Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Page 8

  When he asked me to go to his friend’s Halloween party, I agreed partly because I felt bad that I didn’t go to his show the week before and partly because I was open to the idea of riding the night with him. Guys who have tattoos of T. rexes eating pizza are usually a fun time, I reasoned. This would also be a chance to redeem myself for the Halloween ghoul fuckup. I resolved to put more effort into my costume this year and was pleased at the chance to do so.

  We talked briefly about our costume situation beforehand. He said that he was going to go as the Fonz. I decided to go as a mallpunk, replete with a black Good Charlotte T-shirt, streaked mascara running down my cheeks, and ripped fishnet stockings. I even made a zine to pass out called The Hot Topic that had pictures of all of my favorite bands and handwritten lists of things that I loved and things that I hated.

  For example, things I loved were Slurpees from 7-Eleven, record stores, and Converse sneakers. Things I hated were my teachers, my parents, and MTV. The centerfold was a crudely photocopied ad for the Vans Warped Tour. I even brought along a few issues of Alternative Press to cart around as additional props. Personally, I thought I nailed the costume. As a chronic non-costumer, I was proud of myself. I didn’t even need to buy anything except the Good Charlotte shirt, so my costume was economical, too. Score!

  The next chilly Saturday night, Max picked me up in his beige Honda. He was dressed in a brown flannel shirt, a puffy brown vest, and old, faded jeans. No slicked-back hair, no leather jacket; if he was the Fonz, it was the worst version of the Fonz I’d ever seen.

  “A-o! O-a! Where’s the Fonz?” I said in a loose approximation of an Italian accent.

  “First, that’s Tony Danza in Who’s the Boss who talks like that, not the Fonz. The Fonz just says, ‘Aaaaaay’ whilst giving a thumbs-up. Secondly, there’s been a change of plans: I’m going as Dan Connor.”

  I frowned. “The little kid in The Terminator? Dude, he wore a Public Enemy shirt.” I motioned toward his outfit. “You’re way off.”

  “No, Dan Connor aka Roseanne’s husband on the show Roseanne aka America’s favorite middle-class suburban dad of the nineties. You know, John Goodman’s character. Now you see it, right?” He smiled, nodding. I squinted, sizing him up.

  “But you’re not even fat.”

  “I have curly hair. Can’t deny that.”

  “Yeah, I don’t see it. From where I’m sitting, you just look like a cool guy who works at a coffee shop. I could maybe give you Seth Rogen circa Freaks and Geeks. Maybe.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m not talking about drywall while pounding back cans of cheap beer. You’ll see when we get there. My costume will be a hit.”

  “All right, whatever you say.”

  “What’s your costume again?” he asked.

  “A mallpunk! Check out this Good Charlotte shirt. I even made a zine. See?” I tossed an issue of The Hot Topic at him. He looked at the cover briefly and then tossed it in the backseat like it was a flyer for fifty percent off a Brazilian bikini wax: something that he immediately sensed he’d have no use for.

  “A mallpunk, huh? You look like a Goth kid.”

  “I’m not Gothy. I’m punky,” I clarified.

  “Whatever. Let’s do this. You ready to go?”

  “I’m totally ready.”

  “Sweet.”

  As we pulled out onto the street, I looked around his chariot and noticed that he had this long chain dangling from his rearview mirror. It looked like a beaded lanyard that an old woman would use to hang her reading glasses from, and it was hard to ignore it because it kept banging against the dashboard at every turn he made.

  I’m sorry, did he mug Zoltar and is showcasing this chain as a trophy? Did he swipe it from Janet Jackson’s face in the “Runaway” video? If he had to drape something over his rearview mirror, I could maybe understand an air freshener. I’d even understand if he hung a pair of fuzzy dice in a retro way. I could kinda see it if he were an old-school rockabilly guy with a bitchin’ vintage car. But his beige Honda was about as edgy as Play-Doh. Seriously, but there was no need for car jewelry here. It was like his mirror had a belly chain or like his car got its eyebrow pierced in 1997 and still wears the thing because it thinks it’s cool. His car was basically Fergie from Black Eyed Peas.

