Best Served Cold Chapter 6 The Party Best Laid Plans
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Best Laid Plans Ch. 04 free porn video
Chapter 4: Will work for Mai Tais.
Mike Nash was the darkest black man I’d ever laid my eyes on. He spoke in quick successive sentences that I strained to understand, I made a mental note to invest in a recorder so I could play back our conversations and try to pick out what it was he was saying. Mike also wore a shirt a size too small and pants that swished way too loudly. I was sitting cross legged doing my best to appear angelic in a button down oxford shirt and Express skirt I’d purchased for my cousin’s wedding. The skirt fluted out at the hem. I was misinformed that it would make me look professional and savvy. Instead I felt like a child who had rummaged through her mother’s closet. Mike Nash was none too impressed.
He pointed to a dry erase board emphasizing a name, and a number next to that name. Indicating that I should strive to be so lucky as to have a 2508 next to my name. This should have been the exact moment where I realized the difference between sanity and insanity. Instead, I nodded diligently, pretending to be interested and hoping to make 2508 my goal for the next two weeks. What did that even mean?
‘You need to attend our employee orientation and fill out the forms. The orientation will be held at our new facility. That is the one you will be working out of, but it doesn’t open until August.’ He said curtly and ran me through some more ‘you plus so and so equals excellence’ bull shit. I don’t think he blinked once during the entire interview. Gosh, it was like being interrogated by a black Chuck Norris. Was this man always on?
I could feel the twitch in my eye start up. This is my psychic instinct telling me to run for the hills. Best to ignore these things when dealing with a paycheck that would at least pay rent. I assumed that this was the best of the best, and set out on a course to crash and burn. I’d gotten a call from Perform Fitness, a gym chain where the guys are wider than they are tall. Dress code was a pair of nylon or mesh gym shorts and a ripped sleeveless old P.E. shirt, covering a hand’s span across the chest down to the waist. It looked more like an apron. I was going to see a lot of side boob today.
The position I thought I was taking was a sales associate. It would hopefully get me thirty hours a week and a free gym membership since the student recreation center was off limits now that I was a college grad. I started to despise that word a little more every day. Within a week at P.F. and I would need to remind myself each hour that I was a human being and that one day I would be happy. The staff including Mr. Mike Nash, were a hodge podge group of athletic gurus. One did running, one did weight lifting, one ate on a timer. No one had ever heard of chocolate. If they had, it came in the form of a chalky protein shake consumed only after a gut busting work out.
I came home exhausted and relieved not to hear heavy metal pounding the polish off of my fingernails. On the drive home, I made another personal promise to find a better job. One hadn’t jumped out in front of me yet, so I was stuck with this one till tomorrow.
I scavenged the refrigerator and nibbled on a few items before giving in and ordering Chinese. It was three blocks away to pick up and I was feeling randy. They said it would be done in ‘ten minute.’ My best guess was twenty. Shucking off my dress shoes, wrenching down that stupid skirt and pitching it in the vast cavern that is my closet, I pulled on some gray sweats and a long sleeved t-shirt. There was no denying it. I looked like shit. My family is notorious for not taking break ups well. My brother Tory talked to the newspaper telemarketer for five hours after a broken engagement. My mother felt so bad she bought a subscription to Parade magazine to compensate the time lost with potential customers.
Kevin had been right about Chase. He’d been philandering with some cute and sprightly, but smaller titted girl three nights ago. I drunk called him and said some slurred words of hurt. I don’t think ‘You thupid asth muther ucker’ comes across as strongly as ‘You’re a whore, we’re over.’ But the point was still the same. Chase had moved on to greener pastures, Chicago, while I was stuck clinging to the glory days of living in a college town, but not going to college. Getting over Chase though was a bit easier than I thought. I guess that’s what happens when you haven’t left the first tier of Maslow’s hierarchy.
My phone buzzed and I had to dump out my business but black hole of a purse to find it. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Let’s let fate take this one.
‘Callie Cronin,’ I answered professionally because I was trying to shed my college lush reputation. It also inspired the caller to do the same.
‘Very nice, Cal.’ a guy’s voice replied. Okay, throw me a bone fate. Who the hell is this again?
When in doubt, go along with it, ‘What’s up?’
‘Just hanging out.’
I was silent. When I think, I go silent. It’s how you can tell I’m thinking.
‘Hello?’ he asked. I must have been thinking too long.
‘Sorry, I was distracted.’ By the fact that I have no idea who you are.
‘There’s an art show tonight at eight at the Jersey Hoop. My friend’s got some stuff, he was depressed when he did it. So it should be pretty good.’ Mr. Question Mark said. I thought some more.
