib.” She blows a bubble. He points at her mouth. “You got gum?” he quickly asks.

She hands him the open pack she’d been holding. “You can have the rest,” she tells him. “I bought a bunch for the plane.”

He takes it and stuffs it in his pocket. “Thanks. I’ll need this when we get back from South Africa,” he says. “I can smear it on Richard’s doorknob.” He pauses. “Come to think of it, I’m also going to need Vaseline so I can grease the handlebars of Richard’s bicycle and some itching powder so I can send it to him inside a greeting card.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “What the fuck is going on here?” I ask. “Who are you all of a sudden, Red Buttons? Harpo Marx? You’re going to send Richard itching powder inside a card?”

Max eyes me disinterestedly. “Uh-huh, sure am.”

When I ask the obvious question—Shouldn’t I be the one exacting revenge? I’m the one who dated Richard—Max responds that I would never properly exact revenge because I’m by nature too nervous of a person (this is true), and that, furthermore, I lack the creative vision for what he has in mind, something I do not doubt. He gives me a serious look. “Richard is . . . ,” he starts to say.

Max is momentarily distracted by a cute guy dragging a compact navy suitcase. The guy stops in front of a monitor displaying departure times. He studies his ticket, then studies the monitor. Max addresses Libby. “Libbers,” he says, “I need your help.” She stands up. He pulls her closer. “Is that cool drink of water straight or is he—” He whistles instead of speaking the word. Libby fixes on the cute guy. She takes off her sunglasses. She puts her hands on her hips, raises a manicured eyebrow, and pushes out her chest. Max stares at her expectantly. For a gay man, he has a shocking lack of gaydar, whereas Libby’s gaydar may as well be approved by NASA. She never misses. “He’s one of mine,” she quickly concludes and sits back down.

Max sighs with disappointment. I again try to get his attention. “Richard is what?” I ask.

He looks over at the cute guy one last time. “Richard,” he says, “is not an upstanding guy. He’s a douche bag. He needs a valuable lesson, and I want to personally deliver it to him. He messed with your head, and now I’ll mess with his.” He tells us to watch his bags and walks off whistling with the flyers.

Well, Max is right about one thing: Richard is not an upstanding guy. It was shameful what I put myself through waiting on his call. Bear with me for a moment as I explain how it went down, and then it’s off to Africa.

So there I am, on Valentine’s Day, in quite a mood . . .

I am lying on my lumpy deathbed in my studio apartment staring up at the huge piece of poster board that I duct-taped to the ceiling, with the words DON’T CALL RICHARD (AGAIN), YOU BIG EMBARRASSMENT scrawled in black Magic Marker, when the phone rings. Music to my ears! I jump up to answer, praying that it’s Richard. I check the caller ID. It’s not Richard, it’s my mother. Fucking Richard, useless noisy phone making all that noise. I get back in bed.

“Hello, Kas?” my mother calls out from somewhere inside the answering machine. “Do you light mood candles in the apartment? It’s dangerous.” Kas. My name rhymes with ass. I’ve always resented that. I cover my face with a pillow. I’m twenty-eight years old. If I want to fire up a mood candle, whatever that is, I’ll fire up a mood candle. “I was watching the news. A woman left one of those scented mood candles unattended in her apartment and burned down the building. I’ll call later. I love you.”

I throw off the pillow. Valentine’s Day is today, and I have not heard from Richard in fifteen days. They always get you just as you’re letting down your guard. Fifteen days ago he’s telling me he’s never met anyone like me and the very next he’s gone. Poof. If he doesn’t call today then it’s official—I’ve been rejected. Thank God we didn’t sleep together because that would make this moment really painful. Okay, we slept together, you got me, but no one tell my mother because I’m still a virgin. Besides, it only happened once. Fine, three times, we slept together three times. But the third time was a misunderstanding, if only because I thought there’d be a fourth and fifth time. I’m glad we didn’t have three misunderstandings because that would have meant sleeping with him four times, which would have amounted to multiple mistakes, not to mention a lot of confusing math. I just don’t get how he could stop caring about me so fast. I should call him. I’m calling. I need an answer. No, I said I wouldn’t call. I promised myself I wouldn’t call. I put up notes all over my studio apartment telling myself not to call (again) ((I already called three times, once for each of the nights we had sex)) (((I figured that was reasonable))) ((((by the way, I don’t roll around like a sweaty pig with just anyone. I really liked this guy—he was smart, we had chemistry)))). Anyway, after calling repeatedly and not hearing back I put notes on the toilet, on the TV remote, in the freezer . . . everywhere, to remind myself not to do it again—after all, I have dignity. I even got one sign custom-laminated for the shower. Cost me twenty bucks. I drained an entire Magic Marker on that sign. I should have put a sign near the phone, that would have made sense. Now I’ll let him call me. That’s what I’ll do. He’ll come around. He has to! I’m an attractive girl: light brown hair, light brown eyes. It’s an interesting combo, even though it may not sound like much. I’m fairly slender, and I know how to dress for my body type—which is to say I know enough to wear pants to cover any cellulite. Not that I have . . . yes, I do, a little, more every day, to be fair. In any event, it’s not like I’m shedding skin in clumps while my nose hairs grow wildly like octopus tentacles. My gums don’t bleed; I have all my own fingernails—which I trim regularly, if that needs to be said. Other guys like me. They’re always guys I don’t want to like me but they’re guys . . . Maybe he fell for me so hard he can’t bring himself to call and tell me how hard for me he fell. He did mention that he loves kids. Maybe he wants to get married and have kids. I should call and tell him it’s okay, people fall in love all the time (I don’t, but people do). Unfortunately I’m not ready to get married but if we take it one decade at a time, maybe we can get married and have a child. I like kids. Well, that’s an exaggeration. Not all kids. Are Haley Joel Osment, Dakota Fanning, and Lil’ Bow Wow still kids? If they are then I hate kids. But I might eventually be talked into a kid if he takes care of it . . . Okay, gives birth to it. If that’s not too much to ask . . .