  “So, what kind of girls do you normally date?” I asked. I had decided that I wasn’t attracted to him, so I was just making conversation.

  He smiled and leaned toward me, like he was about to tell me a secret. “I gotta be honest with you: I like crazy girls.” He stopped to gauge my reaction. I didn’t have one. I blinked. Was this guy for real? He kept going.

  “You know, the ones that are a bit unstable, like they might threaten to stab you with a pair of rusty scissors when you don’t answer their texts or some shit.” That description was a little too specific, which made me think that he had actually dated a girl who did that. And he was into it!

  “What can I say? It keeps things interesting, ya know?” He grinned and shrugged his shoulders like the whole thing was out of his control.

  News flash: I am not the kind of girl to do that. At all. Ever. Frankly, I’m more of a Girl, Continued than a Girl, Interrupted. I didn’t say anything after that. I just sat in the car and looked at the South Philly scenery, which mostly consisted of cracked sidewalks and trash blowing around the street like tumbleweeds. Yeah, I was definitely not interested in him anymore.

  We parked outside a dark brick building with a few people standing outside smoking cigarettes. “Oh. Are we here?”

  “Nope. Beer run. Wanna come in?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed him into the Pope, a dive bar on the corner of Tenth Street and Passyunk Avenue. Led Zeppelin was blasting over the jukebox as everyone sat at the bar, sipping their pints.

  “Hey!” The bartender nodded at us.

  “Hey! Can I get a six-pack of Kenzingers to go?” Max asked.

  “Yup. That’ll be thirteen dollars.”

  Max reached into his pocket and produced a wad of crumpled dollar bills to pay for it. His money looked like little dented Ping-Pong balls. What, was he against folding? Those are some crinkled money balls, my man.

  We secured the beer in a brown paper bag, hopped back into his car, and drove the ten blocks to the party. It was tricky finding street parking, and we ended up having to park two blocks away. As we briskly walked on the chilly South Philly streets, I asked, “Whose party is this again?”

  “Daisy and Chuck’s.”

  “Oh, okay. I have no idea who they are.”

  “Hurry up! The light’s turning yellow. Come on!” He started to run into the street.

  I teetered on the edge of the curb, assessing my chances of making it before the light turned red.

  “We can totally make it. Hurry up!” he yelled, clutching the six-pack of beer to his chest.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” I jogged to catch up with him. I have no idea why I did that. When did this evening turn into the obstacle course on Double Dare? Do I have to find a flag up a huge nostril next? Maybe catch a rubber chicken in a basket affixed to my head? When I agreed to go out with him tonight, I didn’t expect to find myself in my own, personal live version of Frogger. The chunky boots I wore as part of my costume were definitely not made for sprinting. I kept screaming, trying to catch up to him.

  As I was running through the street, I thought about why I didn’t just wait on the curb and let him risk his life darting into traffic. It’s what I should’ve done. Someone honked at me, which made me scream louder. I was going to kill Max if I ever made it across the street alive.

  Well, you will be pleased to know that we both made it across the street alive and I didn’t kill him. Instead of murdering Max, we found the party and walked right in. Right off the bat, everyone there had the best costumes I’d ever seen in my life. Someone was dressed like Iron Man. A girl was dressed like Jackie O and another was dressed like Cher, licking her lips and flinging her long black hair off her
shoulders. Abraham Lincoln and Indiana Jones were fiddling with the stereo while Bill Cosby and Bruce Lee sat on the couch catching up.

  Daisy, dressed as a mermaid, walked over to greet us.

  “Max!” She embraced him. “Thanks so much for coming. And who are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m Dan Connor, you know, from Roseanne.”

  “Ha! I love it!” she exclaimed. “Oh, that’s hilarious. Dan Connor. I can’t say we have any other Dan Connors here tonight.” She leaned in toward us and whispered, “We already have three Batmans; can you believe it? Wait, Batmen. I don’t know which one is the proper word. I’ll go with Batmen. We have a gaggle of Batmen.” She turned her attention to me. “And you are?”

