Walking across the foyer with three of her friends is my old girlfriend Shawnie Brown from back in my crazy-for-black-hair-and-brown-eyes phase. Carmine is my name in the Italian mobster routine we do whenever we run into each other. In fact, we’re both Carmine, so I yell back, “Oh-ay, Carmine, how ya doin’?”
She says something to her friends, and they head on to the elevators while she comes over to me. She has a very sexy walk. “I’m doin’ bravissimo, Carmine. Whatchoo doin’ heah?”
“Nuttin’. Just tryin’ to put some distance between me and dem stiffs upstairs at dat lame-ass party. You know what I’m talkin’ about?”
“Ay-oh, I was just goin’ to dat party. No good?”
“Fuggettaboudit.”
“No, you fuggettaboudit.”
“Aaaay, you’re breakin’ my balls heah.”
“No, you’re breakin’ my balls.”
We could go on and on this way, but we crack each other up too much.
“So, really,” she says when she gets done laughing. “The party’s lame?”
“Remember that party we went to sophomore year at Heather Simons’s house and it turned out her parents were there?”
“That bad?”
“Maybe not that bad, but close.”
“What a waste. And I’m just starting to get a good buzz on too. What’s in the cup, whisky and Seven?”
“Of course. Want a sip?”
“Sure.” She takes a drink and hands the cup back.
I explain the weak beer situation upstairs and suggest I buy her a 7UP of her own so that she can fortify it with some of my Seagram’s.
“There’s a Ping-Pong table in the atrium. You up for a match?”
She gives me a sly look. “You know I’ll kick your ass, just like in the good old days.”
“No way,” I tell her. “I’m on steroids now. My head’s grown six hat sizes.”
She laughs. “I’ll still kick your ass.”
Turns out the only reason Shawnie got sucked into coming to Courtney’s party is her friends thought there might be some cute guys. This is news because she’s been dating a dude named Dan Odette for about six months. I ask her what happened to him, and she goes, “He got on my nerves. Too possessive.”
“That’s always the way it is with the dangerous bad boy.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before I started dating him?”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“No, probably not.”
“I guess we’re just a couple of singles out on the town. It’s fabulous, huh?”
“So, you don’t miss Cassidy?”
“I’m way past that.”
“Just keep telling yourself that.”
After we score her a 7UP and doctor it thoroughly with whisky, we head to the atrium. She wasn’t kidding about the Ping-Pong. Out of three games, I don’t win a single one. That girl always could bang out some serious Ping-Pong, no matter how much she’s had to drink. It doesn’t bother me, though. I’m not one of these macho dudes who thinks it’s some kind of disgrace to lose to a girl. It’s just a joke when I suggest we head over to the workout room so I can wreak my revenge by beating her at weight lifting, but she’s up for it one hundred percent.
She’s like, “Spot me ten pounds?”
“Are you kidding? I’ll spot you fifty pounds and still beat you.” Which, of course, is an exaggeration. Shawnie’s no weakling.
The workout facility is pretty nice. Since it’s Saturday night, we’re the only ones weird enough to be in there, but they don’t have weights, just treadmills and exercise bikes. That’s okay. I’m never at a loss for ideas.
I saddle up on one of the bikes and go, “How about a race?”
She grins. “You’re on.”
It’s pretty hilarious. There we are, side by side, pedaling away like a couple of Lance Armstrongs. We’re both doing the commentary, and, of course, I’m winning in my commentary and she’s winning in hers. The thing is, though, that riding a bike—even if it is stationary—can be a challenge after a few stout whiskies. At least it is for me. Just as I’m imagining myself shooting down the homestretch, my foot slips off the pedal and I go crashing to the floor, cracking my head on the left handle-bar along the way. This is not a minor tumble either. I mean, it hurts.
Of course, Shawnie can’t quit laughing. I’m sitting there checking my forehead for blood, and tears are streaming down her face.
I’m like, “Hey, I’m injured here,” and she’s like, “I’m sorry, but you should’ve seen yourself.” She’s still laughing as she comes over to help me up.
“You know,” she says, “that’s something I always liked about you. You don’t get embarrassed about anything.”
I go, “Embarrassment’s a waste of time. Now, where’s the hot tub? I need a hot tub. I’m an injured man.”
Sure enough, they do have a brand-spanking-new shiny hot tub too. It looks like the perfect thing to heal all ailments. Just what I need.
Shawnie’s like, “You’re not getting in there, are you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Bullshit.”
“Come on,” I tell her. “If I’m going in, so are you.”
“No way,” she says. “You’re not getting me to take my clothes off.”
I give her the old eyebrow cock. “Who said anything about taking anyone’s clothes off?”