I light a cigarette just as my apartment door flies open. In walks Max holding a DON’T CALL RICHARD sign. Max, that red bouncing ball in the otherwise static world. He thinks fast, he talks fast, he moves fast. “That cigarette smells,” he informs me and fans his nose. “You might as well crap on yourself.” I ash my cigarette. He gestures in my direction with the DON’T CALL RICHARD sign. “Why was this thing taped to your front door?” I shrug and sheepishly explain that sometimes I need a reminder not to call Richard before entering the house. Dignity! It’s called dignity! I can’t call a fourth time! He tears it in half and looks around the kitchen. I cringe. I hope he doesn’t notice . . .

He points up at the light fixture. There’s a sign tied to it instructing me not to call Richard (ever again) ((because I’m the asshole who already called three times)). “What’s that up there for?” he asks with a frown. I give him a look. He slams the door and drops his gym bag on the floor. “Get up, fatty-back-fat,” he says. “We’re out of here in ten.” Max, whose ass is so firm it could double as a regulation Olympic gymnastics mat for the Bulgarian team, has many flattering nicknames for me: triple XL, chunky chuck, muffin man, hog-gone-wild. I’ve heard them all. He claims that because I don’t work out I should prepare myself for the verbal humiliation that will one day come with a soft midsection. I think he might be trying to motivate me and, you know what? It’s not working. I’m a tremendous fan of banana crème pies. And you know what else I’m a fan of? The crispy skin on fried chicken. I want to find a restaurant that sells just that and then I want to live under the counter.

He drags a chair into the center of the kitchen, stands on it, and unties the DON’T CALL RICHARD sign. He tosses it on the table. “You have nine minutes to get up and get dressed, chop, chop,” he orders. When I hesitate he impatiently runs a hand through closely cropped brown hair (Max has had the same military haircut since college; it suits him, and he knows it), then walks over to the bed. He widens his green eyes, which are framed by his best feature, long curly lashes (I think he has twice as many as anyone else), and leans in until our noses bump: “It’s Valentine’s Day. I have tickets to a concert. You’re not staying in, we’re going, it’s not an option.” It’s never an option with Max. The man wears confidence like a tuxedo. The fact that he’s short, that his nose is a bit too pointy (don’t tell him I said that), that he has a crooked smile, doesn’t prevent him from hooking better-looking men than anyone I know. Because with Max, you’ll never be sure where the day will take you, and everyone wants to be around that kind of promise.

When I don’t move he pulls something out of his back pocket and sticks it in my face. I lean back. What the hell? It’s the brochure for South Africa he’s been flashing at me at every opportunity, on the front of which is a lion frolicking in tall grass. “Are you packed yet?” he asks. I take the brochure and open it. Three park rangers wave at me from a safari truck; one of them is exceptionally good looking. I gaze at the ranger for a moment then hand back the brochure. I’ve never been on a South African vacation, much less one I didn’t have to pay for. Max got the trip—three days on safari inside Kruger National Park, three more sightseeing in Cape Town—for free from his father. Max’s father originally planned to take the trip with business partners. When scheduling conflicts intervened, he simply gave Max the tickets, the way I might pass someone a Kleenex. I guess rich people can do that.

As I reluctantly get up, Max plops down on the couch, which emits a long groan, followed by a longer yawn. “Babe, get off me,” says Libby. “You’re sitting on me.” Ah, Libby. She’s Max’s cousin on his mother’s side. They are both only children and bicker like siblings. Max introduced us during our sophomore year of college, and she’s just been around ever since.

