Boycotts and Barflies (2 page)

Meg laughed. “If we just keep going, eventually we will have dated every loser  in the greater Portland area, and then, by process of elimination, we’ll finally  come across the nice guys.”

“Yes, but we might be eighty years old by then, in a nursing home, eating  pudding, and making Popsicle stick sculptures,” Grace teased.

“Oh, can we be roomies in the nursing home?” Meg asked excitedly. “Then we  can wear our Juicy sweat suits and make all the other old people jealous of our  fabulous style.”

“Enough about getting old and wrinkly, please. Let’s focus on the here and now,  where we’re twenty-four and looking fit and fantastic. I’m with Grace; I’m tired  of kissing frogs. I really want to make out with a handsome prince,”

6

Bianca whined. “Is that  really so much to ask? One sexy, gorgeous, mentally stable, gainfully employed guy with an amazing personality, that doesn’t smell like mothballs or live with his mother?” Her eyes glazed over as she began to daydream about her perfect man.

Grace glanced over at Meg and found her deep in her own fantasy as she gracefully swayed with an invisible dance partner, probably named Mr. Right.

Struck with an idea, Grace went to the refrigerator, took out three beers, and opened them, placing one in front of each of the girls. “I propose we go on a boy-boycott until the new year,” Grace said as she happily waved her beer in the air. “Who’s with me?”

Both of her friends considered the idea for a few seconds before smiles crept onto their faces. Meg, of course, had questions. “What are the rules of a boy-boycott? No dates, I assume, but what else? Can we kiss random boys?

What if they kiss us? It doesn’t happen to me much, but Bianca gets that a lot, so I figured I’d ask …”

“Hold on a minute, Meg. Let’s make a list!” Grace dug in the drawer for a pen. Bianca snatched a notebook off the nearby desk as Grace tossed her the pen she found. “OK, Boy-Boycott Official Rules,” she wrote across the top of the

page.

Rule number one: No dates.

Rule number two: No tongue kissing with boys. Closed lip kissing is fine. If a  guy crams his tongue down your throat unexpectedly, it doesn’t count, unless  you kiss him back. (AKA Bianca’s rule)

Rule number three: No sex … of any kind. If you wouldn’t want to see your  parents do it, that counts as sex and it’s off limits.

Rule number four: Each of us puts $200 into the pot. If you break the rules of  the boycott, you lose the money. The last person(s) standing gets the money to  spend on a hot new pair of shoes to be worn on her first date of the new year  and gets eternal bragging rights about her superior will power.

Bianca flipped the paper around so Meg and Grace could read it and check to  see if they agreed with all of the rules. They quickly scanned the list; Grace was  the first to sign the paper, followed by Meg, and finally Bianca. Grace ran into  her room, her wavy black hair flowing behind her as she grabbed her wad of  emergency cash. She slammed $200 onto the counter. Meg and Bianca  disappeared for a few minutes, and then did the same. They hid the winnings  in the cookie jar and tucked it into the back corner of the counter.

7

“To the boycott!” Grace cheered as she raised her beer high into the air.

“To the boycott!” Bianca and Meg toasted in unison.

y

The smoke in the club was starting to burn Michael’s eyes. He glanced to his

left and found Jack and Ryan sitting on the nearby bench with a bleached

blonde draped over each of their laps. Candy and Sandy were a set of twins

from California with incredible bodies but about as much personality as a toilet

seat.

“Mikey …,” a voice whined in Michael’s ear.

He turned to his right to see Donna, brainless friend of the twins and his date  for the evening, pouting, inches away from his face.

“Mikey, why aren’t you paying attention to me?” she asked as she snaked her  way into his lap.

Because you’re dull, dim, disgusting, drab, desolate, demonic … he thought to

himself. Nice use of the letter D, Michael.

Michael flashed a dashing smile that he  knew, from years of experience, would  allow him to get away with anything and said, “Donna, my name is Michael, not  Mikey. Please try and remember that; I’m tired of reminding you.” Michael  looked out the corner of his eye and saw Jack start laughing as Candy—or was  it Sandy?—played with his hair.

“Come on, Michael, let’s dance,” Donna squealed as she jumped to her feet. “I  love this song,” she shouted over the music, pulling on Michael’s arm.

“I don’t dance, sorry.”

Ryan raised his eyebrow suspiciously. He knew Michael was lying, and that he  actually loved to dance, but obviously Michael didn’t believe Donna was even  worth the walk across the dance floor.

Michael looked at both Jack and Ryan and pressed two fingers to his temple which was their universal sign for “bail.”

They both laughed and stood up somewhat abruptly, knocking Candy and

Sandy off their laps. “Sorry, ladies, Michael has a migraine. We need to be going. Thanks for a pleasant evening. We’ll … see you around,” Ryan said as he gallantly kissed  Candy’s hand—or was it Sandy’s?

They went through the motions of exchanging phone numbers, although the one Michael gave to Donna was to a local pizza joint, not his apartment.

That was his signature way to end a bad date and he felt absolutely no guilt 8

about doing it. He figured at least she’d end up with a great place to order pizza

from.

A few kisses on the cheek later and they were in Jack’s truck, flying down the highway.

y

“What the hell were we thinking, guys? If I had to listen to one more story

about their ridiculous sorority, I was going to stab myself.” Michael shuddered

at the memory. The evening had been filled with countless tales about rushing  and pledging, things he loathed beyond words.

“Hey, man, it was twins! I had to go for it. You never know, sometimes twins  can be a lot of fun. Of course this time, not so much … God were they stupid or  what? You know Candy actually asked me if she was the first girl I’d ever  picked up at work. Can you imagine?” Jack laughed. “So I said, ‘Of course,  sweetie, only you,’ and she totally bought it.”

