The Fringe Dwellers

9781483515830

Chapter 1: Strange Bedfellows

I'm now in St. Eligius hospital. I was walking in the park yesterday and was accidentally elbowed in the throat by a really tall speed walker. She didn’t even stop, except to briefly reset her stopwatch to adjust for my slowing her down. She had those L.A. Gear shoes on. The ones that light up every time you step down. I can still see those red lights blinking on and off when I close my eyes. It makes me flashback to my childhood, when my parents would sit me down in the living room and flash red lights to see if it was really possible to induce seizure activity.

I listen to myself momentarily. It distresses me that people no longer take the time to care about others. To treat others with respect and love. Maybe that's why I really hate people so much.

I roll over slightly to reach a magazine on the bedside table. A slight draft causes me to shiver. When hospitals take your temperature, I wonder if they ever take the wind chill factor into consideration. The hospital gown makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. It makes me feel incredibly self-conscious about my body. My butt's just too skinny for these gowns. I usually have to wear a belt just to keep my swimming trunks up.

I don't trust this hospital. My mother was here several years ago after suffering severe lacerations in a car accident. The doctors tried to stop massive bleeding with little pieces of toilet paper. Hospitals make me feel very paranoid - or maybe that's just what they want me to think. I think they put too much glucose in my IV bag. I can see sugar crystals floating in the bag that weren’t able to dissolve. I'm feeling very hyper - like I just ate an entire box of cereal so I could go out and buy another box that came with a better toy.

I leaf through the magazine. I can tell from the yellowing pages that this must be an older magazine. Plus the publication date is actually stamped on the magazine cover. I suppose that’s a pretty good clue too. There is a nude picture of Yoko Ono and John Lennon. For such an ugly couple, John Lennon and Yoko Ono sure had a lot of pictures taken of themselves. Maybe that was the only way he could get her not to sing. I put the magazine down. Since the accident, my vision has been a little blurry. According to the police, after I passed out, some of the neighborhood children put bread crumbs on my eyes to attract pigeons. Most likely as payback for my handing out Bible pamphlets last Halloween instead of candy.

I wonder when I get to go home. I hate feeling helpless and needy - though I’m oddly okay with feeling needy and helpless. The doctor said I just needed to be here for observation - which basically means young interns who've been too tired to get laid are allowed to poke me with stuff. I personally think that if I'm going to be treated by inexperienced doctors, I should at least be charged only half-price. It's the same concept as getting your hair done at beauty academies by students trying to get enough experience to get their hairdresser's license. I'm willing to risk possible physical embarrassments and permanent damage so long as I'm not getting charged full price for it.

I'm all alone in the room now. There isn't even a patient near the brink of death in the next bed to make me feel better about my life. There used to be, but I asked the hospital to move him to another room because he looked really unattractive naked. His butt was extremely wrinkled and grotesque. It looked just like Bette Davis' face after she had her stroke. The old man received many visitors who wanted to turn him into some type of Bette Davis shrine. But, they were, for the most part, quiet. Except for that one time when those Joan Crawford fans stormed the room and they all started to rumble.

I still don't know what I want to do with my life. For years I seriously thought about traveling around the country, watching the Grateful Dead. It always sounded like a cool thing to do. But then I realized that I didn’t really like any of their music. Too bad the Beach Boys don’t have a cool, pot-smoking cult following them around the country. I probably would do that. Though, out of principle, I would skip the shows where they have John Stamos sitting in on the drums.

I've been trying to come up with ideas for my next novel. It scares me to think that I have nothing left in me. No ideas, no spark, no novelty. But, I can understand why so many people drift aimlessly through their lives. There's something inherently noble about searching to find yourself.

My last novel was a best seller. It even sold well in states that aren’t necessarily known for reading. My book was a heart-warming coming of age story about three Amazon women with chronic stress diarrhea. My book was nominated for best novel of the year by some organization. I forget the actual name of the organization, but it was a major one. I could tell because it had the word national in the foundation title. But it lost out to a book that I thought was far inferior to mine. It was another coming of age story set in the Amazon, but her heroines only had chronic stress hiccups. Her disease just seemed so much more trivial than mine. I haven't been able to write since.

I look up as my nurse walks in and I try to concentrate on the figure coming towards me. My vision is still giving me problems. The nurse still remains out of focus as she stands near the door, unmoving. I haven’t seen anything this white and blurry since I got drunk at a Republican National Conventional. The nurse finally moves towards me and comes more into focus. It's my old girlfriend, Laura. She’s the last person I ever loved.