‘Sure, sounds good.’ I love mysteries and who doesn’t like pretty pictures. I didn’t have enough money to buy good art, but I had a passion for keeping my place charming. Depressed art isn’t really pretty, but they’re might be some other options. We hung up with a plan to meet at the Hoop at eight. Hmm. It was like a real life version of Mystery Date. It wasn’t Kevin, he was under DO NOT ANSWER in my phone. It wasn’t Chase either, I burned that bridge and spit on its ashes.
My deductions stopped there, and I’d been standing at the door thinking for too long. My Chinese was getting cold. To combat the sweats, I pulled my hair up in a high and tight perky ponytail, putting to ruins the hours of ironing and hairspray I’d given it this morning for my interview. The tail brushed lightly against my shoulder blades and all was right with the world again.
Walking the three blocks to Golden Dragon was easy. No one paused to look at frump girl which is nice about a college town. Sweats and t-shirts are common place for rolling out of bed, taking a test, or picking up take-out. It was when I was coming back with my chicken broccoli and three dozen almond cookies that I ran into problems. Kevin Miller was standing at the corner, unaware that I was the person behind the load of hot food.
I took the opportunity of anonymity to kick him in the shin while he was counting cracks in the pavement.
‘OUCH!’ he gasped, grabbing his leg and hopping up and down on the other. Kevin doesn’t balance well. Unlike Webbles, he wobbles and falls down.
‘Miss me?’ I asked shifting the bag to one hand so he could see that I was past the angry phase of our last encounter and had moved on to sweet revenge.
‘What the fuck! Are you on your period or something?’ No, PMS is a Pre-menstrual, dumbass.
‘I saw you and thought I’d say hello. Hello.’ Come on, give me another reason to kick you while you’re down. Kevin rubbed his shin hard and gave me his best angry eyes. I felt bad, I truly did. He had given me, without trouble, the contents of his wallet the other day. The least I could do would be to share some Chinese with him.
The thing about Kevin is that you can’t hate him for too long. When I was five my brother Joe, one year senior, killed my pet hamster by letting him out into our yard and into the neighbor’s cat. I threw his Power Ranger action figure into the garbage disposal. Once we were even, we got back to our dysfunctional lives. Kevin spies on me, I kick him in the shin, and we have dinner.
‘So, can I watch you again?’ Kevin asked while cracking open the one fortune cookie in the
bag. I scowled at the idea of performing for him and because he took my cookie.
‘Do you have a hundred bucks?’ Kevin came into money through questionable sources. As far as I knew, he was a stand-up citizen with a respectable job at the Thortan Jubilee, the town newspaper. He had a couple of front page articles that got tossed in the trash with the coffee grounds the next day. In his mind, he was Clark Kent, in my mind he was a lovable loser.
‘Not on me, but I was watching porn online last night,’ Oh boy this can’t be good, ‘And I was trying to find girls masturbating and I saw that they got like billions of hits, you know views, and I thought, what if Callie did that.’
What if Callie did what? The light bulb clicked on.
‘I’m not masturbating online!’ I shouted to make the point crystal clear.
‘Oh come on. You were way hotter than any of the ones I saw online. They were all old or fake. And they don’t do that squeeze thing either. What you do is real man, I mean girl.’ Kevin was starry eyed. I’m glad he thought this one out.
‘I have brothers! That means that there are guys out there who watch porn who are related to me and who would recognize me.’ When I was eight I discovered my dad’s John and Yoko: Two Virgins Album. I closed my eyes till the naked people went away. Porn really wasn’t my thing.
Kevin wasn’t deterred. It seemed like he had put his mind to this and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He shook his head, and smiled with that boyish charm that could sell ice to an Eskimo.
‘There are dozens of guys out there that could recognize you. But, now don’t take offense, you aren’t that unique. Just wear a ton of make-up and you’ll turn into a random stranger,’
‘Oh boy, the American dream. Making a sex tape.’ I’d be following in the lines of Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton and who could forget, Tonya Harding.
‘Just thought you’d be interested. I’m thinking about your future.’ Yeah, well he wasn’t the only one. My list of acceptable futures didn’t include Porn Star. I was supposed to be a hot ad executive, drive a Porsche, and eat sushi every day. I was supposed to have a loveless relationship with a plastic surgeon. I wasn’t supposed to video tape myself masturbating!
‘I’ll think about it.’ And file it under retarded ideas never to do.
******************
Jersey Hoops, named after a man, not a state, was located in the dingy part of town. The estates and businesses looked like World War II had hit it. Neon lights were never replaced and vacant buildings housed the homeless and crack heads. But its depression also made it a hipster hot spot. Starving artists emphasized the decrepit landscape through illustration and sculpture. Diners took the empty turn of the century brick storefronts as a homage to Hopper’s Night Hawks. Jersey Hoops offered live concerts and art shows. I’m sure they would have been willing to do weddings, christenings and bar/bat mitzvahs, but that market was slow in these parts.