Libby has been on that couch all day, lying facedown on the cushions, arms and legs splayed like a skydiver whose chute never opened. She came by this morning to offer moral support in the form of baked goods and never left, which is just as well. Libby lives directly across the hall. “Babe, get off,” she again pleads. Max doesn’t budge. She begins struggling under him, contorting her body this way and that as if she were being electrocuted. He looks over his shoulder: “Oh, you again,” he says, pretending to be surprised. “I thought you died last November in a tragic car accident.”

“You saw me last night,” Libby reminds him. Her mouth is pressed against the cushions. The words are slightly muffled. Max starts bouncing up and down on her like he’s test-driving a mattress. “I thought that was your ghost,” he informs her as she groans.

When he finally gets off she lifts her head and peers around the arm of the couch at me. Libby always looks good, even just after waking. She has pale, flawless skin, red rosy cheeks, long black curly hair wound like coils, and green eyes (like Max’s but a little brighter). She’s petite but curvy and has huge boobs. Huge. She likes to dress up in skirts and heels and won’t leave the house without makeup. She’s a girly girl, and the boys like her. In fact, guys often completely lose it around her. Last week, for example, she went on a date—bowling—and her date rolled the bowling balls for her so she wouldn’t strain herself. Pretty funny, I think, particularly considering that she won the game.

“I had the weirdest dream just now.” She pauses, then puts her head back down. “I dreamed that I swallowed a bar of soap and started flying around.” A yawn. “What day is it today, Thursday or Friday? I forget.”

Max grabs her by the wrists and pulls her off the couch. She begins to sway back and forth on three-inch red heels. “Get to your apartment and change,” he commands her. “Eight minutes and counting. We’re all getting laid tonight.” At the sound of this Libby’s eyelids begin to flutter like those of a patient emerging from a coma. Laid? Max gives her a nod as she shuffles toward the door: “By the way, it’s not Thursday or Friday, it’s Saturday.” Libby crosses the threshold and turns around. “What is, babe?” she dreamily asks. “Never mind,” he responds and slams the door. He walks back into the living room and heads toward the closet. “You know what?” he says to me, reaching for the closet door handle, “last time I was here I think I left my Puma sweatshirt. Did you happen to—” As soon as he opens the closet door ten DON’T CALL RICHARD signs fall from the top shelf onto him—ones I didn’t put up because I ran out of space. He looks down at the floor then back up at me. He puts his finger to his lips like he’s thinking hard about something and furrows his brow. “Um”—he points at my face—“get a life.”

We arrive at the club’s entrance an hour later. Libby, who always takes a long time to get dolled up, had to try on a dozen pairs of heels and a dozen outfits to go with them, not to mention give herself a facial and tie up her locks with a flowing pink ribbon. I take a pull off my cigarette and tell them I’ll meet them inside after I finish smoking. (I would never discard an unfinished cigarette. Unheard of!) They nod. Max opens the glass door. Libby turns to him. “So you really think I should lie on my résumé?” she asks in wonderment. “Of course!” he cheerily responds as the door closes behind them. I move several feet from the entrance, lean against the graffiti-covered brick wall, next to a pay phone, and take a long drag. While watching the crowds walk by I recall the pep talk Max gave me on the way over: It’s stupid to get hung up; there are plenty of men in this city; it’s not rejection if I don’t look at it as rejection. Max is happy to remind anyone who will listen that it’s a do-it-yourself world: No one thinks highly of a person who doesn’t think highly of himself. Be confident and fabulous no matter what. And he’s right, which is why I’m going to stop looking at my feet when I walk; I’m going to raise my head and make eye contact the way Max has always told me to do; I’m going to be more open-minded; I’m going to smile at every man that passes—oh God, not that one. Sorry, sir. Ouch, he was ugly, looked like some kind of serial killer with that greased-back black hair and pockmarked face. I hope he didn’t think I was flirting with him. Anyway, whatever! Maybe it’s better that I not be too open-minded. Still, life is okay. I have supportive friends, I have a dangerous yet satisfying smoking habit, I have sultry, smoky eyes—that’s what I was told by Richard. And just because he doesn’t want to see them anymore doesn’t make them less smoky and sultry. Hell, my eyes are so smoky and sultry there’s practically a blazing fire between my ears. And there are definitely cute guys to spy with my sultry—

Are my sultry eyes fucking with me right now?