I first met Laura in the parking lot of Saint Mary's during a fundraiser for children with abnormally bad hairdos. When I was seven, my parents tried to give me a perm using a hair grooming kit made especially for dogs. It was a new brand of shampoo and they didn’t want to risk ruining the dog’s fur so they tried it on me first. For years I looked like one of those kids who eat clumps of their own hair. The other kids shunned me at school. Granted, they did that before the hair incident as well, but now they had a reason and it just hurt more. I thanked God every night that there were a couple of kids in the class undergoing chemotherapy - otherwise I would have had no one to play with. Since then, I’ve always had a warm spot for these unfortunately coiffed children. Not enough to actually risk being seen in public with them, but enough to donate money so they could buy themselves some nice hats. The fancy ones black folk wear to church on Sundays.

I didn’t notice Laura at first - there was some boy with big hair in the way. But then he moved. Actually some rowdy teenagers in a pickup truck started to throw rocks at him and he ran inside for safety. That’s when I saw Laura. Laura was being gangslapped by a posse of nuns after she mistakenly cried out Bingo! when in reality she was missing a number the I column. Luckily I was able to frighten the nuns away by showing them old photos of myself back in my bad hair days. This gave us just enough time to find some pointy-haired kids to use as weapons. I knew when I first saw Laura that she was the girl for me. Those were the days. Romance was alive and people who wore fuchsia toenail polish were still executed in several third world nations.

Hello, says Laura. I brought you a glass of orange juice.

She brought me something. Maybe there's still hope for us. After I take my first sip, Laura informs me that she has wrung the sweat off a patient’s armpit hair into my drink. It’s real armpit sweat too – not from concentrate. These mixed messages. Women are so mysterious. Once Laura invited me to the opera- Puccini, I think. Once we got there, Laura started making obscene noises with her armpit. We were thrown out, and spent the rest of the evening speeding through mud puddles and splashing people who were waiting for the bus. We didn’t have a car. We just ran really fast.

But, that's what I loved about Laura. She was cultured, yet spontaneous and she was the only person I knew who had the complete Princess Di china collection. Well, before she died anyway. Ebay people are so morbid. Laura even had the ones where Di posed with Fergie and Fergie’s face took up three quarters of the plate. Laura signed me up for the underwear of the month club. I once wore a pair with only one string in the back. I went jogging and was hospitalized for three days with severe rope burn.

We both stand in the hospital room in complete silence. There is a great sense of uneasiness in the room. Maybe because too many things have happened between us. Or maybe it is the drug-crazed patient who has just appeared in the doorway. I can't be sure.

Laura shuts the door. I wish she hadn't though. I know that we need the privacy, but after twenty minutes of hearing, Ow! My nose! Ow! My nose! from the other side, my mind can't function properly. All I can think about is how someone who has snorted that much cocaine could possibly have any feeling left in his nose. His nose should be completely numb. In my party days, I once used a cocaine-laced lip balm and couldn’t pronounce vowel sounds for a week.

Laura stares at me with a hurtful look that I have seen only once before - when I first saw Laura naked and mentioned that I thought she had too much pubic hair. Laura slumps down onto the empty bed beside me, crying. Her mascara starts to run, forming a design that looks like a tattoo I once saw in a photo of Cher’s butt. I hate to see Laura cry. She means so much to me. Plus, I don't particularly like to think of Cher. She scares me.

Why do I still think about you? Laura cries. You have this hold over me and I hate it. I want to move on. I want to be over you. Why can't I?

I don't know, I say while looking down at the ground.

I can't make eye contact. I'm afraid if I do we'll both see how terribly unhappy we make each other. And for some reason I want us to be together again. I sometimes wonder whether love is based on unhappiness. I wonder why we're always drawn to those who we know are wrong for us. It’s hard when two dysfunctional people are trying to make a relationship work. Laura and I are two cuckoo birds wanting to occupy the same tiny clock.

I try to move towards Laura to console her, but I can't. The drug-crazed man has re-entered room and is trying to take me with him. I thought that it would have taken him at least two more hours to figure out how to work the door knob. After 20 minutes of them using my body as a tug-of-war rope, Laura finally regains control of me. Laura and I are both too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, to continue. Besides, my hair is messed up and I must comb it.

Can I call you later? I ask.

Yes, Laura replies.

I decide to take Laura to Fernwood's tonight. Hundreds of plants decorate the restaurant - the kind of plants where you can tell the leaves are too green and too glossy to be real.

So, have you started writing again? Laura asks.

I'm having trouble coming up with another idea. I just can't think of anything. I sit down in front of the computer and wind up staring at a blank screen all night. Then I finally remember to turn on the computer, but it's too late to start writing.

An idea will come to you. Just be patient.

So, I ask, trying to be subtle, Have you been seeing anyone?

