Ball Peen Hammer (12 page)

“Aw. Poor little Keaney.”

“True story.”

“How’d you get over your shyness?”

“Baseball at first. Being on a team. Being good at something. And then I met my beloved Wifey and he was the last piece of the puzzle. Zander unleashed my inner Peen and I just never stuffed that fucker back in again.” Keane motions to my phone. “So you got what you need, baby doll?”

“Uh, yeah, I think I’m good, honey biscuit,” I say. I take a quick peek at the footage we just shot and my heart skips a beat. “Keane, oh my God. You’re crazy-photogenic. You absolutely light up the screen.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you ever done any acting or modeling?”

“Nah.”

“You should.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. You’re a natural.”

“Hmm. Thanks. I’ll take that under consideration.”

“I bet if we loaded this video onto YouTube and seeded it the right way, it’d go viral. Hey, you could be a YouTuber. Some of those guys make a lot of money.”

“Yeah, but then I’d have to post shit all the time. No thanks. I can’t even answer all my texts. How would I remember to post shit on the daily?”

“Can I upload this video, just to see if I’m right? I can always take it down if you want.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Can I go large?”

“I don’t even know what the hell that would mean, but, sure, do whatever.”

“Cool. I’m gonna style you.” I quickly create Twitter and YouTube accounts for “Ball Peen Hammer” and upload the video. “How about an Instagram account?” I ask. “Do you have one for Ball Peen Hammer?”

Keane shrugs. “Not for Ball Peen Hammer, just for me, but I never check it.”

“Say cheese,” I say, holding up my camera. “Show me those dimples, honey nuggets.” I snap a drop-dead gorgeous photo of Keane and upload it to his brand new Instagram account, and then I post links for all Keane’s new accounts to some sites for lovers of “hot guys” and “cute boys” and “male strippers” and “man candy.” “I’ll upload a six-second edit of the video to Vine later,” I say. “You’re a natural for Vine. You’re a walking GIF.”

“Why are you doing all that?” Keane asks.

“It’s fun,” I say, shrugging. “This is my version of a video game. I just wanna see how many points I can rack up. When I decided to start doing wedding videos to earn money for school, I made a website and social media accounts for Wedding Videos by Maddy, threw some videos up there, seeded those suckers to social media sites for newly engaged couples, and within a matter of weeks I had every weekend of the summer booked with weddings. I’m a savage beast with social media marketing, believe me—this is totally my
thing
.”

“I thought documentaries were totally your
thing
.”

“This is my other
thing
. You can’t really have one without the other these days. No sense making videos or films no one sees, right? You gotta be able to make ’em
and
market ’em.”

Keane shrugs and takes a big bite of his food. “Whatever floats your boat, Madagascar. Go forth and conquer.”

I squeal. “Awesome. God, I love doing this stuff.” I put my phone down on the table. “So, back to your pickles. You said they fall at your feet like raindrops, but
not
because you’re normal and charming?”

“Correct.”

“So what is it that lures them? Do you simply flash your blue hair and killer dimples and the pickles leap out of their jars and hurl themselves at you like little pickle-missiles?”

Keane leans forward, grinning. “You think I’ve got ‘killer’ dimples?”

I can’t stop myself from returning his huge smile. “I think you’ve got
dimples
. I can see them, plain as day.” I point. “One. Two.”

“Yeah, but you called them ‘
killer
.’” He flashes them at me again.

“I was speaking
sardonically
. I think
you
think your dimples are killer.”

“Liar. You think they’re killer and you know it.” He flashes them at me again. “Great word, by the way.
Sardonically
. Please define.”

“Done in a mocking, cynical, or sarcastic manner.”

Keane purses his lips, considering something for a beat. “The handsome lad called the cute girl with the fancy vocabulary a liar, and he absolutely did
not
mean it
sardonically
.”

I laugh.

“Come on, pickle,” Keane says. “Admit my dimples make you wanna hurl yourself outta your jar and jump my bones.”

I snort. “Not even a little bit.”

“A
lot
bit, then.”

“Nope.”

“Liar.”

“Not lying. Neither you nor your dimples have any effect on this particular pickle. But, don’t worry,
Ball Peen Hammer
, I don’t happen to be one of the pickles in your target demographic. I’ve never even seen
Magic Mike
.”

