Socks

DAYTIME INTERIOR

THREE GUYS SITTING AT LUNCH

M---.
I really hate doing laundry. Especially socks. Socks are the worst.

W---.
My problem with washing socks is that I feel like I have to ball them up. (makes sock folding motion with hands)

M---.
I just do the one fold. I don't like having to ball them up.

H---.
See, I don't bother sorting or folding socks anymore. They all just go into one big pile. I pick them out as I need them.

W---.
How many different types of socks do you have though?

H---.
(ticking off on fingers) I've got short socks, long socks, and dress socks.

W---.
I don't mind folding them, really. I figure I'm going to sit and watch TV anyway.

M---.
Man, there's nothing like the feeling of a new pair of socks.

H---.
Yeah, I really should replace some of mine.

M---.
I think I do a complete swap out of my socks at least twice a year. I love a new pair of socks.

W---.
(looking around, as if for cameras) Are we in a Seinfeld episode?

Anticipation

I rang the bell, not quite expecting to get an answer. And if I did, then what? What was I setting myself up for? Was I expecting her to welcome me with outstretched arms after this long? I hadn’t bothered to send even a postcard from time to time, just to let her know I was still alive. It had been a rough parting too, when I saw her last.

I rang the bell a second time. There didn’t seem to be anyone home, but I hadn’t come all this way for nothing. If there was any chance that she was here then I had to find out if she could forgive me. I had left her because I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t ready enough. I wasn’t mature enough. But between then and now I had realized how much I needed her. How much she meant to me, and how special she was to me.

This time as the doorbell sounded there was evidence of someone at home. A light turned on, and I could just barely hear the muffled sounds of someone getting up to answer the door; footsteps, stocking feet across bare-wood floors. As I stood there listening to the footfalls approaching, a queasy feeling bubbled in my stomach. Why did I decide to come back? What did I expect from her? A warm greeting: Good to see you again, glad you came back. What’s that? You’ve changed your mind? Oh that’s superb. Don’t worry that it’s taken you this long to realize it, I completely understand. In fact, I’ve been waiting for you this entire time. Was this what I was looking for as I walked up the stairs to the front door of the woman who has meant more to me than anyone else in my life?

Butterflies inside as I heard the deadbolt being thrown and the chain sliding back. I could feel my hands grow cold and clammy. A queasy feeling as all the blood rushed from my head. This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. I want to say “Sorry, wrong address,” and turn and leave as fast as I can. This was a bad idea. I can’t move. The butterflies are a swarm of locusts and I can’t move. I shouldn’t have come here. What in the world was I thinking?

And then the door is open and I see her and I know exactly why I came back. There, in a sudden blast of memory, came the countless hours we spent talking, the priceless treasures we shared, the beautiful things she opened my eyes to, and the times I was able to show her something wonderful—I could see all the reasons that I had fallen in love with her the first time, and I knew, seeing her again in that instant, I had fallen in love again.

She answered the door with the same slight smile on her face and twinkle in her eyes that allows her to become friends instantly with anyone she meets. I opened my mouth to say something but I couldn’t think of any words. At all. The twinkle evaporated as recognition came, and in those deep, frustrated eyes I could sense a thousand questions. Why had I left her? Why had I never written? Why had I never called? Why had I come back now? The smile faded to expressionlessness and she blinked twice at me.

From the time I had heard the door latch click to this moment less than five seconds had passed, though it had felt more like fifty. And though my pulse had been racing in anticipation as if I had just finished running a marathon, for those five seconds while we stood under the dim porch light opposite each other the thumpthumpthump of my heart suddenly slammed to a crawl, only bothering to send blood to my poor dizzy head twice in a slow thump…thump that I could feel in my fingertips as they dug into my sweaty palms.

And suddenly my heart was racing again and everything was moving at a regular speed. I realized that my cheek stung like hell and that her arm was hovering in the air, shaking. It took me a few more heartbeats before I figured it out. She had just slapped me... I was elated.

For in her eyes, behind the shimmer of tears, I could see it buried.

She still cared.

