rissy stories

“My type? Pretty much anything that walks,” I say, taking a slug of my beer. My coworker, Megan, narrows her eyes on me and clicks her fake fingernails on the table.

“Really? So, you’d take that guy?” she asks, pointing to a much older man sitting at the end of the bar, a couple stools to my right. He is completely bald. His pale skin looks like it had completely detached from his skeleton, and he was sipping on water while watching a football game on the TV above him. He probably had redeeming qualities, but no thanks. My face must’ve scrunched up in distaste because she smirked at me. “Try again. This time, narrower,” she says. I inhale deeply to build up suspense.

“A woman,” I reply firmly, with a nod. She raises her clearly penciled-in eyebrows at me and sticks the yellow plastic sword from her drink in her mouth, like a toothpick.

“It’s like threading a scarf through a needle with you,” she says, her voice muffled slightly by the sword in her mouth, but her New York accent is thick and clear. “I mean Christ, give me something to go off of! If I’m gonna be your wing-woman-”

“I never asked for that,” I interrupt and down another mouthful. “Besides, I don’t need your help in that department.” Or any department. I glance around this sleazy bar and wonder why I even agreed to meet Megan in the first place. She’s loud, her breath smells like cat food, her bright pink jacket gives me a headache, and her hair has so much hairspray in it that it’ll probably break off if anyone touched it.

She hesitates, finally removing the annoying sword from her mouth and putting it back in her martini glass.

            “You’re telling me that you’re an almost-thirty, good looking, but anti-social man who doesn’t need help from someone experienced in relationships,” she says. I clear my throat, suddenly realizing where I went completely wrong. I opened up a window that can’t be shut now by telling her that I’ve never had a girlfriend after she complimented my sense of style and said, “You should thank whatever girlfriend helped you with that.” My eyes shift to the over-the-top-fancy engagement ring on her left ring finger as I set my empty beer mug on the counter and loosen my tie – here we go.

            “First of all, I didn’t realize you were talking about being a wing-woman for a relationship,” I reply. Megan’s jaw slackens. “Second, I’m not anti-social, I just prefer not to socialize. Third, I wouldn’t need you if I was looking for a relationship or meaningless sex. And I’m currently looking for neither,” I add. She raises her eyebrows, her forehead wrinkling as those eyebrows try to reach her hairline, and her jaw hangs open in shock. What’s so difficult to comprehend? That a twenty-nine-year-old man wouldn’t want a serious relationship?

            “Can I ask why? I mean, are you… um, are you asexual?” she asked, the second question in the lowest whisper she could possibly utter. I squint at her and scratch at the stubble on my chin. She heard me earlier when I said I’d screw anything that walks, right? Maybe she thought I was just overcompensating… or maybe she’s actually that stupid. She stares at me as I then shake my head and scoff while reaching for my wallet.

            “I am not, f-your-i. And you can ask, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you.” I pull out my wallet, open it, and take out cash. When I look back up at her, she’s glaring at me. I sigh. “Christ almighty, okay, I’ve got high standards, Meg. I’m not settling and living my home life in pure misery. I’ve got enough of that out in the real world, thank you very much,” I adjust myself on the bar stool. “Now, if said glorious person happens to come along, then sure, why not, but you can bet your ass I’m not about to get in my car and start searching for them. My home is a sanctuary and I’m keeping it that way,” I finish, then slam my money on the counter. She looks at the money as I slide off the stool and readjust my suit. She then swings around and looks at me like I’m crazy.

            “Aren’t you putting my drink on your tab?” she asked. I shake my head again.

            “I don’t have a tab, Meg. Plus, you’re a big girl with an accounting job just like mine and a fiancé who clearly makes bank,” I gesture to the rock on her finger. “You can pay for your own drink. Have a good one,” I pat her shoulder and then walk away, ignoring the ugly gawk on her face. Second-wave feminism killed chivalry, hasn’t she heard?

            “Your mother clearly didn’t teach you how to treat a woman,” she yells behind me.

