Biggest Mistakes of My Life: The Annotated List
1) Selling the '67 Mustang I rebuilt in high school to pay for college—too bad I only attended for one year.
2) My prom dress—what kind of crack was I smoking??
3) Turning down the job offer from pre-IPO Google--- dumb, dumb, dumb.
4) Going out with Mortimer.
5) Dumping Bobby prematurely.
I was in purgatory, and I had no one to blame but myself. Except maybe Scott because he was the one who introduced me to Mort, though I felt fairly certain he'd deny all responsibility.
"Hey," Mort nudged me. "Want some?"
I looked down at the basket of pretzels he offered and shook my head. "No, thank you."
He turned to his left. "Want some?"
George, Mort's friend, nodded and grabbed a fistful. "Thanks."
Mort acknowledged the gratitude with an upward jerk of his chin before turning around. "How about you?"
"Yeah. Thanks, man." Blob (could he even remember if he had a birth name?) another one of his friends, took the outstretched basket and tipped it to pour some directly into his mouth. He chewed, drowned half his pint, and belched so loud my beer glass vibrated.
Why he and George arrived with Mort, I had no idea. I asked Mort out for a drink. It never occurred to me that he'd bring friends. Idiot friends at that.
George slammed his pint down on the bar. "I've got another joke for you guys."
I smothered a groan in my beer. Not another one.
"Two old ladies are standing outside their nursing home smoking when it starts to rain. The first lady pulls out a condom, cuts off the end, covers her cigarette and continues to smoke.
"The second lady asks here what that is. Lady One says it's a condom and that you can get them at the drugstore.
"The next day Lady Two goes to the drugstore and announces to the pharmacist that she wants a box of condoms. The guy's embarrassed—she's friggin' eighty years old—but he delicately asks her what brand she'd like.
"The old lady says, 'I don't care, sonny, as long as it fits a Camel.'"
Can we say junior high? But the three of them high-fived, laughing it up like it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever heard.
It seemed like I should make effort to get to know Mort (and, consequently, his friends) but every time I spoke they would simply stare at me until the silence became deafening.
George coughed. "I've got another joke for ya."
This time I did groan, but they didn't hear me over the eager exclamations from Blob and Morty.
"Three dickless guys walk into a bar—"
I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for lightning to strike me now before it was too late.
Having no vision affected my hearing because I completely missed the middle and end of George's joke. Thank God. I opened my eyes in time to see the three guys chortling and exchanging high-fives. Again.
That was when I noticed Morty's stained T-shirt had a hole in the right armpit. The hole itself didn't bother me--- though he knew he was going on a date with me. Couldn't he have worn a clean T-shirt without any holes?--- what disturbed me was the pale skin I saw through the hole. No hair.
I choked on my beer.
Blob whacked me on the back. "Ease up there, man."
I nodded my thanks, not bothering to point out he had the wrong gender.
My mind whirled. The fact that Mort had no armpit hair bugged me. Big time. I forgot all about how miserable I was and instead thought about Mort's armpits. Did he shave them or wax them? Why?
And how could I surreptitiously find out? I felt insanely curious about his preferred depilatory method.
George draped his arm over my shoulder. "So, Mary---"
"Marie," I corrected automatically.
"Yeah, that's what I said. You ever had cyber sex?"
Cyber sex was a favorite topic with these boys. It'd taken me only five minutes in their company to figure that out. It wasn't a big surprise though—I was beginning to suspect that none of them had ever touched a woman who wasn't inflated. "Can't say that I have."
"I've been thinking of making a suit you slip on that's connected to software on your computer. Say there's a woman you like---" George frowned. "Well, not you. Unless you're into that sort of thing?" He asked hopefully.
"Ah, no."
"Oh." He looked crestfallen for an instant before he continued. "Well, she has the software on her machine, too, and she can control your suit through her console. Kind of like online gaming, get it?"
Blob shook his head in awe. "That's genius, man."
"What about the woman?"
They all gawked at me.
I shrugged and picked up my glass. "Why doesn't the woman get a suit, too? I wouldn't want to play along if I didn't have a suit."
"You'd play along?"
George's question was a little too eager, so I was careful about how I answered it. "No. I just mean that if a woman did want to play along, she should have her own suit."
George's face scrunched up. "I'll need to think about that."