I dated this bartender for a couple of months. I shouldn’t have let it go on for so long. I knew we weren’t meant for each other from the start after he made me play Whack-A-Mole on our first date. And the only time I would ever want to play Whack-A-Mole on a date is if Cindy Crawford were in the same room. But, he was just so nice and understanding about everything. It was a rough time for me. You and I had just broken up and I was trying to quit smoking. He would come home from work and his clothes would smell like smoke. It was such a comforting smell - unlike the time I dated a firefighter whose smoky essence was more reminiscent of burning hair than menthol. But I never felt so low. I was dating a guy so I could sniff his clothes. I remember just lounging around his apartment wearing one of his oversized dress shirts and just lying on the couch absorbing the smell. It was such a wonderful feeling - like when we would rent a cabin for a weekend getaway with a bunch of other couples. That was an incredible atmosphere. You would wake up in the morning and there was an energy in the room because you knew everyone had had sex because the whole cabin smelled of semen.

That is such a good smell. They should make semen-scented potpourri. It would be so wonderful to have a room that always smelled like great sex. Right now, the only way I can get that smell is by not cleaning my bedroom very often.

Laura smiles. She looks beautiful when she smiles. I like making her laugh.

So, have you dated anyone since we broke up? asks Laura.

No, I couldn’t bring myself to start dating anyone again, I answer.

Did you sleep with anyone else? asks Laura.

I let out a small, awkward-sounding laugh. More like an audible exhalation of air than a laugh - like someone had just delivered a small jab to my stomach.

Yeah, I say. You know how it gets sometimes.

Relax, says Laura. We were broken up.

I remember our last date. Everything seemed to be going fine. We went to see an art house showing of Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill, which was the first film we ever saw together. I gently caressed her breasts and kissed her shoulder as she whispered softly, Excuse me, you're in the wrong seat. I looked up to see Laura three rows ahead, her head tilted slightly to see around the person in front of her.

We broke up later that night. Laura wanted commitment. She wanted to be able to buy canned oysters at the grocery store without the cashiers making snide remarks over the intercom. She wanted to be able to go to a family wedding without her parents setting her up with Martin Melsenhower whose dreams of becoming a great artist were doomed by his inability to look at paintings of nude women without giggling profusely.

I wasn't ready for commitment then. Other than my fear of touching fixtures in public bathrooms, I was most afraid of commitment. I think I'm ready for it now. Commitment, that is. Being able to use public bathroom sinks without using a paper towel to turn the faucet handles is still a work in progress. Last weekend in the grocery store, while I was snatching the last jar of apple sauce from an elderly lady on crutches while her friends kept jabbing me with their umbrellas, I looked up and found myself envying a man scurrying through the store with an armful of tampons and a loaf of wheat bread clamped in his teeth.

I think I still love you, I blurt out.

I can sense that Laura is taken aback by my statement. The confused look in her eyes and her quick trip to the stenographer at the next table who we hire to take written transcripts of all our dates give her away.

Don't say that. I'm not ready to relive what I went through when we broke up. I shouldn't have come here tonight. There's a part of me that wants to get back together, but it's also the same part of me that is still convinced that Tom Bosley from those Hefty trash bag commercials and John Bosley from Charlie's Angels are actually the same person. I can't handle us right now. I'm sorry, I think we really need time apart.

As much as I hated to agree, I sensed that maybe we shouldn't be together - that maybe a couple that are still on probation for placing pro-choice decals on cars that had anti-abortion bumpers stickers should not think about reconciling. We agree not to see each other -not at this time anyway.

Laura leaves the table, her scarf swinging loosely from her shoulders. I should do something; say something. Though in a room full of people, I've never felt lonelier. Not even on my ninth birthday when my parents threw me a surprise party - the surprise being that I wasn't invited.

So many mixed feelings are going through my body. My heart tells me to go after her, to tell her that I'll always be there for her. Which is a little scary because I don’t think hearts are supposed to talk. But, my mind just sits there, like one of those houses encased in a round glass winter scene. My thoughts remain silent, waiting for someone to shake them loose like plastic snowflakes lying upon the glass ground. I need to talk to someone. I can't handle this alone.

As always, I choose the advice of my regular cab driver, Abu. When not spouting wisdom from the front seat of his taxi, Abu sells bulk orders of Kleenex to flat-chested prostitutes. There's something relaxing in the quaintness of his cab. One could easily mistake it for a Depression era cab, if it weren't for the large Buddah decal on the roof. It's like something from a Pedro Almodovar movie, only without the threat of a lesbian musical number. The familiar interior of the cab - whether it is the phrase "Hortence is a vile pig" scrawled in the side door, or the really bad license photo attached to the sun visor that makes Abu look eerily reminiscent of the fat guy in Sha Na Na - relaxes me.

