We exchange pleasantries and admire Julia’s drink, and then Julia gets down to business. She leans forward, laying her palms flat against the uneven wood table, warped with the sloshed juice of spilled drinks over the years. “So listen,” she begins, eyeing the boys. “My hot sister is looking for a young man to be a kept man. There’s like this big contest going on, I mean this is better than American Idol. This is your meal ticket, Tom and Carl.”
I do my best not to roll my eyes. Julia could be in sales. The boys are enrapt, though that could be her lush auburn hair or the low-cut pink top she’s wearing. Then Julia snaps a finger at Hayden, who reaches into a black suede bag. She extracts a thick stack of business cards, the kind you print yourself, the perforated edge as the tell-tale sign of the do-it-yourselfer.
“Shut up!” I say to Hayden. I had no idea she was up to something.
“I told you that if you’re in this, we’re in this with you. So we thought we’d do a little grassroots marketing for you. Think of us as your on-the-ground Skyy Vodka girls,” Hayden says.
I reach for a card and read. “Have you ever dreamed of doing nothing all day but looking good and servicing your woman? Then sign up for the Trophy Husband Sweepstakes. Your chance to be a kept man. Every boy’s dream.”
I look at Julia, then Hayden. “Sweepstakes? Is this a sweepstakes now?”
Julia rolls her eyes. “Hello? It’s like the biggest sweepstakes there is.”
The thought flickers through my mind that this thing is taking on a life of its own. Calling the quest a “sweepstakes?” This has gone well beyond little old me. It’s like a bullet train, hurtling through town after town, picking up passengers, gaining speed. I might as well be hosting a reality show online, a contest for my next mate.
Then again, that kind of is what I am doing, letting viewers pick the dates. Earlier in the week, the national talk show host Helen even mentioned my pursuit on air.
So we pass out cards, and chat up guys, and the whole thing has an air of crazy fun, and I suppose it has to, because I know in some ways I have to keep a distance from the reality of it. I prefer the unreality of the contest. But even as I talk to other guys, I’m only thinking about one guy. The one who called. The one who kissed me. The one I wouldn’t mind seeing again.
“Where’s Erin? She’s supposed to be meeting us,” Hayden shouts, and I reach for my phone and send Erin a quick text: Hey, you going to join us for this girls night out or what?
I lay my phone on the table and seconds later, it buzzes. I click on the envelope icon. But it’s not from Erin. It’s from Chris. Turns out I didn’t write to Erin. I wrote to Chris accidentally since his was the last call I received, Erin’s the second to last.
Tempted, but I am pretty sure my presence is verboten. Where, may I ask, are the festivities?
“What’d she say?” Hayden asks, peering through her tortoise-shell glasses to try to read the message.
“Not Erin,” I say, as I quickly type a response: So sorry, meant to write to my girlfriend Erin. We’re on Fillmore. I pause for a second, wondering where he lives, wondering if I should ask. After all, he managed to weave in a question in his text message. That’s what you do when you want the volley to continue. So I add: What are you up to?
I hit send. Then I click back to the main screen and look at Hayden and Julia. “Are you all done with your messaging now? You think you can focus on us?” Hayden asks.
“Um, yeah,” I say, feeling a little sheepish. I don’t like when people spend more time on their phones than with the actual company they’re keeping. I’ve always believed in focusing on real people and not the electronic tethers to what I might be missing, like Chris, who is somewhere in this city, somewhere near me…
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts, restoring a tabula rasa to my brain. I may have a wicked crush on him, but I can’t let myself get swept up. The viewers might not choose him. They might not vote for him as one of the five finalists. Besides, we’re business partners trying to grow our shows. That’s all. We’re playing a game, nothing more.
Erin comes rushing in, a torrent of energy, decked out in tight black jeans, a pink and gray argyle short-sleeve sweater and gigantic pink plastic earrings in the shape of squares. She sits down in a huff, pushes a hand through her spiky hair, and says, “I need a drink. You will never believe what happened to me tonight.”
She motions to the waiter and orders a vodka straight up. “My VIP client wanted a happy ending.”
“What?” I say, shocked.
“A happy ending. He asked for a happy ending. Does he think we’re running a f**king bordello?”
“Jesus, Erin. Why would he do that?”
“Evidently, one of the other girls, Karen, has been giving him happy endings, that’s why. So when he booked for tonight, the receptionist didn’t hear him right when he made his special request for Karen.” The waiter, exceedingly prompt, returns with Erin’s drink. She reaches for it instantly and downs about half the glass. “So she assumed it was me because our names sound similar. Anyway, so as I finish the massage, he taps his hip. I pretend I don’t see it. He taps his hip again and says, ‘Karen always finishes me off. Can you?’”
She takes another drink, then practically slams her glass down.
“Ugh. That is so gross,” Julia says.
We commiserate with her for a few more minutes, and then Julia regales us with her craziest work stories, and soon Erin has downed another glass.