What do I see? I’ll tell you what I see. I see Richard, walking past me, lovingly holding some ugly girl’s hand. I don’t blink. What-the-fuck? He hasn’t called in fifteen days. I can’t believe him. And why did someone hit his date with the ugly stick? Geez, on closer inspection it looks like she got crushed by the whole forest. I’m better looking than her! This is too much—and she’s too much. Look at that makeup job! And that short messy hair! And there he is. Richard, fucking Richard, wearing a gray coat and gray wool cap, looking all matchy matchy. It takes me a moment to recover. That no-good son of a . . . Hey! He never tried to hold my hand when we walked the streets.

Richard and Ms. Ghoul America walk past. They don’t see me. When they get to the door of the club they begin giggling like idiots about something. What’s so fucking funny? You want funny? I’ll give you funny. I’ll give you a laugh attack, just give me a second to toss this cigarette. I sneak up behind Richard as the ghoul opens the door. Richard, fucking Richard. I tap him on the shoulder. He turns and immediately goes pale. I give him my most convincing smile even though my entire body is starting to shake.

“Oh, hi,” he says tentatively as the ghoul turns to see what’s happening behind her. Richard looks back at her and then pushes, and I’m not exaggerating here, pushes her into the club, closes the door behind her, and just stands there, looking at me, while the ghoul stands inside the club, industrial-strength glass separating her from the philanderer of my dreams. “What are you doing here?” he casually asks.

“I’m going in,” I say, still smiling stiffly. “My friends are inside.”

“You’re going to this concert?” he asks. I answer with a nod: this very one. “Who are you going to see?” he asks, as if he might catch me not knowing who is playing, as if I might realize my mistake, turn around, and leave. I look at him: “I’m going to this concert. Same as you.”

“Weird,” he says.

“It’s not that weird,” I point out.

I follow Richard into the club. He has no choice but to let me. The three of us, one big, loving family, are together at last. I don’t give the girl a second look. I get my ID checked, hand over my ticket with trembling fingers, and move past them.

The club is divided into two sections: the bar on the first floor, the music venue on the second. I march upstairs to look for Libby and Max. I don’t see them. There are people milling about, all conspiring to block my view. There’s a stage loaded with instruments and musicians scrambling to tune them. I need a drink. Badly. I walk back downstairs to the bar. I stand at the very end, near the staircase. “A double whiskey on the rocks,” I hear myself say. I’ve never ordered a double whiskey on the rocks, but there’s a first time for everything. And I’m only hoping that rocks mean ice.

The bartender pours and hands me my drink. I down the thing. “I’ll have another,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Keep those rocks this time. They’re getting in my way.”

“Should I bring the bottle?” he says with a hearty laugh. I think he means to be friendly, but now’s not the time.

“Don’t smirk, just serve,” I warn him.

“Coming up,” he says with a nod. He pours again and cautiously slides the drink toward me like a zookeeper unloading raw meat at feeding time. I take a sip of my second drink. Feels good. I entertain the idea of going back upstairs. But Max and Libby can wait. Richard can’t. Something has come over me. “Hey, don’t look so down,” the bartender says. “Let me tell you a joke. Why did the lettuce blush?” I look at the other end of the bar and spot Richard. I don’t care about lettuce.

I make my way past the long line of occupied stools. Everyone has their backs to me. I need a cigarette. Richard is sitting at the front of the bar, near the door, nervously cradling a drink. The ghoul has vanished. I bet she does that on occasion so she can rob graves. I take the opportunity to reintroduce myself. Remember me, fathead? Because I remember you. Come here often?

“Wow, this is really weird,” he says. When I remind him that he already said that he apologizes for not calling me. I don’t take my eyes off him when I lie that it’s quite all right and that it’s clear to me now why he didn’t. Richard is silent.

“So where is she?” I ask, looking around for the sheriff of ghoul township.

“Oh, she’s just a woman I recently met,” he dismissively says.

I push hot air through my nostrils. This is getting old. If my competition were attractive I might be more interested. I clarify: “I didn’t ask you who she is, I don’t care who she is. I have some idea who she is. I was asking where she is. I don’t want to make a scene. Wouldn’t want to spoil your night.” (Like you spoiled mine.)

Richard informs me that she’s in the bathroom. “The bathroom,” I repeat. I picture the ghoul desperately trying to make herself more attractive. She’d need a team of technicians slaving day and night with chisels and paint thinner but whatever. Not my problem. It’s not like I’m sleeping with her. “So Richard”—I put my hand on the bar—“I wish you had told me you were dating someone new.” Richard stares at me as if I were a wall. I continue: “I mean not that it matters anymore, because obviously it doesn’t, but you fed me some serious lines, Richard. You told me you’ve never met anyone like me. And I—fuck, man, I’m a little embarrassed now—I think I believed you.”

“It’s complicated,” he says, “and this is not the best time to discuss it.” Oh, really? It isn’t? This comment strikes me as especially annoying. Who is he to dictate when the best time is? “I don’t know ab. . .