Twofers

by Suzanne Nielsen

Sheri says she's coming over with a friend she wants me to meet. "It's a friend of Ben's from work," she says. "No kids." How many of these losers do I need to meet in my 37 years? I toke a number, sit by the window and imagine Ben's friend to look like the other suit coats that have come through my door, looking for a quick fuck. This is why I get high first, because the reality of the situation is just too dull. At least if I get high, I can watch their sculptured faces and perfect hair move around like warm silly putty as I stare into their empty, always blue eyes.

A car door slams, then again. I can't bear to look out and see the same scenery. Life holds few surprises for me. Voices bellow through the apartment's hallway. I hear Sheri's canned laugh. "Knock-knock," like this is the true joke it is about to become. "Who's there?" I say through pained apathy. "Answer the door, Carrita," Sheri says. I know she's either high or showing off. She only deviates from my name, Carrie, under these two circumstances. My guess is she's not high. Ben's an MBA clown for Medtronic and I'm sure this geek is too. Business males are always too worried to get high and think that people that do are democrats, a threat to their financial dreams.

I open the door and Sheri grabs my arm, pulling me to my bedroom. She closes the door and says, "don't fuck this one up with your sarcastic mouth. He's a great guy and doesn't need to do this." She turns around, walks to and opens the door and heads back out into my small kitchenette where Ding-Dong is standing. With oozing resentment, I saunter into the crowded room of over-sized appliances and extend my hand. "Carrie Vane," I say as I attempt to shake his hand. "Vang," he says, "is your Father Eurasian?" He smiles at Sheri who again produces a canned laugh. Where does she pull these out of, I'm thinking. The two of them stand there laughing at this pathetic icebreaker. It's clear to me she wants to be the one set up with this idiot. She's been bored with Ben for three years but she hangs on for his friends.

"V-A-N-E," I say. "As in weather, or Carly Simon." Sheri interrupts me and says, "this is Michael. Michael McGrath. I thought the two of you should meet." I look at his suit; it's like the ones hanging in the windows of Nate's downtown Minneapolis, the two for one special. I pass them every day on my way to the Pillsbury building where I work. I have nothing important to say to this Mike M. so I make small talk. "Nice suit," I say. "Did you get it at Nate's?" He looks quizzically at me and says, "as a matter of fact I did. There's a guy down there, Tom Fields, and I buy all my clothes from him." I nod and watch his head bob up and down, hairs staying in place. A sign that this man uses hair spray. "I like to go down there," he says, "and give Fields my business. He works on commission and god knows I go through many a monkey suit in my work."
What a fuckin clown, I think. "Say, you gals feel like grabbing a bite to eat?" he says. Gals, never trust a guy in a suit from Nate's that calls a woman a "gal." I have hunger pangs going on inside me. I'm not sure if it's due to the dope I smoked or just plain boredom, however I say, "I just had a bite to eat, but why don't the two of you go grab something while I go work out and maybe I'll meet up with you later for a drink." Why did I say that? Because I'm horny, the only reason and after enough drinks, Mike M. won't seem so bad. "You work out?" he asks. "What club do you go to?" I don't want to tell him anything specific that he can use against me so I say "the one right down the street."

Sheri gives me a look of disgust. She says, "let's go eat, Michael. Carrie, do you have a pair of nylons you can loan me? Look at this big run I got in my stocking today at work." She pulls up her skirt, revealing a chubby thigh and starts to pull me back to my room again. We get in the room and she says, "what's up with you? Are you high or something? You're acting so weird. He wants to take us both out to eat, you idiot." I look at her and say, "he doesn't need to do this, I can tell by a first glance that he's quite a babe." She doesn't get it, just nods yeah, takes out her vial of coke and lays out a line thick enough to imitate a Virginia Slim on my dresser mirror. "You know, you are so fucked. You talk about wanting a relationship and every time you're set up with a probable encounter, you fuck yourself in the ass."