“
What
?”

“Actually, I’ve never witnessed a male stripper in any form.”

“Not even in Vegas?”

“I’ve never been to Vegas.”

“
What
? Good lord. Are you a monster?”

“I know. It’s my cross to bear, unfortunately.”

“Come on. You’ve at least seen a stripper at a bachelorette party.”

“Dude. I’m twenty-one. I’ve never been to a bachelorette party. My best friends are still in college.”

“What the
hell
? First Abba Zaba and
Rainman
and now
Magic Mike
and Las Vegas? Poor sheltered, cloistered, innocent little Maddy Milliken. The list of ways your cherry needs popping is longer than my...
arm
.” He snickers and leans forward like he’s telling a secret. “I normally woulda said a different part of my anatomy right then, but I’m keeping things super Disney for you ’cause you’re my sweet and innocent little sister.”

“Gosh, thanks a bunch. Phew.”

“You’ve seriously
never
seen a male stripper in action?”

“I guess they’re just not my thing.”

“How do you know if you’ve never seen one in action?”

“If strippers were my thing, I’m sure I’d have managed to see one by now.”

Keane twists his mouth, considering that bit of logic.

“But, hey, like I say, I’m not your target demographic, so your core belief that every woman wants you is still soundly intact.”

Keane exhales and shakes his head. “This is such bullshit.”

“What’s such bullshit?”

“You
think
you’re not my target demo, but you so are. You’re a woman and you’re single, so—wait, you’re single, right?”

“Yeah, I’m very, very single.” I snort. “Lately, I might as well be a nun.”

Keane holds up his index finger. “Ah, now that’s an interesting item for our ‘
juxtaposition
of the genders’ file. A guy says he’s ‘very, very single,’ he means he’s playing the field, handsome and happy all the livelong day. A chick says it and she means she’s not gettin’ any. That’s a kinda interesting
juxtaposition
, don’t you think?”

I make a face that says, “You’ve made an interesting point.”

“So is your nunnish-ness a religious thing, like a ‘saving-yourself-for-marriage’ thing—or more of a ‘celibacy-because-I-can’t-get-laid’ thing?”

“Why are you so interested in my sex life?”

“I’m interested in everyone’s sex life. I love sex. Doing it, talking about it, thinking about it, researching it, hunting for it. And did I mention ‘doing it’?”

“
Hunting
for it?” I make a face of disgust.

Keane ignores my obvious distaste. “Hell yeah. My favorite things about sex are, in this order: doing it, hunting for it, and talking about it—and I
especially
love talking about it with someone like you.”

I feel myself blush. “What’s someone like me?”

“A celibate girl who blushes every time I say anything even remotely sexual.”

My cheeks burn even hotter.

Keane points at my face. “Just like that.”

“I’m not actually
celibate
,” I say, my cheeks on fire. “I’m just in a bit of a dry spell lately. It’s not a master plan, trust me.”

“Ah. The ol’ ‘married to Jesus by default’ thing.”

“Something like that.”

“You religious?”

“No.”

“Me, neither. But I do believe in something bigger than myself.”

“Same.”

“Okay, well, then, cool. You’re not actually
married
to Christ; you’re just going steady with him. Plus, it
appears
you’ve got at least two out of three girl-parts, so that means you’re one hundred percent my target demo, whether you like it or not, which therefore means you’re most definitely swooning over my killer dimples right this very second and wanting to jump my bones like a lion on an alpaca.” He flashes his dimples. “Or, I suppose, like a pickle hurling herself outta jar.”

“I’m not swooning over your dimples and I don’t want to jump your bones.”

“Impossible. When it comes to women wanting me, women are my puppets and I’m their puppet master. It’s as simple as that.”

“Keane, I’m sorry if this disrupts your precarious grasp on reality, but—wait. Two out of three girl parts?”

He points at my chest. “One. Two. I can
sorta
see the general shape of your merchandise, but I gotta tell ya that blouse ain’t doing you any favors, sweetheart.”

I make a face reflecting my disdain.

“So, anyway, you were saying?” Keane says. “You’re dying to jump my bones like a horny puppet and...?”