Fuzzy Memories

"Of course I'm not here by myself," I exclaimed into the phone. "L--- is here, B--- is here, a lot of people are here. I'm not alone." L--- was the bartender. B--- I had just met 10 minutes ago. It turned out he and I grew up not too far from eachother.

"Ok, W--- and I are on the way. I just wanted to make sure that you were still there." I hung up with S---.

The next thing I knew, I was throwing up in my toilet. I was wearing my pjamas and the trash can from next to my bed was next to my knees. I wiped my mouth, flushed the toilet, and got to my feet. Stumbling back to the bedroom I noticed my wallet and keys were sitting where I always put them when I walk in the door.

In the morning I rolled over and smelled that stomach churning combination of sweet and rancid that can only come from beer vomit. At least I had only thrown up on one side of the bed. I rolled back over and went back to sleep.

When I saw S--- next I asked if I needed to apologize to anyone. "No, you didn't do anything embarassing." I was relieved. "Well, at the end of the night you did start walking the wrong way down the street. I think you went to puke."

The Ballad of S--- and T---

The text simply said "there are girls dancing in cages here." C--- had been trying all evening to get us to join him.

"I think he managed to convince me. Finish your beer." W--- said to me.

We had practically just arrived at the concert. The cover charge benefited a worthy cause, so I didn't mind paying to get in. About forty minutes earlier we were playing beer pong at H---'s apartment, and left shortly after Z--- had showed up. Now H--- and Z--- had joined us at the concert and we were about to abandon them again.

"I hate you guys." Z--- said after I told him we were going to another bar. "You know why? Because every time I show up to some place you guys are leaving."

"OK, fair enough. But there are girls dancing in cages there..."

And on the bar apparently. In a tshirt and striped underwear. Then in a skin colored bodysuit with strategically placed black censored cutouts. Then with white scarves which she twirled about her body.

In the back people gyrated on the dance floor. Girls filtered into and out of the giant cage against the wall. We found a table. Drinks were flowing. Shots were downed. More rounds. The censored girl came over to talk to the group. I was left speechless and agape as she commented on the girly appearance of C---'s and W---'s drinks. People left the table to go towards the back and dancing. I ducked into the bathroom to escape.

I came out and surveyed the crowd. Cute girl, cute girl, gay couple, out of place middle aged woman, couple making out, creepy dude, cute girl, wait.... was that? Yes, yes it was.

C--- in the cage. Dancing. in. the. cage.

There's No Crazy Like Stripper Crazy

They had met when he was at a strip club with some friends and she sat down next to him. "You're gay, aren't you?" Because he was being polite to the girls and was wearing a clean shirt, she had come to that conclusion. That was their very first interaction. She sat talking with him for at least an hour before he said "Shouldn't you be working?" and the trance broke and she went to work the room.

When he was putting on his coat to leave, she ran over and asked for his number. Stunned, and not exactly thinking about the situation, he gave it to her. Two days later she called and they went on a casual date. "Dude, she's a stripper. You have to see her again," was the advice his friend had to offer. "I know it can only turn out bad, but you have to."

She called him from IHOP, inviting him to join her and some of her friends for dinner. Pancakes were always a favorite of his, and their company was perfectly enjoyable. Three of her coworkers and one of their boyfriends were there. "We're all going back to my place, wouldn't you like to join in?" asked her friend, while becoming quite friendly with his thigh.

The last time that they were on anything resembling a date he joined her at a bar to see a band. One of her coworkers was there, moonlighting as an escort and trying to set up an appointment with a gentleman at another table. She decided he was not worth the hassle he was giving her and rejoined the group. The gentleman was slightly irate and came to express his displeasure. Before he knew it, he and the gentleman were being escorted out by bar security and met by police at the door.

When she left a note on his car, parked at the grocery store, along with a single rose, he decided that getting a restraining order was called for. Thus, with a shot at being included forever in the annals of guy hood, he ended his great experiment in dating a stripper.