Ryan, Jack, and Michael had known each other for years. They met their senior  year of college as they all finished their degrees in business management. About eighteen months ago, they’d started tending bar at a local nightclub to  allow them to research a business venture they were interested in pursuing  together. The Vault was a great place to work. They made easy money as  bartenders, and working with their buddies was a major bonus.

On more than one occasion, the guys had taken out girls they met at work.

They lovingly referred to them as the “barflies.” Some of their co -workers  probably considered them major players for their free -wheeling ways, but they  were twenty-six years old and good-looking, so they used what they had to  their advantage. The funny thing was, even though they took out a lot of girls,  very few of the dates turned into relationships. More often than not, the girls  ended up being bubble heads, and the guys left them sitting in some nightclub,  never to see them again. Tonight had been no different.

Since it was common knowledge that Michael always kept his refrigerator  stocked, Jack and Ryan parked the car and followed him up to his apartment  for a late night snack before heading back to their place. Jack and Ryan lived in  your classic bachelor pad, with a pool table instead of a dining room table and  more beer in the refrigerator than food. Michael, however, liked his privacy

and had always lived alone. He loved Ryan and Jack; he just couldn’t live with  them.

9

Three beers and a package of mini corn dogs later, they were sitting around  Michael’s kitchen table, questioning if there were any decent girls in the  Greater Portland area.

“Look at us. Just how lame are we? It’s not even midnight on a Friday night, and  here we are, huddled around the table, eating junk food and drinking beer— alone,” Michael complained. Of course, hanging out together was a far better  option than being out on a disastrous date with another brainless bimbo.

Deep down, Michael knew he needed something … something more in his life, someone special.

“We do look like losers, I’ll give you that. I mean, we’re good -looking guys! What’s wrong with us?” Jack asked with irritation as he ran his fingers through his dark spiked hair. Of the three of them, Jack had the most outgoing personality.

He could probably talk a plant into coming back to his apartment if he put his mind to it; he was that charismatic. Girls loved his large frame and well-defined muscles, and Jack loved flexing them for anyone who was interested. He was the playful, big brother type, and everyone who met him wanted to be his friend.

Michael glanced over at Ryan, who was flipping through the Arts section of the newspaper, and smiled. In contrast to Jack, Ryan was more the strong, silent type—a real gentleman and a self proclaimed romantic. When he dated a girl, he often put her up on a pedestal, treating her like a  queen, probably a result of being raised by his strong, southern mother. The girls swooned over his long blond hair with its natural highlights and his ice blue eyes. Where Jack was big and broad shouldered, Ryan was the tallest of the three men, and whilemuscular, his height made him appear exceptionally lean.

Michael had always been described by people as the boy next door that every mom wanted her daughter to go out with in high school. He was very smart, did well in school, and was voted most popular guy in his senior class.

In college, he always had girls throwing themselves at him, but of the three,  Michael was the most picky when it came to dating. He was not about to waste his time with someone he didn’t feel a connection with no matter how beautiful she was, so he developed his routine of only giving his phone number to the girls that he felt something for, ones that intrigued him. The rest got the number to the pizza joint. His blue eyes made the girls melt, and they loved to run their fingers thro ugh his dark brown hair, which he always kept on the long side and purposely messy.

10

Ryan looked at Michael over the top of the newspaper and shrugged in response to the question, but Jack was right. They were good-looking, and tons of girls hit on them every night at work. Unfortunately, they weren’t girls a guy could have a conversation with that lasted more than three minutes. Their

skills were more in the physical realm, rather than the intellectual. Definitely

not the kind of women they’d ever dare take home to meet their mothers,  that’s for sure.

Ryan thought about it for a second as he chewed on his last corn dog. “You  know, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with us. What’s that one song? ‘Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places.’ I think that’s our problem. I mean,  my mom keeps bugging me that I’m never going to meet a nice girl at the bar. According to her, nice girls wouldn’t be caught dead picking up a guy in a bar  because they’re off at the museum or the lib rary. Maybe she’s right.”

Jack’s mouth fell open in shock. “You’re not seriously suggesting we go trolling  the library for chicks? Or a museum … Wait. Like an art museum, or are we  talking a history museum? I could tolerate the dinosaur bones and war relics,  but modern art will just give me a headache. A red dot on a white canvas isn’t  ‘a representation of a woman’s struggle in a male dominated society;’ it’s a red  freakin’ circle!” Michael and Ryan nodded their heads in agreement with Jack’s  artistic tirad e.

Michael considered Mama Bartlett’s point for a minute. Most nice girls didn’t hit on bartenders at the bar; it seemed like a reasonable assumption. It only followed suit that libraries and museums wouldn’t be filled with bimbos and

brainless twits. Sure, one or two would probably sneak in from time to time,

but you had to actually know what a book was to be at the library, and you had

to be able to appreciate art to be at a museum.

Slamming his hand on the table, Michael said, “I think we should give it  a try.

What the hell do we have to lose? Let’s go look for the nice girls in town.

No more barflies. If we meet them at the bar, they’re off limits.” He glanced

back and forth between Jack and Ryan, trying to gauge their reactions to his

unorthodox suggestion.

Jack was more interested in chugging his beer than answering the question.

Ryan, however, looked deep in thought.

“I’m with Michael, no more barflies. Bring on the smart girls,” he said with

great enthusiasm. “Jack?”

11

Both Michael and Ryan knew it was an all - or-none proposition. The only way it would work was if Jack agreed and they were all in this together.

A grin came across Jack’s face. “Care to make it a little more interesting … say, with a small wager?” His eyebrows arched up playfully, daring the guys to accept the challenge.

As childish as it sounded, the guys loved making bets. They’d bet on the weather, how much snow they’d get over the winter, if Jack would go home with a blonde or a brunette. If there was something to bet on, they definitely