You know, Abu, sometimes I wish that I were more normal - that I would be content to live in a little cottage with a white picket fence, two kids, and neighbors who don't steal my credit card to buy Star Trek memorabilia, I say.

Believe it or not, I came from one of those perfect families you want, says Abu. When my mother thought no one was around, she'd go up into the attic and just cry for hours. A loveless marriage. Her youngest baby dying during childbirth. The gruesome death of her trapeze artist father who died when the guy who was supposed to catch him accidentally sneezed during the act. It was too much for her. But when it was time to make dinner, she would come down the stairs, with a smile plastered on her face. I swore I'd never let that happen to me. People may think we're outcasts, but what's so wrong with that. I'm happy living on the fringes of society. I'm happy, and that's all anyone needs to know. I'm still looking for love like everyone else. You have someone. Don't let her slip away.

Abu, have you ever thought about having kids?

If I found the right woman. I don't think I could go the test tube route. I read an article which said that six out of every ten test tube babies become pro wrestling managers. I still have nightmares about that, answers Abu.

I wonder what kind of father I would be, I say. I really want to have children. And this is despite the fact that I can’t actually stand being around them. Even as a kid, I couldn’t particularly stand being around kids. They can be so stubborn. I was with my nephews the other day and I tried to get them to pretend they were crippled so I could get this baseball player’s autograph, but they wouldn’t do it. Kids today are so selfish. I feel so incomplete. You know, I think I'm in love with Laura. Despite knowing how unhappy we make each other, I can’t get her out of my mind. I know it’s pathetic and disgusting how we keep getting back together. It’s like putting your nose into a used, crumbly Kleenex that you keep shoving back into your coat pocket. Everything is falling apart. You know you should throw it out. But you just can’t.

I’m telling you, say Abu. Buy Kleenex bulk order. That way you’ll never run out. It will save you money in the long run. You're stop is here.

I look out the window. I notice we are outside Laura's apartment. You know why you don’t throw that crumbly Kleenex out? asks Abu. Because it is the only one you have. It’s the only one you’re going to get. If you think Laura is the one, you can’t afford to throw it away. Tell her.

What if she doesn't want to get back together? I ask.

Then you know it wasn't meant to be.

Abu drives off quickly. I walk up the stairs wondering how things will turn out and whether mimes are able to use the Clapper. Rushing things would be disastrous.

The moon shines brightly through her bedroom window, gently illuminating the city skyline. I kiss Laura's neck, making a slurping noise not unlike the sound obese bus riders make when their thighs unpeel from the seats during summer. We had sworn that we would not see each other again, but here we were - in Laura's apartment, getting ready to make love. We put on the soundtrack to the Fiddler on the Roof. Not the Broadway version, but the Hollywood remake starring Cathy Rigby as Tevye.

Laura and I aren't any good at keeping our promises. Two years ago we vowed to stop breaking into Kmarts after closing to play Twister with couples we met at discos. We were almost caught last July. Only our uncanny ability to pose as mannequins for the Jaclyn Smith clothes collection line allowed us to elude the authorities. It was even all the more remarkable since I don't even look particularly good in fake pearls and a bustier.

We passionately begin our usual foreplay. Well not exactly our usual foreplay. This time we don't bother to choose short straws to see who gets to be on top. We are about to make love when I realize I have run out of condoms. I used my last one while I was masturbating to an old photo of the girl who played Daisy Mae on The Dukes of Hazzard. I'm not exactly sure why I like to use a condom when I masturbate. I think it's like a seat belt. Once you get used to wearing one all the time, it really feels awkward without it on. Plus it's less messy.

What should we do? Laura asks, realizing that it was too late to turn back - especially since we went through the trouble of setting up the carnival equipment. The equipment makes me think of Abu's mom. It's a good thing Abu's mom is rather attractive or it really could have killed the mood.

Aren't you on the pill? I ask.

I'm not allowed to take it anymore, says Laura. I get excessive bleeding while I'm on the pill.

What? Are you taking it intravenously or something?

Laura sits up in the bed and turns away. It seems every time we get things together, something happens. Something always happens that prevents us from getting to the point we want to get to. And I know this thing tonight seems minor, but it’s indicative of the way things have always gone for us. Things are always falling apart on us. In our relationship, the peaches are never keen. Where are we going? Where do you see us ten years from now? I want to have a family. I don't want to be all alone. I have this fear of getting older and always wearing one of those rain scarves on my head and arguing with cashiers because they overcharged me by a dime. Why do we keep doing this to ourselves?

I don't know, I answer. We've broken up nine times already. Well ten if we count that time you broke up with me and I didn't realize it because I thought you were just out of town. But each time we get back together, we think things will be different. That this time, for some reason, even though nothing has changed, things will be so different and they’re not. Why do we spend so much time talking about being in love and so little time actually just being in love? Do you know what brought me back here tonight?