Carpet Cleaning

The party had finally started to wind down around 2:30, and by 3am I had shut the door on the last straggler. My roommate was grabbing blankets for his out of town friends or clearing a place for their sleeping bags, and my girlfriend, G---, had just a few minutes before gone to my room to get ready for bed. I said goodnight to my roommate and his guests, then shut the door of my bedroom behind me.

She was lying on the bed, curled up in a ball and facing away from the door.

“You asleep already?” I asked. She just shook her head quickly, not looking in my direction. Shit. I could tell she was livid. I had seen this body language before, and even if I hadn't – she didn't exactly need a translator when she got like this.

I don't remember how long it took for me to get it out of her that she was mad at me because “she couldn't trust someone who would talk about her behind her back.” That wasn't what I was expecting. A few minutes before she had gone into my bedroom happy and buzzed. How could she have possibly gotten this mad this fast?

Thank you, internet. This was before I stopped using instant messenger, and indeed this is part of why I stopped using instant messenger. Earlier that evening I had left my friend S--- a response to some conversation we were having via IM-tag. She would leave me a message while I was away, and then I would respond while she was away, and the cycle would keep going. I don't think the conversation we were having had anything to do with my girlfriend, but of course G--- was curious and decided to read the backlogs for S---'s screenname.

They had met about a month earlier, over winter break. I was crazy about G---. She had never met S---, and I was eager for them to like eachother. A few days before, I had had an IM conversation with S---, saying something along the lines of “I really like this girl, but sometimes she's kind of reserved around new people; please give her a chance.” This was apparently one of the last online conversations I had had with S---, and therefore one of the first to show up in the chat log when my girlfriend decided to play private eye.

Not much of the ensuing fight remains in my memory. I do remember it getting to the point where I said that since she wouldn't get out of my apartment then I would. I grabbed my coat from the hall closet, nimbly dodged some sleeping bodies, and was out in the hall with the door locked before she could stop me.

I must have walked for two hours and ignored 14 phone calls. Ignored 14. A few calls I actually picked up, and aside from telling her to leave my home, I'm sure I said things to deserve being yelled at, but my response was to just hang up because I couldn't deal with her. Finally, in a sobbing voice mail, G--- told me that I could come back because she had gone home. I walked back to my apartment, unlocked the door, and went in. Oops. Unlocking the deadbolt was so automatic for me that I didn't realize my mistake until it was too late.

The fight continued for who knows how long. I tried to leave again, but she grabbed my arm and I ended up dragging her outside. I started to walk away across the parking lot, but she sprinted after me and held on.

I think it finally ended because we were both just too tired to fight anymore. It could have been that I just gave up because I couldn't take it. For some reason we went to her apartment to go to bed, and in the morning we both went back to my apartment to help my roommate clean up. One of our friends had thrown up at the foot of his bed, so we had to rent a carpet cleaner. We figured as long as we had the cleaner we might as well do the entire apartment. The carpet was never cleaner the entire time we lived in that apartment, including when we moved in.

The Dumbest Thing Ever Said

"So what's the dumbest thing you've ever said?" G--- asked the group as we walked down the street.

"I think it would have to be 'Thanks, I hope I see you around.' But that's just off the top of my head," I replied.

"I remember when you said that. That was not your finest hour," Mike chimed in.

"Mine can top all of yours," proclaimed S---. "'Hey, I got a blow job in an alley near there.'"

"I don't get it, why is that so dumb?"

"It was on September 11th, and I walked in on friends watching TV. That was the first thing I said when I saw the twin towers," S--- explained.

"Wow," was all most of us could say.

"Well, at least you know that for the rest of your life you can't possibly say anything stupider."

The Rules

"So this girl gives me her number, right? Like, semi out of the blue. This isn't something that happens to me every day, so I don't really know what to do. It was like a Tuesday or a Wednesday, and Friday night I'm out at the bar with a friend of mine, telling him this story and guess who's there?"

"The girl, I'm assuming."