What was there to thinking about? It was logical. But I just rolled my eyes and signaled the bartended for another beer.
"I think it's a great idea." Mort threw into the conversation.
George beamed. "Really?"
"Sure." Morty held up his hand for a high-five.
Here was my chance. I leaned closer to the bar. If I got low enough, I was sure I'd be able to see through the hole in his shirt.
Shit—it was too dark. I wondered if I had a pen light in my purse.
"Dude, you okay?"
I looked up to find all three guys frowning at me. I tried to smile like there was nothing out of the ordinary going on. "Of course."
They didn't look like they believed it. They kept glancing at me while they discussed the details of their virtual sex suits.
I snorted as I picked up my glass. Like I was the weird one here.
When they started debating what color to make the suit, I decided it was time to make a move. "So, Mort."
Mortimer jerked and looked up like a deer in headlights. "Huh?"
I smiled coquettishly. "What do you like to do?"
He blinked several times. And then he shrugged. "Stuff."
"Uh. Great." I hoped my smile didn't look sickly. Maybe he was into martial arts. Or movies. "What do you think of Jet Li?"
"Dude, I never fly," was Blob's response. George and Mort nodded in agreement.
I stared at them in complete puzzlement.
Ten seconds later George turned to the guys, stroking his chin in thought. "I think the suit should be purple."
"Why purple?" Morty asked.
"Because the sexiest man on earth is Prince and his color is purple."
I found logic in that, so I knew it was time for me to call it a night. Mort obviously didn't want to engage, and I flirted with insanity for a moment by considering asking George or Blob out.
"Guys, it's time for me to head out," I said as I slipped off the barstool. "Good luck on the sex suit. I'll see you around."
George clapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, Mary, we'll take you home."
Blob nodded. "No prob, man. It's on our way."
I wasn't sure how he knew that since I hadn't told them where I lived. "It's Marie. And thanks, but it's not necessary---"
"Get off your ass, Mort." George cuffed him on the back of the head. "Your date wants to go home. Be a gentleman."
"Yeah, man." Blob nodded again.
Mort frowned at his friends. "She can make it home on her own."
Oh, the chivalry. Be still, my heart.
"Quit being a dickhead and let's take the woman home." George pulled Mort off the barstool and lugged him out of the bar. "Didn't your momma teach you anything?"
"Really, guys, I can make it home on my own," I said, dragging my feet after them.
George shook his head. "The streets aren't safe."
Westchester was hardly Harlem, and I was a third degree black belt. But George and Blob were so intent on taking me home, I figured I'd just go with it. I didn't relish waiting for a bus anyway.
They shoved Mort in the back seat. I followed. George drove and Blob sat shotgun.
George cranked the ignition and turned around. "You guys can make out if you want to. We won't look."
Blob nodded enthusiastically. I wasn't sure if he was agreeing with the making out part or that he wouldn't look. I had a feeling it was the former.
I bared my teeth in a smile. "That's awfully thoughtful."
"Yeah, and if you want to take your top off, that's okay, too." George added.
"I'll keep that in mind," I murmured.
Mort scooted closer to his door and gripped the handle like it was a life preserver.
The ride home was abnormally quiet. I was conscious of George's furtive glances in the rearview mirror, as if he was hoping to find Mort and me groping like teenagers. Mortimer glared at me accusingly and hugged his door harder. Blob didn't bother with subtlety—he faced backwards for the first ten minutes until it became apparent nothing was going to happen.
I sighed. What an evening.
-------------------------------------------------------
"I've come to a realization."
"That you should stop chatting before Dwight kicks you out of class?"
I crossed my eyes at Scott as I bowed to him. I figured the bow, which we do before we spar, negated the disrespect with the eye thing.
"Real adult there, Rogue," he said, also bowing. "You want to go first, or do you want me to?"
Usually the highest rank goes first. Since Scott and I are the same belt, we arbitrarily decide who gets beat first. This evening I was feeling magnanimous, so I volunteered.
"So what was your realization?" he asked after he traumatized my nervous system with a pain punch and broke my neck.
"That maybe I dumped Bobby too soon." I yielded and sidestepped when he lunged at me. As he flew by me, I kicked him in the back, which sent him flying into the wall. I finished with a couple of strikes to his kidneys and his spine.