The Weeble-Wobble shaped guy with the cab that you always hang around with?

Well yeah, but something else. I remember those nights when you would be lying in my bed, fast asleep. I would often lie awake because that relaxation tape with the echolating dolphins that you enjoy would always keep me up and fill me with a craving for tuna fish. I remember staring at the red and blue neon lights from Lou's Diner that came through the window and projected upon your back. Well, actually it read ou’s Diner because the L was burnt out. Whenever you moved, the lights would momentarily shimmer, disturbing the words. It was like the effect a thrown rock has on the stillness of a pond. Some nights now I wake up and see those lights and I have to get up and close the blinds because they make me feel so lonely and because the neighbors keep filing complaints about seeing me walk around naked. That's why I'm here tonight.

So, where does that leave us? asks Laura.

I don't know.

That was the way our relationship had always gone. Neither of us had any answers. Trying to hold together a relationship, knowing that we brought out the worst in each other. But, something keeps bringing us back. As Abu once said, Birds of a feather should really consider buying some hair growing tonic. We were both confused about our futures, but drawn to each other by our insecurities.

We didn't have sex that night. My sperm were awfully upset though since they had already spent a great deal on corsages. We decided to just be together. I felt closer to Laura that night than I have ever felt. It was if we had never broken up. But, I began to feel guilty about things I did after our split. About breaking her vacuum cleaner by using it to give myself hickies so she would get jealous - which I suppose would have been more realistic if I used the round vaccuum attachment instead of the long, rectangular attachment. About sending ten pizzas over to her house not so she would have to pay for them but because I knew the forty year-old delivery boy who still had to borrow his mother's car for dates found Laura really attractive. About calling her in the middle of the night and just standing there on the other line not able to say anything and regretting everything.

And we lie there in Laura's bed, not touching each other, not talking. Afraid to do anything really. And somehow it just feels right.

Chapter 2: The Poi Wars

I sit on my bed. I just bought new bed sheets because I didn’t feel like doing laundry this week. The bed sheets have that stiff, scratchy, new-sheet feel. I probably should wash them before using them, but that would defeat the whole purpose of buying new bed sheets.

I have to wear long pajamas to bed because the sheets irritate my skin. My skin chafes easily. In elementary school, I once started bleeding after rubbing my index fingers together to admonish some kids who were sniffing Elmer’s glue. My mother was convinced it was some type of religious miracle, akin to Jesus’ crucifixion wounds. Our local priest was skeptical after seeing that, unlike Jesus, my bleeding could be healed by merely applying over-the-counter hand lotion.

The telephone rings. It has a loud, reverberating ring to it -like the shrill cries of one of those children whose mothers spank them in the supermarket with the incredibly mistaken idea that such an action might actually improve the situation. Though close enough to the phone to pick it up on the first ring, I decide to wait until the second ring to answer it. I just have this internal aversion that does not allow me to pick up the phone on the first ring. If I pick up the phone on the first ring, my friends might think I have nothing better to do with my life than sit by the phone, waiting for them to call. Which, I suppose is rather stupid, seeing that if they are truly my friends, they know I have nothing better to do with my life. That’s why they’re calling in the first place. I decide to wait until the third ring to pick up the phone. I’m feeling particularly insecure today. I got a paper cut while reading my horoscope this morning. That just screams bad omen. It’s almost as bad as those outdoor security lights that always seem to go off whenever I pass by. I pick up the phone and hear the voice of my best friend Mark.

I want you to meet my new girlfriend tomorrow, says Mark. I made dinner reservations at that Hawaiian restaurant down the street that is reopening.

I don't think that I would be welcomed there, I say.

Oh, come on. It was a minor mistake. I'm sure they've probably forgotten all about it by now, Mark replies.

Dropping a fork is a minor mistake. Starting a food fight with the ambassador to Chile could even be construed as a minor mistake. I accidentally burnt the restaurant down. Studies have shown that three quarters of the people in talk show audiences who make loud, barking noises have suffered from things like this, I say.

Those secret servicemen have to take some of the blame. If they didn't pull out those Uzis to prevent you from telling restaurant management that the ambassador was using slugs to get free condoms from the bathroom vending machine, you never would have tried to defend yourself with those tiki torches. Though I’m not sure why you thought tiki torches would stop bullets. Listen, I really want you to meet Susan. I think she is really the one.

I’ve learned not to get too excited when Mark has found the perfect woman. Mark falls in love way too fast. I think his passion just scares women away - or maybe it’s his habit of standing outside their bedroom window in his Gerardo costume and serenading them with the song Rico Suave that scares them off. I guess the Latin Lover routine doesn’t seem so sexy when you’re being chased around your girlfriend’s lawn by police officers wielding pepper spray.