"Of course, otherwise this would be a pointless story. She walks by on the way to the bathroom and says hi to me. Only it's not just like a head nod acknowledgment, she does the arm touch and smile thing. When she comes by again, I ask her if she wants to do something tomorrow and we make plans. I'm supposed to call her. So Saturday I call her up, and she has a migrane, and the next few days aren't any good because she has to work, so we kinda make vague plans for some other time."

"Dude, you dropped the ball on that one."

"Well, kinda. But there's more to the story. I see her again at the bar a few days later, and I say 'Hey, are you busy tomorrow?' And she goes, 'Naa, let's hang out.' So we go to dinner and a few days after that we're supposed to maybe do something but she never calls me back. So I just figure, whatever, you know? She's not really into me. No big deal."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Exactly. But the other day I got this text message from her just saying 'hey what's going on?' and we texted back and forth a couple times. So now I'm wondering, does she want to be friends? does she want to hook up? does she want to date? I have no idea."

"There should be a rule about that: 'I cannot read minds. I don't know what you are thinking.' It would save so much hassle."

"No kidding."

"That's going to be a rule. I'm going to make that a rule."

The 300 Game

It was a Wednesday night, and the lanes were abuzz with the business of bowling. The sounds of pins falling and the aerosol scent of shoe spray filled the air. Popcorn bags were being crumpled and thrown into the trash and pretzels were being doused with nacho sauce. Most of the bowlers at the lanes that night were from the university intervarsity league. All friends with eachother, they were too busy chatting to notice the series of strikes being marked on the overhead at lane six.

J--- was in the zone. Whispers started to pass through the crowd, spreading as a rumor from person to person. His friends were keeping score, diligently marking every frame with an X as J--- bowled. His concentration locked, he hardly looked up at the small group of people who had gathered to watch.

His friends from the bowling league were amazed. Whispers of excited disbelief could be heard every now and then. J--- was a fine bowler, but he wasn't the one everyone expected to be having this type of game.

Nine X's were marked on the overhead. It was J---'s turn to bowl. He picked up his ball, adjusted his grip, and settled his gaze down the lane. Step, step, step, throw. Silence in the lanes, only the sound of J---'s bowling ball sliding down the finely waxed hardwood. A thunderous racket as the ball struck and all ten pins were thrown about.

One of the onlookers started to cheer. "Don't. You'll break his concentration," hushed his friend. Another X was marked up on the board and everyone was on pins and needles waiting for the ball return.

One more time a collective gasp as the crowd held their breaths and J--- sent the ball down the lane. One more time all ten pins came tumbling down.

They were going to see a perfect game. He was one strike away from giving them all an incredible story to tell again and again when they gathered for tournaments or hit the bar after league practices.

The final roll, everyone's eyes locked on lane six. It was a textbook roll. The approach, the release, the spin on the ball, the fact that no pins were left standing.

A roar rose up in the alley. J--- turned around, his eyes wide, his forehead furrowed.

"Uh... guys?" He started to say, motioning for quiet. "Yeah... I actually had my friends marking the real score on paper. They put strikes on the overhead no matter what. I just happened to roll the last three strikes."

A Bird In The Hand

It was our first date, and since I didn't have a car (this was back when I was an undergrad) we stayed on campus. We went to dinner on Green Street, and then walked around the quad together.

We stopped at the eternal flame (which has always bothered me as it is neither eternal nor a flame) and sat on the bench talking. The conversation varied from the mundane to the obscure, and we were both enjoying the company when she stopped mid sentence and cocked her head to the side.

"Did you just hear that?" she asked.

"No..." I replied, trying my hardest to listen for whatever it was. "Wait... What is that?"

Just then, a guy and a girl fell out of the tree behind us, both naked.

Always Pack a Swimsuit

Mike and I were at a hotel, traveling in our official position as Synchronized Skating Team Managers.  The day's work had ended, and we had retired to the room.  It was the dead of winter, and the competition schedule found us in Michigan in the middle of a snowstorm.  With no car, our entertainment options were limited to the hotel, so we decided to check out the pool.

