The Spectacular Now (14 page)

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 around 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 and 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.

“Yeah, but that’s why you like me so much.”

“That’s true.”

“So, Miss Queen of Ping-Pong, do you choose to test the waters or do you choose to be a loser?”

“You can never outdo me, Sutter. You know that.” And sure enough, here she comes, right in next to me. “How’s your forehead?”

“Not bad. For a tragic head wound.”

She inspects my head for a second. “It’s just a red spot. Here, let me apply some of these magic waters to it.” She reaches up and dabs my skin with her wet fingertips. It feels good, a whole lot better than the feeling I got from beating up those shrubs with Jeremy Holtz.

“That better?”

“That’s perfect.”

She leans her shoulder into mine. “You know what, Sutter? You’re my favorite ex-boyfriend of all time.”

I look into her dark brown eyes and my stomach starts to melt. Shawnie’s one of these girls you might not think is that great-looking at first—big nose and all—but once you start talking to her, it’s like this humongous, sparkly, fun spirit bursts out of her eyes, and you go,
Wow, this girl is beautiful!
Plus, she has a stellar bod.

“We’ve sure had a lot of fun together,” I say. “You remember that Flaming Lips concert?”

“Are you kidding? That was the most amazing thing ever.”

We trade memories of the show—the crowd dressed in crazy outfits, like Santas and Easter Bunnies and Halloween skeletons; the huge flying saucer that landed on the outdoor stage; the light show; the balloons filled with confetti; the crazy-great band with Wayne Coyne walking across the crowd’s upraised hands in his giant space-hamster ball. And most of all just the feeling of being there, the enormous wild beauty of it. It was almost like we were the music, soaring across the galaxy.

“It was so funny when you went crowd surfing,” Shawnie says. “But then I didn’t see you again for about thirty minutes.”

“Yeah, but I made up for it when we went parking by the lake afterward. You remember that?”

“Of course. That was pretty incredible too.”

“And here we are—single again.”

“Yeah. Here we are.”

And there we are, all right, staring into each other’s eyes, the warm water and the warm memories both hugging us, and I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. I lean toward her, and she closes her eyes and opens her mouth just a little, inviting a kiss. It’s nice. Her lips taste like strawberry lip gloss. I run my fingers down her neck, and then it happens—she starts to giggle right into my mouth.

I pull back and her giggle turns into a full-out laugh, and then it hits me, and I bust out laughing too. She’s right. It’s ridiculous. You just can’t make out with someone you have a continuing Italian mobster routine with.

She hugs my arm tight. “Carmine, you’re da greatest.”

I kiss the top of her head. “No, Carmine,
you’re
da greatest.”

We sit there for a while just enjoying being next to each other. Then I go, “So, do you think this Cassidy-and-Marcus thing’s going to last?”

“I thought you said you were over that.”

“I am. I’m just wondering how long they’ll last, that’s all.”

“You know what?” she says. “I wouldn’t waste any time thinking about that. We both need to find ourselves someone completely new.”

“Well, you won’t have a problem. Except there aren’t any guys out there worthy of you.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“No, I mean it. You have the fun, you have the bod, you have the deep soul-force. What dude can possibly be good enough for you?”

“You’re right.” She laughs. “But I might go ahead and give some guy a break anyway.”

“So whatever happened to us? I mean, we get along so great. Why didn’t we make it as a couple?”

“Oh, you don’t want to go over that again, do you?”

“I’m just wondering. I mean, here I am, out on my ass without a girlfriend again. It might be educational to know what happened to us. What changed?”

She mulls it over for a moment. “I don’t think it’s so much that something changed as that things didn’t change. We just kept being the same as we started out, you know?”

“Not really.”

“It’s like we were always buddies instead of boyfriend and girlfriend. Even when we had sex it was kind of like two buddies just fooling around.”

“And that’s not good?”

“No, it was good. It was fun. And I know girls always say they want a guy that’s like their best friend, but somewhere along the line we really want more than that.”

“
More?
See, that’s just the thing. It’s that
more
part I get stuck on.”

“You’ll get the hang of it one of these days. You just need to find a girl that brings it out of you. Someone completely different from Cassidy.”

“I tried that. I asked out Whitney Stowe.”

“No way.” She pulls back and looks me in the face. “
You
asked out Whitney Stowe?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time. She has great legs.”

“But she’s one of these girls that, like, has a schedule worked out for every second of the day. How could you possibly fit into that? You’d be like a dog on a leash.”

“Yeah, I guess it was pretty stupid.”

“Just wait. Someone’s going to come along, someone you never expected, someone who needs you because you’re you.”

“You think?”

“Sure. And besides, you need someone you can beat at Ping-Pong every once in a while.”

“Carmine, you’re breakin’ my balls.”

“No, you’re breakin’ my balls.”

“Fuggettaboudit.”

“No, you fuggettaboudit.”

I’m sure some people might get a little worn out with the Italian mobster routine, but not us.

“So,” I say. “Carmine, should we head back to da party and astound dem stiffs wit our new drenched-to-da-bone eveningwear?”

She squeezes my knee underwater. “You got it, Carmine.”

“Bada bing, bada boom.”