I don’t know, Mark. I’ve already planned out my schedule. I was looking forward to just staying home and feeling sorry for myself tomorrow.

You already did that last night.

No, I was going to, but then something good came on T.V. and I forgot.

You so owe me this favor, says Mark. Remember the time I went with you when you were trying to get a date with that performance artist. The one who did that combination ventriloquist act/Sylvia Plath poetry reading and then stabbed herself onstage with a butter knife at the end of the performance.

That wasn’t too awful.

I felt guilty for weeks after she ran off-stage crying hysterically because I accidentally giggled when she stabbed herself.

In her defense, it is rather rude to laugh after someone has stabbed themselves. Especially if they have to stab themselves eight times because the butter knife is having a hard time penetrating skin.

I wasn’t trying to be rude, says Mark. " It was a nervous giggle. I evidently get very uncomfortable when people stab themselves during a pivotal moment of The Bell Jar. Or, as I learned from her subsequent performance, during a pivotal moment of Green Eggs and Ham."

O.K. Fine. I’ll meet her, I say reluctantly.

Great. Meet us there at six. And you'll love Susan. She's the funniest, sexiest, smartest person I know.

I thought I was the funniest, sexiest, smartest person you knew.

It's a dead heat. You, Susan, and local car lot owners who star in their own commercials. Trust me. You’ll love Susan. She’s amazing. She’s traveled all around the world, she loves the arts and she’s a good listener too.

There’s no such thing as a good listener. There’s only people who don’t know how to carry their part of the conversation.

I’m telling you. She’s the one. Mark replies. We'll see you tomorrow.

Holt party, says Mark. I have a reservation.

If I had to be seen in public with him, I'd have reservations too, says the maître d’. Would you like a seat in our smoking, non-smoking, or perhaps you'd prefer our new flame retardant section?

Non-smoking will be fine, I reply.

I've never understood why maître d’s at posh restaurants failed to grasp the importance of congeniality. I've also never understood why they always have the same exact hairdo as Squiggy from Laverne and Shirley. You'd think that after years of service, they would be used to dropped silverware, complaints about the food, someone accidentally burning down everything that they held dear.

Coming here was a mistake. A little voice kept going through my head last night telling me that I shouldn't come here. I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart beating quickly. The only sounds I could hear were crickets and the restaurant employees leaving threatening messages on my answering machine.

Sorry for the delay, says the maître d’ as he returns. We had to equip anyone within a three table radius with garden hoses in case you got rowdy. The third member of your party has already been seated. Step this way through the metal detector please.

We are seated. I sense we are not given the best seat in the house. We are seated immediately adjacent to the men’s bathroom. It’s one of those bathrooms that don’t have a door - just a short hallway that leads to the larger, concealed bathroom proper. It’s amazing how many guys don’t realize that just because they are still technically in the bathroom, it doesn’t mean everyone else in the restaurant can’t see them zipping up their pants as they walk out of the bathroom.

Mark says, Here's the person I've wanted you to meet. Christian, this is...

Susan Sloane. The most dreaded female on this planet. Unless of course you consider Nancy Grace as being from this planet. Susan and I went to elementary and high school together. We were rivals since day one. I remember when we first met in kindergarten. She threw a block at me. I had the letter r indented on my forehead for a week and a half. It wouldn't have been so bad if my parents didn't start using me as the used letter board when they played the home version of Wheel of Fortune. I especially hated the days when they made me dress up like Vanna White. Those fake fingernails took forever to remove.

Susan was always getting me in trouble. If I chewed gum, she'd tell. If I talked during class, she'd tell. If I chased her down the stairwell with a cattle prod, she'd tell. It was a no win situation. We were always competing with each other. We both had to be number one and the other was always in our way. There is just something so satisfying about being the best. It's like great sex - only afterwards no one uses your neck to put out their cigarette. The elite never have to do their own laundry, wait in line and are never forced to run naked through a sprinkler system after pointing out their superior intellect to the other boys in gym class.

Susan and I were always more intense than anyone else in our grade. During naptime, we were the only ones who used an abacus to count sheep. While the other kids played with Barbie and G.I. Joe, we discussed how such dolls were not proper role models for children. Susan felt that Barbie provided an unrealistic body ideal that could lead young girls to bulimia or anorexia. I personally just could not admire someone without a full set of proper genitalia. I was too disturbed by them. In retrospect, though, I suppose they were better than anatomically correct dolls. I've never understood the concept of anatomically correct dolls. I don't believe there are an abundance of people with plastic genitalia. Although I have strong suspicions about some of the people who model swimwear for Kmart sales circulars.