Neither of us had thought to pack a swimsuit, but we noticed the pool had a hot tub, and figured that just going in underwear would be OK since we wouldn't actually be swimming.  And it would have, but for the middle aged gentleman who was already relaxing in the jacuzzi.  Going on the assumption that it would be more awkward for us to just leave, and having nothing better to do, we decided to just go for it. 

Of course, when you're sitting in a hot tub and you're by yourself, you sit in the middle and enjoy all the space.  When two guys who obviously know each other and are obviously just wearing boxer briefs join you, you may be a little dumbstruck to think about moving to one side and letting them sit together, thus forcing them to sit on either side of you, increasing the awkwardness level.  Keep this in mind, and move over, if ever you find yourself in the same position as that poor man.

The man decided to quickly head back to his room following several minutes of forced and uncomfortable conversation with the two of us.

Which is why, if you are going to stay at a hotel at any point in your travels, you should pack a swimsuit, just in case.

Casino, part one?

He had made a series of unfortunate decisions that day, beginning with how he dressed himself in the morning. An extra baggy blue plaid short sleeve shirt --the last button undone to show off the new gold chain he had gotten for Christmas-- pleated front tapered leg khakis from JC Penny's, and white Reebok court shoes.

He had spent 20 minutes in front of the mirror with a bottle of hair gel and a comb, trying to get his hair just right. That was ten minutes more than he usually took, and when he was finally satisfied he made a mental note not to go to the Supercuts on Third again. That queer stylist he got stuck with last time always made him uncomfortable. How he took too long for the hair cut, like he was lingering on purpose, or how he seemed to fuss just a little too much when he was brushing off the smock. But it wasn't a homo thing, he said to himself, he had no problem with the gays, it was just that Monica, his preferred stylist, always did a better job. Well, what did it matter who cut his hair last time? He always managed to make it look good with some extra gel. And today, he told himself, he looked good.

His general appearance was the first of his series of unfortunate decisions that day. The next, which led into several more, was going to the casino with his step father. It had seemed like a good decision this time because he had been playing cards with his friends on Tuesday nights lately, and they all agreed that his was the best poker face of them all. But poker with your buddies is not the same as poker at the casino, and by mid afternoon he had lost around $300.

This casino didn't even serve free drinks, only the soda was free, and drowning his sorrows from gambling was rubbing salt in his wounded pride. The more it cost him to drink, the more it reminded him of how much he had lost, which made him want to drink more. He had ordered a $17 Casino-tini once before deciding to switch to the more affordable Miller Lites, the number of which he had had, he had long since lost count. He had left his stepfather was out on the floor to come sit at this bar. The last time he had seen him was at the blackjack tables, chatting with the couple from up North seated next to him.

Bleary eyed, he looked out at row upon row of slot machines and cursed his bad luck at the tables earlier. He would try playing a few slots next, he decided, in order to win back some of his losses. Just as soon as he got another beer. As he turned around in his seat to order, he noticed a blonde woman standing next to him, waiting for the bartender's attention. "You don't sound like you're from don-cha-kno-Wisconsin," was the pickup line he found himself deciding on.

He made a pair of unfortunate decisions in hitting on this woman, one of which he could not have known about, and the second of which was entirely his fault. His company, or so he found himself saying, was a scientific research company located in Florida that worked with fuel cell technology, and he was a 49 percent owner (his father owning the remaining 51 percent.) The blonde woman was able to converse on this topic for several minutes, and intelligently, he thought, which was not something he expected. In trying to impress women by telling stories about his scientific technology company, he had inadvertently chosen what was --with all likelyhood-- the sole female aerospace engineer in the casino.

The second in the pair of unfortunate decisions was that he had forgotten to look at this woman's left hand. Sitting clearly upon her ring finger was an engagement ring: a large blue sapphire flanked by smaller stones. On either side of the engagement ring were matching wedding/anniversary bands: white gold with inlaid diamonds. He only noticed these after the woman casually mentioned, "Oh, I've never been here before, but my husband came up here for his bachelor party and had a great time."

Suddenly, he found the desire to try his luck at the slot machines.