            “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter as I leave the bar and head left, towards my apartment. I stuff my hands in my suit pockets, feeling for my phone and wallet as I walk past countless people carrying suitcases, clicking their heels on the cement, and talking on their cell phones.

             It probably wasn’t the best idea to piss off a fellow coworker, but I don’t really care. People like that deserve what they get. I mean, sure, she’s the least annoying female I work with – someone I can actually stand to listen to during meetings – but it was my mistake for assuming that she would be the same person outside the office. It must make a financially and egotistically well-to-do person like her feel good knowing that she helped out a stray who “couldn’t help themselves.” Thing is, I’m not a stray, she’s full of shit, and she won’t be well-to-do for much longer.

            It’s not my job to strip her of that title. She’ll get hers in the end no matter what; it just won’t be by me. That fiancé of hers will cheat on her with someone else, but not before they have three or four children within a time span of, at maximum, 10 years. The guy will realize how annoying she actually is, and after a couple years, he’ll start thinking “dear God,what have I done?”

            He’s done what everyone else has done. Feel terrified of being alone forever, settle for someone because he feels like he won’t be able to do better, and go down on one knee for that person in his early twenties because he’s simplistic. He wants the social media attention that comes along with a proposal, then he locks that shit down even more by having children, then hates his life once the dust finally settles because he suddenly realizes that he ditched the greatest part of his single life. And once he does it, there’s no turning back. He can go back to his single life, but he can’t go back to his twenties and relive it. That’s what happens when people act before thinking.

            My sister calls me cynical, but I would call myself patient. I guess I just don’t understand the rush, or the appeal. Women will always have plenty of life left to be disappointed by men, and men will always have plenty of life left to be nagged at by women.

            I shake my head and walk up to the door to my apartment building. I pull my keys out of my pocket and jam them into the lock. After turning the key, I step into the foyer area and shut the door behind me, glancing at the once-red carpet that’s now brown with dirt and grime.

           I forgo breathing through my nose after taking a whiff of the fish-like scent that has permeated the entire building. They’ll more than likely have to tear up the floor boards to get rid of such a smell. I hope the complex realizes that it’s very difficult to get rid of an odor that seeps into the wood of a building.

            I eventually take a right further down the hallway. The floral wallpaper has yellowed and is peeling around me, but there’s a man who lives upstairs with severe OCD, Teagan – I believe his name is Teagan – because that peeling has been much more noticeable since he moved in. I think he also likes to flick the hallway lights on and off in the middle of the night sometimes – I can see it through a crack under my door while I’m sitting on the couch, watching TV.

I always wondered what life must be like for him. Simple, I supposed. Only concentrating on doing one thing over and over and over again sounds pretty good compared to juggling ten different projects at once, training newcomers, and overall dealing with people.

            I stop in front of apartment 245, and stick my key in the door. MyI go to greet the stiff, stuffed dog when I hear the sound of footsteps to the left of me, but then I freeze for a moment, hearing ruffling, shuffling, and beeping – whoever it is, is in my kitchen.

I grab the bat leaning against the wall, next to my front door and I move Milo of the way as I slowly enter my small apartment. You have to understand, I’m not friends with any of my neighbors, and even if I was, no one would have the key to my apartment. But what I am abundant in is enemies who probably know how to pick locks.

 I tip toe into the small, dark hallway, then leap out into the brightly lit kitchen area, bat in ready position. I spot the person, then start to swing before I recognize her. She gasps, flinches, and throws her hands up to protect herself as I stop from bashing her skull in.

            “Harpy?” I ask. I feelHer green eyes are wide, her thin body frozen, and face ghostly white. She is wearing dress pants and a nice tight blouse, but no shoes. I probably would’ve felt less threatened if she were wearing the heels that lay on the other side of the kitchen. I would’ve heard them click

“How the hell did you get in here?” I ask after a moment of speechlessness.

            “Your landlord gave me a key,” she replies, her voice deep. I can smell the nicotine from several inches away. She places a hand on her reddening chest and sighs, trying to calm down from the near panic attack I almost gave her. She must’ve driven here straight from work.