When I stopped beating him, Scott turned around and asked, "What happened to Mortimer?"
"Morty sucked." I scowled and punched him.
He blocked and countered with a punch to the lower sternum to break my ribs. "He's a man of few words."
"And few manners." I folded into his strike. He followed it up with an elbow to the same spot, which would drive the broken ribs into my lung or, worst-case-scenario, into my heart.
Usually I would have admired such economy of movement—moves that debilitate with a minimum of fuss excite me—but I wasn't feeling charitable tonight. "Did you know he brought along a couple of friends?"
"Not George and Blob." He palmed by nose and then flipped me over his back and slammed me into the floor.
"Yes. You know them?"
"Just from the games." He kicked me twice for good measure before stepping back. "They come and cheer us on sometimes."
"Did you know Mort has no armpit hair?" I asked as I hopped up from the mat.
"Excuse me?"
I nodded as I straightened my gi and retied my belt. "I know. How weird is that? I can't date a guy who has no pit hair. What's up with that? Does he have leg hair?"
"Can't say I've ever checked out his legs."
"All night he kept trying to get away from me. And he barely talked to me. I'm not that repulsive, am I?"
Scott grinned. "Why do you leave yourself wide open like that?"
"It was like I was back in second grade and he thought I had cooties." I frowned at him accusingly. "You didn't warn me."
"I didn't know you had cooties."
I glared at him and his grin widened. "I didn't know about his armpits, and I figured you'd notice he was a little shy."
"A little shy---ha!" I threw him a right hook, which he ducked. Then he elbowed my liver, punched my kidney, and broke my back over his leg before letting me fall to the floor.
I lay there a full minute, staring up at the ceiling, before I got to my feet. "So what am I supposed to do now?"
"Abandon this plan and live your life for yourself instead of your parents."
"Ha!" I didn't wait for him to throw me a punch. I attacked with a kick to the groin.
Thwak! I connected soundly with his cup--- which has got to be one of the greatest sounds in the world. I wanted to take a moment to revel in the beauty of it, but I quickly followed up with a crescent kick to his face and then brought the same hell down at the base of his skull.
"Jeez, Rogue." Scott picked himself off the floor, adjusting his cup. "You didn't have to kick the jewels so hard. I have future generations of Summers to think about."
"What exactly am I supposed to do now?" I demanded. "I don't have that much time left. Jean's party is coming up. Fast."
"Be a liberated woman and go by yourself."
Only our many years of friendship kept me from hammering his teeth him. For real.
"Dwight's giving us evil looks." Scott jerked his chin toward the corner of the studio.
I didn't have to look to know Dwight was staring at us. Dwight's gaze is freaky. His eyes can convey any number of things, and you would have to be an idiot not to know he was telling us to stop fooling around and start fighting.
Grr. I narrowed my eyes at Scott. "Throw me a damn punch or something."
He punched me—he never does the unexpected. I slipped it and took a couple of steps in as I brought the heel of my hand up to jam his nose into his head. Then I stuck my fingers in his eye sockets, put my foot behind his left ankle, and drove his head into the floor. I kicked his side to break his ribs and stomped on his chest to drive it into his lungs.
As I waited for him to pick himself off the floor--- I guess I took him down harder than I meant; oops--- I realized what I’d have to do. “I have to call Johnny.”
Johnny was a friend of mine from college. Actually, for two months some odd years ago he’d been more than a friend, but we’d quickly realized the only thing we had in common was our love for beer.
Scott frowned as he got to his feet. “I think you must’ve driven my head harder into the mat than I thought, because I swear I just heard you say you were going to call Johnny.”
“I did.”
He stopped stretching his neck and stared at me. Then he slowly exclaimed, “Are you out of your mind?”
On the inside, I agreed with him. Johnny wasn’t an ideal choice. But he was the only one at this point. I shrugged. “Johnny isn’t obvious, but---”
“Johnny’s a pyromaniac and a freak.”
“He’s not.” A freak, that is. “He’s just---” I struggled for the right word. “---different.”
“Yeah. Freaks tend to be.”
I put my hand on my hips. “I’m out of options here, so unless you have a bright idea I have to call up Johnny.” It was a sad day when you realized all the available men you knew were unendearingly taken or into illegal activity with firearms.