Although I still firmly believe that social issues played the largest roles in forming our opinions, a little part of me believes that our opinions might have changed if the other kids ever allowed us to actually play with the dolls. Susan and I weren’t popular enough in elementary school to get to play with the lead characters. Susan always got stuck playing with one of Barbie’s ethnic friends - the ones who always had to sit in the back of the convertible. I always got stuck with the soldier in the frontline who got killed first in every battle - the one who had to carry the big, bright patriotic flag that might have served as effective camouflage if the war was being waged in a bag of Skittles. My soldier was a marked man. I knew the second he was handed to me that he was going to be the first one to die - like in slasher films where you know that the first person to be killed is going to be the fat, annoying guy who makes lewd comments to the cheerleaders. I always found this character to be the most insulting cliché in films. Not only do they have the guy peeking and drooling at girls taking a group shower, but to make it worse, they have the poor guy eating a doughnut at the same time.

I can't believe you're dating this person, Mark. You don't know what she's really like, I say.

" You're a fine one to talk. Did you know he was voted Most Likely to Become a Gynecologist in high school? Susan answers back. And that’s saying a lot, seeing that our school actually had a gynecology club."

Face it. You were always jealous of me. I was more popular, more talented, and by far more intelligent than you could ever be.

What do you mean you are more intelligent than me! I was valedictorian. I was a straight A student throughout high school, Susan shouts.

Yes, but bra size doesn't count, honey, I answer. And the only reason you were valedictorian was because I got a B in gym.

Well, if you didn't put up that big fuss about wrestling Bruno Newburg, you would have gotten an A, you wimp.

I was totally justified. We're talking three-time state champion Bruno Newburg. He was crazy. He wore rubber surgical gloves while wrestling. He put twelve people in the hospital, including his grandmother who he pinned to the ground because she sassed him. And then there was the time he gave me a wedgie for over a half an hour before realizing I wasn’t wearing any underwear that day. We're talking about someone whose eyebrows merged to form one giant brow - most likely a bridge built by lice who wanted to cross over to the other side to visit relatives. And you know, I don’t know how you got an A in gym class. The only time I ever saw you run during gym class was when the ice cream truck was passing by.

The waiter arrives at our table. He has a thin moustache which makes him resemble what John Waters must have looked like during his puberty years.

Can I get you anything? the waiter asks.

Mark answers, Do you have a deep, dark hole I can crawl into?

I'm sorry. Our only deep, dark hole is being occupied by the 80 year old man two tables over whose niece we caught stealing all the shrimp forks because she thought they were cute. Do you think that Ali and Frazier might stop fighting long enough to order?

" Maybe if you put on a string bikini and had a card reading Round Two," says Mark.

" Sorry. I only do that for groups of ten or larger or if it’s your birthday and you agree not to make me come to your table clapping wildly while singing a wacky birthday salute. By the way, the manager wanted me to remind you of the restaurant’s new You burn it, you bought it policy."

His eyebrows have grown back in rather nicely, offers Mark, trying to ignore our bickering. Except for one or two divots, you could hardly tell that they were singed off.

I’ll come back later, says the waiter as he leaves the table.

And what’s with that haircut, Susan? You look like one of those kids who eat clumps of their own hair.

You’re a fine one to talk about bad hair, says Susan. For you, a good hair day is waking up in the morning and finding that the person you picked up last night didn’t shave your hair off while you slept.

That only happened once.

Didn’t it happen twice? asks Mark.

Well, technically I suppose. But it was the same person who did it both times, so I think it should only count as one time.

And at least my hairdo doesn't look like a giant phallic symbol, shouts Susan.

Yes, I know. That's what your nose is for.

Before you even start in on noses, maybe you should try clipping some of those nose hairs first, Chewbacca. They go on longer than an Ernest Hemingway sentence. After slapping you upside the head, I could use those nose hairs to rappel down your body and kick your scrawny ass!

Such tough talk from a girl who used to get concussions playing Nerf dodge ball. And you know, I resent the implication that I sleep around. It’s not like I’ve slept with every girl who ever breathed.

Please, says Susan. You’ve been around the block more times than a child molester with an ice cream truck.

Well, I suppose compared to your pitiful high school dating record, even the ham radio club would seem oversexed.

There is such a thing as being selective in dating, says Susan.

I know, I say. Natural selection is the main reason guys never asked you out in high school. For you, the miracle of childbirth is simply finding someone drunk enough to agree to have sex with you. No offense, Mark.

Some of us still believe in such things as the turn on of a great conversation and nice romantic dinners, says Susan.

I believe in nice romantic dinners, I reply.

No, by nice dinners, I meant something more than eating hotdogs that other people dropped on the ground while making out under the bleachers during home football games.

That was an extremely low blow, Susan.

