Just One of the Guys(11)

“Untrue,” I respond dutifully.

“—but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone like this.”

“He will retire, Mom. He’ll have to. Aren’t there union rules or something? I mean, he’s fifty-nine years old, right?”

“Fifty-eight,” Mom says. “He’ll retire whenever he feels like it, honey. Six years? Seven? Ten? Am I supposed to sit around waiting? For thirty-nine years, I’ve put up with it! It’s my turn to decide a thing or two about our life, and he won’t accept that, and it’s not fair.” She settles back in her chair. “So I’m finding someone else.”

“Don’t you still love him, Mom?”

“Of course I do,” she says. “That’s not the point. It’s that I want someone who will put me first, and honestly, your father has never done that. He wasn’t a bad husband, but he never put me first.” Her tone is that of a professor announcing historical facts. I nod and pick at the sole of my hiking boot. Who knows? Maybe her plan will work and a little jealousy will get Dad’s attention at last. She loves him. She doesn’t want anyone else, not really.

“We’ll have fun, honey,” Mom proclaims. “I’ve already signed us up for singles grocery shopping! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Um, no,” I answer.

“Oh, come on! You haven’t even tried it yet! It’s fun!”

“Have you gone?” I ask.

“No, but how can singles grocery shopping not be fun?” She continues to describe the anticipatory thrill of examining produce with other mate-seeking individuals. I grimace and let my head fall back against the arm of the chair.

The truth is, I’ll go. I don’t have time to waste, do I? I can feel my ovaries sighing in impatience…We’re still functioning. For now, at least… The blurry memory of the slutty waitress pops up in my mind. I have no desire to watch Trevor rake in the females as I sit around single and childless, staring at my empty ring finger.

And so I make a pact with the devil, or in this case, my mommy. We’ll try it together. Why not? What have I got to lose?

CHAPTER THREE

BECAUSE I’VE BEGUN MY STORY on the night when I was dumped and had a woman hit on me, I might’ve given the impression that I don’t have any male admirers. I do…just not the males I want.

Case in point—Alan of the Gray Tooth, managing editor at Eaton Falls Gazette, where I have just shown up for my first official day of work. Alas, Alan and I are alone in the Gazette “office suite,” which is really just a big room divided into gray burlap cubicles, a conference room and a cramped office for our boss.

“I really hope you’ll like it here,” says Alan (5'8" and this is with chunky-heeled Doc Martens), grinning. Like Judas at the Last Supper, the gray tooth is malignantly out of place, sitting ominously in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable row of normal teeth. I try to look away from it, but it’s weirdly compelling. Alan raises an eyebrow. Eech.

“Sure. Yeah, I’m, uh, I’m sure I will. Thanks.”

“Maybe we can get together for drinks later on at the old watering hole where us journalists like to hang out.”

That should be “where we journalists like to hang out,” Al, old buddy. “I’m…I don’t…” I can’t hear properly. The Tooth has taken control of me.

“Drinks it is, then,” Alan says. “Awesome.”

Jesus. How did that thing get so gray? Doesn’t Alan know his own tooth is rotting away in his mouth? Shouldn’t it be pulled? It certainly should be capped. As Alan talks, the gray tooth blinks darkly, Alan’s narrow lips moving around the words that I’m ignoring, fascinated by the evil power of The Tooth. Like Tolkien’s Ring, it has a hypnotic, undeniable power. One tooth to rule them, one tooth to find them, one tooth to bring them all, and in the darkness bite them.

I shudder, then straighten a few books on my desk. “I should get organized,” I say to Alan with what I hope is an apologetic smile and not a horrified grimace.

“So. Six o’clock?” The Tooth asks.

Yes, Master. “Excuse me?” I realize I sound like an idiot, but really, someone should tell him. It dawns with sudden horror that he’s just asked me out on a date. “No! No, sorry. I can’t. Something…some other thing going on.” I flush with the lie, but Alan doesn’t seem to care.

“That’s okay. How about Friday?”

“You know what?” I blurt. “I don’t date coworkers. Sorry.” There. Great excuse. No hurt feelings, right? Alan doesn’t seem like a bad guy. Just physically repulsive on many levels. Oh, no, it’s not just The Tooth. There’s a paunch that droops over his belt…the musty, grandmother’s-bedroom smell that floats around him in a geriatric cloud, the Donald Trumpian comb-over…but lording over them all, yes, The Tooth.

“No, no, not a date. Just two fellow journalists having a few drinks.” His words are lost as I again find myself gazing into his mouth, swallowing sickly as the sinister power of The Tooth oozes toward me. Perhaps I can fake impending stomach distress. If I don’t look away soon, I won’t have to fake anything.

“So. That works for you, then?” The Tooth asks.

“You know, Alan, I think I ate something that was off this morning,” I begin.