  “Hi! My name is Anna and I’m a mallpunk,” I blurted out. “I even made my own zine. See?” I held up the dozen copies of The Hot Topic and shoved one at her. She took it, looked at me like I had just given her a pamphlet about detecting the early stages of syphilis, and quickly flipped it under her arm.

  “Well, I’m happy you two are here. Come on in. The kitchen is straight back. Chuck made some spooky punch, so feel free to help yourselves. Oh, Max, you brought beer! Fantastic. I’ll take that.” As she scooped up the beer, Max went over to talk to a buddy and I retreated to the kitchen.

  The spooky punch was exactly what I’d imagined: a mixture of various cheap liquors and some kind of orange drink swirled together in a giant crystal punch bowl. A huge block of sherbet sat in the middle, slowly melting. Let me tell you, that spooky punch was strong as hell. It was so strong, I winced a bit as I took a sip.

  It was then that I laid my eyes on the hottest man I’d ever seen (that day), sitting next to a dish filled with candy corn. He was dressed as FDR with a blue suit, a red tie, silver wire-framed glasses, and—the kicker—he was seated in a wheelchair with a red plaid blanket draped over his legs like he was ready for an impromptu fireside chat. His wispy blond hair was combed down like Bart Simpson on class picture day and I have to say, he looked exceedingly presidential situated in the middle of a crowded kitchen in a South Philly house party. I forgot all about Max; I was too focused on this mystery man. I was captivated.

  Here’s the thing: I couldn’t tell if the wheelchair was part of the costume or if he really used a wheelchair. I wasn’t even sure how I’d go about finding out. How do you find out something like that? The blanket was covering his legs, so I couldn’t see if his legs were in braces or not. Do I ask him if he can’t walk? How would I ask? What’s the standard here? Should I knock the wheelchair over and see if he crawls back in or stands up? I wasn’t prepared for this.

  For the sake of argument, I assumed that he really was a wheelchair user. I’d never dated a dude in a wheelchair before. I considered what it would be like. Frankly, it seemed kinda cool. I’d happily wheel his adorable face around town. I’d give him sponge baths and tie his sneakers. I’d load him into my car and let him sit in the aisle when we went out to the movies. Sign me the fuck up.

  I sipped my punch as I watched him roll around the kitchen, assessing my chances. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, so that was a good sign. Maybe he was available. God, I hoped he was available. I needed a good, original pickup line if I was going to say hi. I practiced a few in my head:

  “Hi! Man, you are, like, the spitting image of FDR.” That was too clunky.

  “Hey! You roll here often?” Ouch. That was probably offensive.

  “I like your blanket. Is that a wool blend?” Oh God, that was even worse. What am I, Martha Stewart? (Now that I think about it, that would’ve been a good costume.)

  “Hi! My name is Anna.” Ding ding ding, we have a winner. It was the least psycho-sounding line of the bunch and I couldn’t think of anything else. It was the winner by default.

  With my pickup line settled on, I marched right up to him and plunged my hand in the candy dish behind him because I chickened out at the last minute. I’m usually not shy about meeting guys, but this was a little trickier for some reason. I got flustered! I never really get nervous around guys and here I was sweating bullets.

  Since I didn’t have the nerve to say anything just yet, I hovered behind him, stuffing candy corn in my pockets like a creepy uncle. That was when I realized that his handsome face came up to my thigh. It was hard enough talking to short guys who are at boob level, but thigh level? I needed a manual for how to proceed. Could it be done? Could I have a relationship with a guy whose sight line came to a few inches below my crotch? This was uncharted territory for me.

  I gulped down my spooky punch and headed back to the punch bowl on the counter for a refill. Max appeared beside me.

  “You having fun?”

  “Oh yeah. Totally. This is a great party. You?”

  “Fuck yes. Check this out.” He popped open a beer can and chugged the entire thing in five loud gulps.

  “Wow. That’s impressive,” I deadpanned.

  “Dude, WWDCD!”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “What Would Dan Connor Do is what that means,” Max asserted.

  “Oh, I see. So I assume Dan Connor would chug a beer. And talk about drywall construction. Don’t forget that part.”

  “I’m gonna grab another beer. Need anything?”

  “Nah, I’m good. I’m sticking with the spooky punch.”

