My prompt was "You say you're a scrabble enthusiast. So, get your friends together, and play a game of scrabble (or, you could play an online game). Take all the words from the game and use them in a single story."
Props to you, Plaidly-clad lady, for making me think.
My challenge, write an encounter with your favorite literary character, will be answered by Jason here and I am very excited to see what he does with it.
Without further ado....
"Black Out"
The story I am about to tell you is completely true, without any bias or prejudice. It is as if some sorcerer had scryed it from the heavens, had divined the truth from the moist pebbles in the Earth and inscribed them on the Great Tree of Life for the world to see…
… I am a complete boob.
No, seriously. I screwed up huge.
The following is the destruction of the Era of Sam and James.
It was “Guy Night” –three of my guy friends and I get together when our ladies want to talk behind our backs. I was sitting at the bar waiting for the guys to show when some undergrad comes in trying to chat me up. I’d like to think that I was giving off the ‘leave me alone’ vibe, but she wasn’t really taking social cues; definitely not an MIT gal, if you catch my drift. Apparently this didn’t faze her in the least because she sat down next to me, slid her hand along my thigh, and tried to play footsie. I couldn’t ignore such a blatant disregard of my personal space, so I turned to her and said “look, I’m waiting for someone. Get it?”
She was hot, I’ll give her that. She had that sexy swag that knew how to draw a man’s attention. We could definitely have some fun, this young vixen and I. This girl, who I knew nothing about save for the fact that she wore fig colored eye shadow, cotton candy lipstick, and clothes meant for a twelve year old, walked off towards the other side of the bar. I expected her to hmm and haw at me, but she didn’t… probably thinks I’m some kind of queer or something…. ‘Wait ‘til she sees who I’m meeting up with,’ I think to myself while stifling a laugh as I sip my beer, careful not to choke on the head. I chuckle a little at the innuendo I just made.
‘Guess my boys aren’t coming tonight,’ I said to myself, feeling that fuzzy effect the beer gave me.
I downed my glass and ordered another. The bartender looked at me funny. Maybe it’s because I was on my sixth or seventh Miller Lite. Maybe he thought I was on a diet with all those light beers I’ve put back, but I’ve never been a dark beer fan. Maybe he knew something I didn’t know. Maybe that look was just for Boston transplants from New Jersey.
All I know is I should have bailed out after that first beer.
Our hospitable bartender shouted for last call, which really stands for ‘lights on, people out’-- they never actually give you a chance for one more drink. All they want is your money in the till and your feet on the street.
I’m not really a smoker, but I do indulge in a couple when I’m having a few drinks. As I stood there against the wall, acting very James Dean, she came up to me… you know who… the socially clueless hoe from earlier. She leaned into my side, pressed her breasts-in-the-size-too-small push-up bra against my arm and said “listen, my apartment is just around the corner. You want to come back with me and make me one very happy, very lucky lady?”
I glanced at her with a roll of my eyes and said “I’ll come back with you, and you might get lucky, but I sure as hell don’t see any lady.” After hearing my acceptance, Miss Slut-without-a-brain stopped registering anything else. She practically dragged me down the street, up her stairs, through the door, and into her bed.
I woke up the next morning, in a bed I didn’t recognize, with a chick I didn’t know. It might have been from all the alcohol last night, or an involuntary reaction to my Coyote Ugly, who was trying to wiggle her ass into my stomach, but when I woke up the next morning, I threw up.
What the hell had I done?
I booked out of there as fast as physically possible, with no explanation, without so much as a ‘bye’ or ‘see ya ‘round’. I ran towards the T, made my way down to the Silver, back to South Station, back toward home.
When I got there, though, I didn’t know what to do. What would I say to Sam? “Hey babe, I just woke up in some random girl’s bed from the bar last night and may or may not have had sex with her”? That would go over really well.