Breakfast At McDonald's

“You know what would be a great idea for a book?” I asked, blowing at my coffee through the slot on the plastic lid.

“Hmm?” she murmured. I could tell she was only slightly interested.

“I go around interviewing the old men who eat breakfast at McDonald's every morning. I could go all around the country.” She set down her McMuffin and actually gave it some thought. No, she was just switching hands, reaching for her milk.

“Hmmm. What would you call it?”

“I dunno. Breakfast at McDonald's. It doesn't matter. It could be like a Tuedays With Morrie type book.”

“That's not a good title. I don't think I'd read that.”

“But with more than one Morrie.”

“You'd have to come up with a better title than that.”

“The 6am crowd. Morning stories.”

“Naa....” She was looking off, watching the three little girls sitting behind me.

“Look, the title doesn't matter. I know those are crap titles, I just came up with them on the spot. Someone else can come up with the title; they have people whose entire job it is to come up with titles.”

“Really?”

“I don't know. I just made that up. Isn't that a good idea for a book though?”

“I guess so. The thing is you'd have to wake up real early.”

“Yeah. I'll probably never actually do it.” The little girls had finished picking at their breakfast happy meals and started fidgeting. The two mothers were locked in conversation, and their daughters found the door to the PlayPlace.

“That little girl does not like the ball pit at all. Look at her face,” she laughed. I looked. The girl looked petrified. I was still thinking about my book.

“Everybody's got a story to tell. Take that guy.” I nodded at a elderly man across the room who had just sat down with his order. He was wearing a black baseball cap with “USS Something” in gold stitching. His buddy had a red, worn-in Marine Corps jacket on. “He was in a war when he was my age. He came back home, had kids, grandkids. Now he goes to McDonald's every morning for breakfast and chats with his friends. That's what I want to do with my life when I retire.”

“No, that's what you want to do with your life to right now.”

“Well.... Ok. You're right.” She knew me pretty well. But to be honest, it wasn't too hard to figure that out about me. I was lost, trying to figure out what to do with my life. College had ended a year ago, and all I had done since was travel around, dodging questions about what I was going to do next, telling the same story over and over, and trying to decide what I actually wanted in life.

“Heh. Those two were shacking.” A couple about our age was coming through the door.

“Where?” She looked around.

“Right there. The girl in pajama pants and the guy with the rumpled hair.” Everything about how they were dressed broadcast that they had just rolled out of bed. “I wonder if people look at us and think the same thing.”

“Your hair isn't sticking up.”

“That's because I'm wearing a hat.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that; you never wear a hat.” I had one last swig of coffee left.

“You know how the new ad campaign says how they'll add the cream and sugar for you?” She nodded. “I've been to like three different McDonald's since that started, and they've never asked if I wanted any. Not that I really care.” I always drink black coffee. I crumpled up the paper from my sausage biscuit and threw it on the tray.

“You ready to go?” I nodded in response.

As we were walking out to her car I put my arm around her shoulder and she nestled against my body. She cocked her head to the side, as if something important had just occurred to her. “You know, I think that was the first time I've been inside that McDonald's in years.” We were staying at her mom's place, down the street.

“Well good thing I woke you up early so we could have breakfast.” She elbowed me in the ribs lightly. Her jaw was slightly open, feigning indignation in her eyes. I laughed.

She had woken me up that morning. Well, not at first. She saw I was not about to wake up, slipped under the covers with me, and fell back asleep herself. By the time we finally woke up it was debatable if we'd still make it McDonald's before they switched from breakfast to lunch.

“You did not want to cuddle earlier when I got in bed.” She rolled my arm off her shoulders. “This is what you did.” She began to imitate me sleeping on one side, turned over, her eyes half closed and yet somehow able to roll, sighed, then turned back to the original position.

“Really?” I laughed. “I'm sorry about that.”

“It's fine, I thought it was funny.”

I looked at her smiling; the way the corner of her eyes crinkled at me made me smile back.

“I don't know why you put up with me sometimes.” I blew her a kiss over the roof of the car. “I love you.” And I opened my door and slid into the seat.