            “Why would he do that?” I ask, only slightly concerned that my sister picked up smoking again after quitting six months ago. The fact that she broke into my apartment overrides worry.

            “Because I told him I was your sister and I wanted to surprise you,” she replies.

            “And he just believed you?”

            “We’re twins, asshole,” she snaps before taking a warmed-up sandwich out of the microwave. She takes a bite while I just stare at her.

            “You know I don’t like surprises,” I say. She glares and chews.

            “No, you don’t like anything,” she corrects, then swallows and lays her sandwich back down on the paper plate on my counter. “And maybe since we’re almost thirty years old, you might want to start calling me Harper?”

            “But Harpy fits you so much better,” I say, “You’ve got the woman’s head, body, and unpleasantness that goes along with being a harpy – all you’re missing are the wings and claws.” She gives me a flat smile and looks around the kitchen.

            “Glad to know you still live alone these days. It might be the only thing that’s keeping you from being justifiably murdered by someone,” Harpy says. She runs a hand through her straight black hair and twirls her dead ends with her fingers. Her foot is also tapping on the floor. She’s obviously bothered by something, but not bothered enough to talk about it yet.

            “I tell it like it is. If people can’t handle the truth, then they shouldn’t be around me,” I say. She sets her jaw and clenches her fists.

            “I have a husband who thinks I’m the exact opposite of how you picture me because it’s his truth. Not everyone else’s,” she responds.

            “How great for you,” I yell. Her snooty facial expression dies right there on her face, making her look exactly like the angry harpy that she is. “Is there an actual reason you’re standing in my kitchen or was your plan to scare the shit out of me, then insult me?” Harpy licks her lips and places a hand on her dress pants that covered her hip.

            “Mom died. Brain tumor. No one knew,” she says quietly, breaking eye contact with me and looking at the floor. I feel my stomach flip upside down for a second, sending a shiver up my spine, then I force myself to shrug.

            “You couldn’t just tell me in a phone call?” I ask. She laughs, obviously expecting that reaction. She looks back up at me, her eyes slightly glassy.

            “When was the last time you ever picked up the phone for me? Besides, I’m mostly here to force you to come to the funeral,” she answers. I sigh heavily and walk further into the kitchen, towards her shoes.

            “I have to work,” I reply.

            “If you tell your boss that your mother died, I guarantee he’ll give you time off, because that’s what people with emotions do,” she immediately responds. I stop in my tracks and turn back around to face her. She leans her elbows on the counter and continues to eat her sandwich without looking at me. I scoff and pick up her heels.

            “I don’t need your help.”

            “Obviously.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “You don’t need my help because you think you’re always right, and nothing I say is going to change your mind. But too bad, I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for ma.” She finally stands up straight again and puts her sandwich down. I toss her shoes to her, but she only flinches as they hit her boobs and fall back to the floor.

            “Ma was a bitch. And apparently the apple fell where she dropped it,” I say. Harpy’s eyebrows furrow and her forehead wrinkles. She remains speechless for several seconds.

            “How you feel doesn’t matter anymore,” Harpy replies.

            “Oh c’mon, you felt it too-”

            “She’s dead.”

            “But that doesn’t change the fact that she was-”

            “She’s dead, Donnie!” Harpy struts up to me, then shoves me backwards. “Do you fucking hear me? Dead means dead! It’s over! The war you had with her is over!” she shoved me again, just for good measure. I did nothing but stare and stumble across my kitchen floor. As much as I hated her, it was difficult seeing her unravel. “Her hatred for men, your hatred for women – it doesn’t matter anymore! Jesus, she died, which proves it never even mattered to begin with. It all means absolutely nothing. It’s pointless. Everyone dies,” she rants, tears rolling down her pale cheeks, her hands trembling, her eyes menacing.