I fuck myself in the ass, huh. Sounds safe to me. "Sheri," I say, "you're absolutely right. This is what I do. I fuck myself in the ass." Why am I friends with this bimbo? I realize I'm not high enough yet to find any of this blather amusing.

Later that evening, Sheri calls from Gabe's. "Come meet us for drinks. Long Island Iced Teas are two for one tonight." I light up a joint, listen to her drunken babble and don't need to ask her who's wearing Mike M's. tie at this point. "I'll be by Gabe's in about an hour," I say. "I'm trying to get some stuff done before I leave town tomorrow," I add. I go out of town Wednesday through Saturday for my work. I'm a sales rep for a medical supply company. My life is sad. "Carrita," Sheri says, "Michael is so incredible. You'll fall in love with him before midnight, I can tell you this." She's drunk. She is starting to sound like all the women I so loathe where I work. "Tell me this," she says. "Doesn't he have a great bod?" Her words are slurred and she is becoming revealing. "Sheri," I say. "Screw him before I get there and let me know if it's worth the bother." Sheri giggles and hiccups into the phone. "I've already screwed him," she says, "and it was amazing. Don't tell Ben Ben." I have never talked to "Ben Ben" unless forced at gunpoint, but she's feeling frisky. "Our little secret," I say. Sheri tries to tell me some song-and-dance story about how Mike M. used to be a sex addict but now he's in recovery. "He only screws now when he feels the chemistry is right," she says in the form of a question. Maybe she's not as drunk as I think. "He's really open and honest, Carrie. To tell you the truth, I think I'm in love."

I go to Gabe's for the sake of being entertained and the twofer special. Before I leave, I finish off my bag of pot, three more joints, I listen to Supertramp and I feel ready to go watch the Sheri and Mike M. movie. Now my history with drinking isn't actually trouble-free, more like Under the Volcano. Me, being the volcano, always irrupting and spewing fire. But with this many joints under my belt, I don't think I'm likely to get too vicious.

There they are, off in the corner, surrounded by a table of empty glasses. As expected, Sheri has Mike M.'s tie on and he's leading her around like the mutt she truly is. So far, so good. I slide into the booth, across from their love seat. "Carrita," they both shout in unison. "That'd be me," I say, looking hard and strong for a waitstaff. Sheri's got her legs draped over Mike M's. Her skirt is almost invisible and her (my) nylons look trashed. I look down at Mike M's shoes and see he has buckles on the sides. Telling! "What can I get for ya?" a young woman with too much makeup asks. "The twofer," I say, "heavy on the iced tea." Sheri can-laughs, Mike M. laughs and nibbles her neck. I pick up the candle on the table and pour the wax down the front of myself. Ouch. Guess I'm high. Because I'm watching a movie, the two no-name stars don't pay notice to my dumbo move. As the wax hardens, it looks like cum and I start to laugh uncontrollably. "What?" the new lovers say again in unison. "Oh nothing," I say, "just trying to get my two cents in." Mike reaches in his pocket and pulls out a fist full of change. Through blurry eyes, he finds two pennies and throws them in my direction. Canned laugh, sloppy kisses follow, then Sheri falls to the floor. Too high. "Are you alright, are you alright?" asks Mike M. It reminds me of being in Red Cross training with resuscitating Annie.

I hate this guy. I hate his suit and I hate the fact that I have lousy friends and I'm a sucker for twofer's. I hate that Mike M. threw money at me like I'm a wishing well. Tomorrow I'm going to Nate's and pouring hot wax all over the suits on special. These pigs all deserve to be left in their own mess.

© 2005 by Suzanne Nielsen.
Suzanne Nielsen has been published in various literary journals nationally and internationally; most recently her work has appeared in The Comstock Review, Brick and Mortar Review, Mid-America Poetry Review, Asphodel and 580 Split. She also won a year’s supply of Blue Bunny ice cream from the St. Paul Saints.