Page 23 of The Significance of Moving On

On the third ring, Dr. Noonan’s voicemail picks up. “Hey, Dr. Noonan. My name is Casey Davenport. I’m calling about the Volkswagen Rabbit you’re selling.” After leaving my number and hanging up, the incessant horn blowing in the backdrop is about ready to be ripped out of his stupid car and shoved up his ass.

The whole shower from strip down to approaching Nick’s car only took fifteen minutes and that’s including the call. But to punish me for keeping them waiting the idiots relegate me to the center seat in the back, squeezed in between Jesse and Chris. Of course our boss would call shotgun.

“What’s that smell?” Chris asks.

“Clean.You should try it. See, women like showering, even you might get lucky.”

“What took you so damn long?” Jesse feathers the side of his hair through his fingers.

“He was on the phone with that girl again, bet.”Thanks, Chris.

“Boy, your woman got you on a pretty short leash there, Davenport.”

“I wasn’t on the phone with her and she’s not my woman. We’re roommates.”

“With benefits?” Nick asks.

I reach up and punch Nick right on his unwashed, smelly uniformed shoulder. Whatever is or isn’t going on between Tal and me is none of his business.

“Man Casey—can’t talk about tits now? You really are a woman.”

Before I have the chance to defend myself he drifts into the turn lane pulling in to the parking lot of Lucky Strikes.

Inside, Lucky Strikes is the stereotype of every sports bar ever depicted in books or movies. The wood paneled walls steal any extra light out of the room. Sports memorabilia—in this case—The Tigers, Pistons, Red Wings and Lions, hang haphazardly. One stereotype none of us minds, the waitresses’ super short, black spandex shorts and skintight white and black referee jerseys. Hot enough I almost lose an ear, just about impaling it walking through the path of a dart targeting the bullseye behind my head as we move toward the middle of the bar to an empty table.

Nick picked the location perfect for watching the drunk girls hanging all over each other on the tiny dance floor or the bottled blondes walking through the front door.

“Dibs on the tits at two o’clock,” Nick calls out. Instinct dictates that we all turn obviously checking her out.

“Never gonna happen,” Chris says. We all kind of shoot the obligatory ‘what the hell?’ look at him. “Fat friend as wingman. See.” He points. “She’s guarding real close.” His derogatory view of women is about to earn him a punch to the face. Come to think on it, they’re all a bunch of misogynistic Neanderthals. I start peeling the paper off my beer bottle, taking the larger pieces and tearing them super small in the sole interest of keeping my temper in check.

“Whose turn is it?” Nick asks.

“Casey.” The other three call it out together. Like that’s ever going to happen.

I shake my head.

“Come on, man. You’ve been absent all summer.”

“No. No way.”

“So you are with the chick.”

“No.”

“Then take one for the team. You owe me.”

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.” Although I’m not exactly sure how I owe him.

As I make my approach, a plan comes together. The wingwoman is actually quite pretty. Her hair hangs to the middle of her back and is that shade darker than strawberry blonde. It bounces these wild curls as she talks with her animated hands. And her eyes are amazing. She’s got that red hair/green eye combo going on. She could work. Yeah okay, she might carry a few extra pounds, but to call her the fat friend just seems wrong.

If Tally sees me going out with another woman, then maybe I can get her to go out with other guys. She’ll forget about her crush on me and we can go back to being friends and roommates. It’s honestly the only scenario I can come up with where I get to keep her in my life.

“Hey, pretty lady.” I slide up next to the woman. “You look like you could use a dance partner.”

“It’s okay.”

“Really? Don’t like this song?” Some indie punk-pop band plays through the speakers in the background. I don’t really know the song, but it’s catchy enough to dance to.

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