             The way she looks reminds me of ma when she was disappointed in me as a kid.

xxx

              My heart threatened to thump out of my chest as my feet hit the wooden stairs hard while I bounded down them, which shot a tingly feeling along with a line of dull-pain shooting up through my shins. I breathed heavy and tried to even out my surely messed-up hair.

              “Ma, relax, okay, it’s not what you think,” I cried in a panic, rushing into the kitchen and sliding briefly on the hardwood.

“Why’s your shirt on inside out?” Harper asked with a smirk, tapping her pen on the kitchen table.

“You wanna explain ta me what that was then?” Ma’s Staten Island accent was thick and strong, even though she was faced away from me now, stirring some sort of sauce for dinner. My lungs burned.

“I-” Breathe. “We were playing video games and-” the wooden spoon slamming onto the granite countertop cut me off and had me flinching, but that was nothing compared to the furious look on my mother’s face.

“With your clothes off?” she asked. Harper broke out into a smile.

“Holy shit – you got a girl up there?!” She sounded genuinely shocked. I had to be blushing down to my stomach at this point.

“It’s not what you think-”

“Harper, take your homework upstairs,” Ma said, folding her arms over her busty chest and cocking her wide-set hips.

“But-”

“Now. You don’t need ta hear this filth.” My ears burned at the word filth and the thought of what my mother walked in on. I adjusted my obvious bulge in my basketball shorts and I could faintly hear another pair of frantic footsteps down the stairs along with the front door rapidly opening and closing in the foyer behind me while Harper gathered her things and slowly made her way out of the room, winking at me as she passed. I closed my eyes on a groan.

“Please don’t make me say it,” I begged once we were alone. Ma just stared at me with cold eyes – the coldest I’d ever seen them.

“You don’t halfta say anythin’,” she snapped. “I already know you’re a disappointment.” My jaw hung open and I scoffed, despite myself. I was always like my dad– quiet, non-confrontational – a real in-one-ear-and-out-the-other kind of guy. Ma would sit there and scream at him for digging into her dinner too much. She’d call him an animal – that he was raised by animals. And he would just smack his lips together and eat.

Harper and I were used to her bad-mouthing him to us right in front of him and he still never said anything. In fact, the man rarely ever spoke in her presence. I must’ve picked up that trait just to keep the peace, but I couldn’t do it anymore.

“Why?” I poked the bear. She glared at me.

“You’re weak,” she replied simply. “Most men are.” I swallowed bile rising in my throat.

“What does that m-”

“That means you need a woman to guide you,” she said. My eyes went wide with fury. I could feel the tingly feeling in my hands and fingers now, the dull pain shooting through my entire being. “Men need women in their lives. And it’s not shameful to admit it – it’s brave. I mean, look atcha fatha – he can’t put on matching socks most mornin’s, so I do it for him.” She turned back around to stir the pasta again, scooping the spilt sauce from the spoon onto the counter with her finger and putting it into her mouth.

“But I know how to put matching socks on in the morning,” I snapped.

“You’re only fifteen, Don. I don’t expect ya to understand yet, but men become very stupid as they grow up. It isn’t healthy ta live without a good woman to take care of ya.” I stared at her back, trying to come up with words to say, but finding none. I always knew she wore the pants in the house, but I didn’t know she could force me who to love. I must’ve been quiet for too long because when she turned around to check on me, she had sadness in her eyes.

“Promise me I won’t catcha with him again,” she said lowly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your sista or your fatha. This’ll be between you and me. ‘S not like I want this gettin’ out eitha,” she added. I blinked and closed my mouth, realizing it was all dried up.

“You won’t catch me like that again,” I said, reminding myself of a robot I used to play with as a toddler. The sadness in her eyes disappeared as she nodded.

“Good. Now go getcha sista, it’s almost time to eat, and she’s gotta big test at school tomorra, so she’s gotta get brain food,” she said. I even felt like a robot, walking out of that kitchen. And I had to admit that it felt good not to feel.

xxx

                Since that day, my sister has made it her personal mission to make me feel again. I never fall for it, and I never will. I don’t need that type of person in my life, ever.