I’m sorry, Susan says. " I’m sure you weren’t planning on having someone do that until after dinner."

Susan and I are both relatively high-strung. Granted, if you compared us to let's say Ghengis Khan, Attila the Hun, or pregnant ladies after you incessantly poke them with a stick, we could be considered low-key. But under normal circumstances we both like to be on edge. It's difficult for us to be calm, because if you look too relaxed, inevitably someone will always come up and offer you free tickets to an Enya concert.

Why did I have the misfortune of spending the first eighteen years of my life around you? says Susan. I'm a nice person. I do nice things for others. I donate canned food to the homeless. And not that cheap stuff like creamed corn that sits around your home for years because no one likes to eat it. I donate premium canned food like fruit cocktail. I also support the pending legislation forbidding people who frequent truck and tractor pulls from becoming contestants on Jeopardy. We must have pissed off someone pretty bad in a previous life to have the misfortune to run into each other again.

Susan has a point. I can see what she is saying. But I guess that's always the case with people who spit while they talk. Being around Susan drains all the energy from me. I always promised myself that I would just stop all our bickering, but something would always happen to start it all over again. She would just say something, start something, try to fit my head into a light socket, and I'd retaliate.

We were always trying to top each other. She was valedictorian; I was second in the class. I was editor of the school newspaper; she was assistant editor. Susan helped the teachers grade papers; I clapped erasers on her face. We had this give and take - this witty repartee. Well, it wasn't always witty. And I suppose it was more illegal acts of violence than actual repartee, but you get the idea. We were the only people in the history of Woodlyn elementary school to be suspended from kindergarten. But, in our defense, the principal should have made it clear that bull whips weren't permitted on school grounds.

I think it's best that I leave, I say. It’s nothing personal. I just have little patience for self-absorbed, arrogant people who aren’t me. I'll give you a call tonight, Mark. I'll just take a taxi home. You may not believe this, but I hope things do work out between you both. Susan, I know we've never seen eye to eye, but if you tried putting a trash bag over your head maybe I'd finally be able to look at your face.

Well, you’d better hurry off, says Susan. I hear they lock the doors to the Fred G. Sanford School of Humor promptly at 8:00.

Can you believe it, Abu? Mark's dating Susan Sloane. The before picture for seventeen different mental institutions. I thought that after going away to college I'd never have to see her again. But, then again, I thought the same thing after I auctioned her off at a livestock sale.

Is this the same Susan Sloane who crazy glued your head to your desk and then set off the fire alarm? says Abu.

Oddly, no. That was actually a completely different Susan Sloane. How could this happen? Why did Mark have to pick Susan. There are millions of people in this city. And that's not even classifying those who own more than three cats as people, I say.

Maybe it's just fate, says Abu. Maybe it's just a part of the grand scheme of things. Take my boss for instance. One day he goes to the parking lot and finds that his car is vandalized. Of course, he probably would have been much more receptive to this fate idea if he didn't find me three cars over with a can of spray paint in my hand.

What should I do? Mark's my best friend. If this relationship with Susan lasts awhile, it's inevitable that Susan and I are going to be around each other.

You're in love with her, aren't you? I look into your eyes and I don't see hate. Mucous yes, but not hate. It seems that all the things you hate about Susan are the things you see in yourself, says Abu.

I don't love her. I can't even be in the same room with her. The city council passed legislation forbidding it. I'll admit, at one time there was this passion - this, I don't know, just something between us. The more we argued the more attracted to her I became. But that was high school and can be blamed on an allergic reaction to acne medication.

Why did you continue taking something you were allergic to?

I didn’t want to, I say. My parents made me. They felt that with my limited social skills, my looks would be my only chance of marrying well. But, the medication made the acne problem worse. I think my doctor was incompetent. I know he only did it because I have trouble swallowing pills, but whoever heard of a doctor prescribing chocolate-coated acne medication?

Listen, you can't fight true love, says Abu. You can forget to let it out of the trunk when you sneak it into a drive-in movie. But you can't fight it.

" When I sit back and envision my ideal woman, she's not someone who looks like the girl in The Exorcist when she first wakes up in the morning."

I've always liked a woman who's a little mysterious, says Abu. I've always imagined my ideal woman would just sweep into my life. She'd have a past that she could never tell me about. I want someone who's sort of cryptic.

Then you'll love Susan. She looks like she's been locked in a crypt for years.

A while back you said you've seen what Susan looks like when she first wakes up. Does that imply what it usually implies? asks Abu, slightly raising his eyebrow - a gesture he rarely makes. The last time he raised his eyebrow, it put a huge dent in the roof of the cab and Abu was out of work for three days.

I fidget nervously in my seat. I try to change the subject, by slyly saying, " I don't