“Uh,
no
. I was saying I’m not the least bit attracted to you in a sexual way, especially now that I know you’re a total and complete pig who ‘
hunts’
women and calls them ‘puppets’ and scopes out ‘merchandise.’” I grimace. “And I was also saying you shouldn’t get an inferiority complex over my lack of sexual interest in you because I’m most definitely not your target audience.”

“Okay, first off, I’m not a pig. I’ll have you know I have a deep and abiding respect for women—just ask my mom and sister and any girlfriend I’ve ever had—all of whom still love me, bee tee dubs, ’cause I’ve never cheated or had a messy or mean-spirited breakup in my entire life. I might be flakey and selfish, and sometimes I’m a dick, but I’m not a pig. And, yeah, I love sex. That doesn’t make me a pig. It makes me a twenty-three-year-old dude with a dick and balls. So what if I like making a scavenger hunt outta getting laid sometimes? When you have women throwing themselves at you right and left, you gotta find ways to keep things interesting. Sometimes I’m like, ‘Hey, I wonder if I can get laid today by a soccer mom with brown hair I meet in the produce section by the
tangerines
?’ You try walking in Ball Peen Hammer’s shoes and see if you don’t start doing the same fucking thing.” He runs his hand through his hair and his bicep bulges under his T-shirt sleeve as he does. “Now, as far as checking out the merchandise. So what? That doesn’t make me a pig, either. That makes me a guy who loves women and everything about them, especially their gorgeous bodies. Okay, and the puppet thing? I stand by my statement. Women are my puppets.
In the sack
. I pull this string over here and they come for me. I pull that one over there and they do it again. It’s my favorite game. And that makes me a pig in your eyes?” Wow, he’s really working himself up over this. “No, it makes me
awesome in the sack
—every woman’s fantasy. Believe me, no woman has ever called me a pig after sleeping with me. Quite the contrary.” He takes a huge breath and leans back in his chair. “And second off, why the
fuck
do you think you’re not my target audience, baby doll?”

I’m absolutely stunned into silence for a very long beat. “I... Wow.” I shake my head like I’m erasing an Etch-a-Sketch board. “I...” But I still can’t find words.

“Cat got your tongue, sweet thing?” He grins.

“That was quite a speech.”

“I feel passionately about the topic.”

“Obviously. Wow. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You did. I’m not a pig. Start that rumor and my mom and sister will string me up by my balls. And I very much like having my balls.”

“Sorry. I take it back. You’re not a pig. You’re just a horny, delusional, psychopathic, arrogant, blue-haired puppet master who collects pickles.”

“Thank you. Glad we cleared that up.”

I chuckle. “You prefer to be called all those things to ‘a pig’?”

“Fuck yeah.” He puts his forearms on the table, his eyes sparkling. “So, let’s talk about the more important issue: what the
fuck
makes you think you’re not my target audience?”

I shrug. “It’s not personal. You’re just not my type.”

Keane laughs. “I’m everyone’s type.”

“God, you’re so freakin’ cocky, it’s scary.”

“Does cocky connote a heightened but ultimately insupportable sense of confidence?”

“Yes, it does. Very well said.”

“That’s actually a Zander-ism. He says that line whenever a woman calls him cocky, which happens a lot. Zander’s big on fancy words and definitions. You’d love him—he’s super smart like you. But, regardless, the point is I’m not cocky because my heightened confidence is one hundred percent
supportable
.” He beams a huge smile at me, his eyes twinkling, his dimples taunting me.

“Well, Keane, whether you believe it or not, I’m honestly not the least bit attracted to you.”

“Say that again, please.”

“I’m not the least bit attracted to you.”

“One more time,” Keane says.

“Gladly.” I say it again.

“Hmm,” he says. “I can’t understand that strange jumble of vowels and consonants coming out of your mouth, Maddy Milliken. What do those funny sounds mean?”

“No one’s ever said that to you before?”

“Never.”

I roll my eyes.

“Maddy Milliken, Professional Eye-Roller.”

I do it again.

“They’re gonna get stuck like that, baby doll.” He exhales with sudden frustration. “Why aren’t you admitting you find me attractive? I’m willing to admit I find
you
attractive.”