                I sigh and open up my arms to Harpy, offering a once-in-a-lifetime hug. She’s a fool for not taking it.

               “You think?” I ask calmly after dropping my arms at my sides. Harpy sighed.

               “I’m not making you go so you can get closure or forgive her,” she says, her voice almost nonexistent from the yelling. She clears her throat, but it doesn’t help. She pulls her smooth hair up into a ponytail. “You’re going because you need to learn from her mistakes. She wouldn’t want you to end up like her,” she adds, then wipes her tear-stained face with her hands.

                “She died completely alone, Don.” I nodded, whole-heartedly believing that.

                “That’s not me. I’m not her,” I say. Harpy’s eyes fill up with tears again.

                “You used to be happy, once,” she whispered. My heart palpitates for a moment before I shake my head again, but she nods. “Yes, you did. Please don’t end up like mom.”

                 “I’m not going to.”

                 “You’re pushing me away right now.” And I could see why she thought that. I live completely alone. I don’t have friends – not even my coworkers – obviously. And I don’t pick up the phone when she calls. But my understanding doesn’t stop me from glaring in response.

                  Who is she to analyze my life? Living alone is so much better. So much simpler. No one is psychoanalyzing my every move, no one is judging my lifestyle, and no one is trying to change my attitude.

                  “I’m not some sort of stray that you can just put back on track,” I say. She sighs in defeat, then kneels down to set her heels upright, right next to each other. She stands up and looks at me as she steps into them. “I don’t need your pity,” I add. I then notice the same hopeless look in Harpy’s eyes that I saw when we were kids and she asked Ma what she thought about marriage.

                  “It’s not pity. It’s sadness. But mostly for me,” she replies and grabs her sandwich from the counter. Then she walks up close enough to where I can feel her breath on my neck. “I’ve spent years doing this, but I’m officially done. I’m not going to call you anymore. I’m not going to make any surprise visits. And not that you actually do this, but to just make it clear… don’t call me. Don’t visit me. Don’t ask anything of me. You need a new kidney, liver, whatever – get yourself on a donor list. I’m not giving you anything of mine because you would waste it. Even if you are family,” Harper spits out the word family like it has an ugly aftertaste. She pulls a key out of her pocket and places it on the counter. She gives me one last look before she pushes past me and heads down the hallway, towards the front door. She opens it, the light of the hallway brightening up her body, but she hesitates. She looks at me and taps on the door with her fingernail.

                 “By the way, Don, you were right about the apple falling where mom dropped it. But you’re the apple, not me.” Her words before she finally leaves.

                  I shake my head at her arrogance, go to retrieve Milo, and shuffle into the bedroom to plop on my bed after a long, hard day. I could’ve given her the exact same speech, easy. I don’t need people like her in my life either – they’re just not my type. The tough, arrogant people who feel like they can just push me around to do whatever they want, like I don’t have a brain of my own. People like that make life so much more complicated than it needs to be. I don’t need anything of hers, and I wouldn’t give her anything of mine. I can get along just fine.

                I can get along just fine.

                I pull out my phone and open her contact, just for the hell of it. I wonder what she would do if I just called her right now – right this second. Would she shit herself with excitement? Would she pick up the phone, come right back to the apartment and apologize? Or would she block my number and stick by her threats? Who knows. And honestly, who cares.

               I dial another number instead, pressing the receiver up to my ear and hearing it ring.

               “Hello?” I pet the soft fur of my dead, stuffed dog.

               “Teagan? It’s Don.” There was laughter on the other end of the line.

               “Wow, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again. I thought you were only into one night stands.” I smirk, despite myself.

               “C’mon, applying copious amounts of lube over and over again because your OCD makes you think that you need the perfect amount can really turn a guy off.” I ignore the remark about my one-night-stand-only rule.

                That rule isn’t necessary anymore. I hear more deep laughter from the receiver.

               “I guess you’re right. So. What can I do for you?” I smile.

              “You can get down here. And bring that lube with you.”