Scott shrugged. “Do what you want, Rogue. I’m just saying Johnny is not the one for you.”
“Why not?”
“He has a great mind and he may be funny, but you need someone whose idea of fun isn’t sitting in front of the TV speculating on whether Bill O’Reilly wears a hairpiece. And do you really want to be involved with someone who was fated to be Unabomber II at birth?”
I pouted. Scott had a point. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Forget this scheme.”
I pictured the disappointment on my mom’s face when she found out I’d broken up with Bobby. She’d say “Oh, Marie-Elizabeth.” her voice heavy with resignation like I’d let her down big time. Again.
Then I pictured my angelic sister languishing in the shadows while everyone exclaimed how accomplished I was now with my great job and great house and great boyfriend.
Like there was any debate which vision was better.
So I called Johnny first thing when Scott dropped me off at home after class. And I got his voice mail.
I froze after the beep, but only momentarily. Short and simple works best, right? “Hey Johnny, it‘s Marie--- want to go out sometime?” Click.
I knew I’d drive myself insane if I sat there and waited for him to call back, so went into my bedroom, stripped out of my sweaty gi, and hopped in the shower.
As the hot water scalded my skin I wondered what Johnny looked like these days. I hadn’t actually seen him since college, and back then he was kind of scruffy-looking. I frowned as I realized Scott was right-- Johnny did look like he’d spent a considerable amount of time in a one-room shack in the woods. And there were those diaries he always scribbled in…
“That was practically a lifetime ago,” I told myself for reassurance. I’d definitely changed in that time period. It was a given that he had too.
I hoped.
As I raided my closet for a robe, I glanced at the clock. I was distracted by its apocalyptic look-- I’d wound duct tape around it a couple of times to keep the plastic casing intact. The rattle was still there, but who cared as long as no one shook it? It told time and that’s all that mattered. Right now, it glowed S thirty-five, which I figured meant nine thirty-five.
I doubted he’d called me back yet. I wiggled my nose as I sat down and picked up my phone.
“Oh.” I gasped, when my voice mail message popped up. He’d responded while I was in the shower.
“Marie--- got your message. Uhm…This is Marie D’Ancanto, right?”
The confusion in his voice was evident. I dialed my way out of my voice mail and called his number once more. He picked up after ten seconds.
“Of course it’s me. How many Maries do you know?
“Just one. Thank God. I can’t imagine the world with more than one of you in it.”
Johnny had always thought he was more clever than he really was.
“So you want to go out or what?”
I tapped my foot against the leg of the chair while I waited for his answer. My nerves were jittery. What was up with that? This was just Johnny. I couldn’t even blame it on excessive caffeine because I hadn’t had any since my second cup of coffee in the morning. I knew desperation when I felt it.
“Why?”
I pursed my lips and wondered how he’d take it if I told him because I was looking for my soul mate, or at least a good facsimile.
Exactly. So I sugarcoated it. “I was just thinking about you and thought it’d be nice to rekindle what we once had.”
“Ha! That’s fuckin’ hilarious, D’Ancanto, considering we didn’t have anything but joint ownership of a bottle of aspirin for hangovers.”
I scowled but he couldn’t see it.
“I could give you a list of all the stuff we had in common.”
“Give me your list.”
I rubbed the tip of my nose, thought about it, and replied “Beer. Darts. Salty peanuts.”
Ha. Take that, Mr. Doubting Johnny. But he just chortled.
“Great. Marie. When I decide to open up a bar, I’ll give you a call. Until then, I think I’m safe in saying we don’t have much of a future together. But hey-- I’m flattered you thought of me. Take care. And thanks for the laugh.”
Then the bastard actually hung up on me. I glared at the phone. Bastard. I can’t believe I thought he’d be an adequate choice. I considered calling him back and giving him a piece of mind--- him getting the last word in irked me to no end--- but I didn’t do it.
Instead, I put the first season of MacGyver into my DVD player and wondered how to get in touch with Richard Dean Anderson. And if he still had all his teeth.
How old was he, anyway?
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Marie's Date with Mort doesn't go so well. Now she's running out of options and the feel of desperation is beginning to stress her out.
Chapter End Notes:
Okay. Logan is about to make another appearance and in a big way. Then it will become very L/R infused. Just be patient in the meantime. :D