I rode the T for three straight hours. I went in and out of the city twice, maybe more. I wasn’t paying very close attention. Most likely the operators thought I was a bum, especially due to the smell of alcohol oozing from my pores and the fact that I hadn’t brushed my teeth since yesterday morning. One of them finally interrupted my self-loathing and informed me that it is illegal to loiter on the train, and threatened to have me arrested. I almost let him, but unfortunately, I knew that would only add to my problems.
I made my way off and walked the two blocks towards home.
As any good woman would, Sam was pacing the floor near the windows of our living room, and she spotted me well before I was able to see her. She was down the stairs and on the sidewalk, practically running toward me as she said “Baby, where’ve you been? I’ve been calling everywhere looking for you. You forgot your phone last night.”
I hung my head in shame.
All this because I left my phone at the apartment. I didn’t even notice it missing.
“What happened to you?” she said, as her soft hands traced over my scruffy face. She gently cupped her hand under my chin and tried to force my eyes to hers. I couldn’t do it.
I’ve never been good with guilt. Or secrets. I knew it was coming; I was going to spill. Suddenly I felt it take over: word vomit. I fought with myself before finally something resembling sounds fell out of my mouth.
She turned at looked at me, “What’d you say, babe?”
I swallowed hard. ‘Now or never, coward,’ I said to myself as I managed to turn my eyes towards hers.
“I made a mistake.”
“What do you mean, you made a mistake? What kind of mistake, James?”
I looked down at my feet while I prayed to God for the right words to come out. “Well, what happened was that I was waiting for the guys at the bar last night when this girl came up to me… She came up to me and was all over me… I said no the first time… I did say no at first… but she said… I’m not explaining this right. I told her to buzz off, but she wouldn’t stop and I… I… I think I’m going to be sick.” That was all I managed to get out before I started dry heaving.
The wail that pierced the afternoon was so guttural you’d think someone was physically harmed. Sam wasn’t standing there waiting for me when I looked up.
“Baby,” I said, panting as I tried to catch up with her, “Listen, I’m not even sure that anything really happened! I blacked out after leaving the bar. Hey, at least I’m being upfront with you!” I snapped, getting overwhelmed by my own frustration.
I realized, about a quarter of a second too late that this was not the best approach to take.
“Don’t mince words with me, James!” she yelled as she stormed up the back stairs of our Southie apartment. I winced as her voice rose an octave on the word ‘me’. I am still in awe, after all these years, of how much control she has over her vocal chords – she could put an opera singer to shame, if only she could carry a tune.
Sam ran up the stairs, almost taking out our pug, Charlie, just to race me to the top and lock me out. “Get away from me,” she spat as she turned the corner. “I don’t want anything to do with you. You make me sick! Just sick.” She hit that higher octave again on that last ‘sick’ and I had to force myself not to cringe while she could see my face.
I could hear her moving throughout the apartment, slamming doors and cabinets and drawers. It really wasn’t smart to let her get on a roll like this, but it took me a few minutes in my hung-over haze to get my keys in the door. By the time I made it inside she was flinging my clothes from the closet into a bag and mumbling under her breath. “Mistake, my ass,” came across clearly, and I knew I was in trouble.
She stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face me. Without the slightest bit of broken resolve or forgiveness in her eyes, she flatly said, “I hope you had fun.”
“No, Sam, please don’t do this,” I begged, hoping she’d see how sorry I was. “I don’t want us to be over.”
“I really don’t give a shit what you want.”
I’m sure you’re reading this and shaking your head, saying to yourself, “Dude, what possessed you to voluntarily tell your girl you cheated?” Here’s what I say to you: to thine own self be true. I would confess my darkest sins to the nuns from grammar school without blinking an eye; I’d face the ax or even the guillotine and my own personal hell if it would mean that I could have my Sam back.
Maybe, just maybe, by sharing my story with you, this poor schmuck can pay some penance and switch off the bright “Fail” sign that continues to blink above his pathetic, disgraceful head. I refuse to quit until I’ve won her back.