I arrived with high hopes and I was all gussied up. I had more make-up on than Kiss and I was pretty sure that this was going to be a flop. There weren’t too many cars parked around the building which meant that I’d either parked in the wrong spot, or there was a valet service. I’m going with the former. My eye wasn’t twitching, which was good and my nerves had brought me this far. Why not go a little farther. Locking up the Saturn, which was a joke, it had been stolen twice without having to hotwire it, I stepped onwards and upwards.
Kevin had left me to my own devises earlier to update his Facebook status to let all one hundred friends know that he would be going to bed alone but full on Chinese food. I left a note on my dry erase board that I was here, meeting up with someone who called from such and such number, and that if they found me face down in the gutter, to donate my things to Good Will.
Turns out, patrons needed to enter the venue through an unmarked back door up some non-handicap accessible stone steps. Since I was not familiar with this procedure, it took ten additional minutes knocking on doors, peeking through windows and pouting my lips before I tailed an Emo couple inside. The art was lined up against the walls, leaving the middle of the room bare for conversing. I caught sight of no one I knew. This should be pretty awkward. Situations such as these call for alcohol. Lucky for me, there was a bar located in a smaller room off to the side. While I was paying for a gin and tonic, my default I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing-here drink, my shoulder got tapped on.
‘Callie.’ I turned and frowned. I have the worst poker face.
‘Jeff,’ and that’s all folks.
‘Were you expecting someone else?’ Jeff asked gripping his own wine and checking out my drink. To be quite honest, Jeff and I hate each other. It’s unsaid, but it’s there.
‘I thought. . .,’ well I had no idea what I was thinking. I was pissed off about Chase and a mystery man was better than nothing. Except when the mystery man was Jeff.
Jeff stood still, eyeballing my confused expression and coming to his own conclusions. Unlike Chase, Jeff was monogamous when we’d been together. Our relationship was based on a general interest in some BBC television shows and sloppy drunk sex. I don’t advise mixing the two. We’d broken up, as I mentioned earlier, because he thought he was better than me and I thought he was an asshole.
To avoid further contact, I brushed past him and moseyed around the art room. Trying to find something that would catch my eyes so I didn’t have to look at his. The crowd was sparse but diverse. There was the Emo couple, a pierced Punky Brewster, a few wannabe professors with sweater vests and elbow padded blazers, and a handsome fellow checking out a giant photograph of a man who’d pissed his pants. I looked back at Jeff who was mingling with the tenure seeking sweater vests. Perfect, he found a friend. Now to find me one.
When approaching a potential new mate, I circle the area twice before striking. . ., up a conversation. You have to be sure, absolutely sure that they are not the following: gay, married/attached, or younger than me. Cougars are for the divorced over forty, not the twenty something single lady on the prowl. Who was I kidding, I’d go to prom with an eighteen year old to have a date.
Mr. Handsome was still facing the wrong direction as I approached. He looked appealing from the back. His butt looked pretty cute. He was fit, but not testosteronie like the mutants at Perform Fitness with sandy colored hair some would refer to as dishwater blond and I’m a sucker for dishwater. He turned to face me. He was the all American guy. The kind who was the QB in high school, probably lost his virginity under the bleachers, and had girls day dream about taking his last name. I mentally thought up clever things to say. But the connection to my mouth short circuited. I felt my body get all tingly and somewhere deep inside an ovary quivered.
‘He didn’t make it to the toilet on time,’ Dishwater said. I sucked in air, hoping it came across as an indication of life. Sometimes I don’t breathe, and people think I’m a statue. Say something smart! Say, ‘Peeing in your pants is the coolest.’ From Billy Madison.
‘I can make it to the toilet.’ Great, I just told him I was potty trained. Next I’d be telling him I made boom boom in my pants the first day of third grade.
Dishwater laughed. I needed to give him a better code name. The ice breaker wasn’t my best, but it had done its job.
‘I would hope so,’ he replied.
‘It’s on my resume.’ Under lifetime achievements.
‘How’s that going for you? The job hunt?’ he asked changing the subject. I didn’t blame him.
‘I have a job wiping down sweaty gym equipment and selling protein bars.’ Enough said.
Dishwater smiled. I felt the blood pump through my veins and an egg drop from an ovary.
‘I own The Big Bang. Half of my staff graduat
ed this month. So if you’re interested, give me a call.’ Dishwater handed me a business card, nothing special, just the name of the bar and his name. Nolan Kelly. Hmm. Callie Kelly. Oh no, I’m hyphenating.
Fawn
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