  Max dug his head in the fridge looking for a new brew while I resumed staring at FDR. After Max found another can, he raised it toward me, nodded, and walked into the living room. I was ready to make my move on our former president.

  I knelt down beside him to introduce myself. We were at eye level now and he seemed startled because I basically appeared out of nowhere.

  “You know, I can honestly say that you have the best costume here tonight.” He stared at me blankly. I puttered on, “My name is Anna. I don’t believe we’ve met. What’s your name?” Before he could answer my question, a problem immediately presented itself: I didn’t stretch before I decided to squat down beside him. As it turned out, my legs were not interested in bending down like that. My knees seized up and started to hurt immediately. I ignored the pain as I listened for his response.

  But before he told me what his name was, I had a thought: I hope it’s something Roosevelt-y, preferably Franklin or Teddy. That would be a best-case scenario here. I tried not to hide my disappointment when he said his name was Bobby.

  Hmmmm. Wait, there’s a Bobby Kennedy! That’s political. I could work with that.

  “Hi, Bobby. Nice to meet you. I really like your costume.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Yeah, you just said that.”

  I cleared my throat. “Do you like mine?” I leaned back a bit so he could take it all in.

  “What are you, a Goth, uh, person?”

  “No, silly. I’m a mallpunk! See? That’s why I’m carrying these around.” I hoisted up my magazines. “It’s Alternative Press, the leading magazine for mallpunkers. You know, it goes with the costume.” I pointed to my chest. “And I’m wearing this Good Charlotte shirt. That’s part of the costume, too.”

  He shrugged. Apparently, he was unfamiliar with every single thing I was both talking about and wearing.

  “Didn’t you come here with Max?”

  “Oh! You know him?”

  “Yeah, I’ve met him once before. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Max and I are just friends. Ha! We’re not together or anything. Oh, nothing like that.” I tried my best to explain to him that despite the male companion I arrived with, I was in fact available. Very available. Apparently, I don’t know how to do this without sounding like I’m clinically insane. I barfed out an entire paragraph in an attempt to clarify the situation.

  “Max? He’s my homeboy. I mean my homie. My friend. That’s what I meant to say. He’s just a friend. A buddy. Seriously, there’s nothing going on between us. He’s definitely no one I’d consider sleeping with. And I haven’t! Oh, God no. Really, there’s nothing here. He’s actually repulsive to me. There�
��s no way I’d date him. Also, he has this weird habit of smelling like soup all the time. Like a pungent, hearty lentil soup, which is just yuck! So, you know. Yeah. No.”

  I didn’t have anything to say to him after that. And it got awkward pretty quickly squatting on the kitchen floor in the middle of a raging house party trying to make lighthearted small talk while balancing my red Solo cup on the arm of his wheelchair.

  Besides, the shooting pains in my legs were too intense to ignore. I tried my best not to show my stinging discomfort. “Well, it was nice talking with you, Bobby.” I leaned on his chair as I pulled myself up, like a creaky old man with arthritis hoisting himself off a La-Z-Boy recliner. I even made the kind of noise old people make when they get up off a low couch, a deep “ugh” kind of noise. I don’t think he found it hot.

  Not knowing what else to do, I searched the party for Daisy to do a little background research.

  I found her upstairs by the bathroom.

  “Oh, Daisy! Just the girl I’m looking for. I have a question.”

  “Yeah?”

  I took her elbow and whispered, “It’s private.”

  She looked panicked. “All right.”

  “FDR. Downstairs. What’s his deal?” She seemed relieved that it was only an inquiry about another guest, not a confession that I’d killed someone and hidden the body in her backyard.

  I caught sight of Max on the stairwell. He cracked open a beer can and again nodded while he raised it in my direction. He mouthed the word drywall, then slammed the beer, letting out a loud belch that probably registered on the low end of the Richter scale.

  “Oh, the guy in the suit? That’s Bobby. He’s so cool, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s great. Is he available? I mean, is he single?” I tried not to sound too eager, but it was totally obvious that I was eager.

  “Unfortunately, no. In fact, he’s engaged to Kirsten, the girl in the corner dressed like a princess over there. They’re moving to Boston next month.”