3WW CCLV "A Night In with a Canadian"


The words over at Three Word Wednesday are downhill, freak and sliver. A nod to Boots, who really jump-started this piece through a text and phone conversation. She kicked my ass, and kicked away the writer’s block. 

A Night In with a Canadian
It’s not like I wasn’t already freaking out or anything, what with some of the best barbecue I’ve had in Austin cooked just for me on this ginormous backyard smoker, but then he sits on the couch and puts in this monster dip in and goes on for 20 minutes – spitting all the while in a Mason jar – about bleaching his teeth and the proper way to floss.

I’m sitting next to him, not so very close, listening intently, well, listening the best I can, because all I can focus on are the little bits of chew on his teeth and lips and it occurs to me that it looks exactly like tiny slivers of shit and my stomach turns a little.

“And manicures and pedicures, I mean, grooming is important,” Josh says, shooting a fresh slimy brown glob into the jar. “Your feet are awful, and I mean that sincerely. You need to let me take you to my Vietnamese ladies because your feet are naaasty. I can totally hook you up.”

I curl my feet, one under the other, and scoot them as far back under the couch as they’ll fit. I wanted to tell him – sincerely – that I put a fresh coat of polish and lacquer on each toe for this fucking date, but I stay silent.

And fairly chug-a-lug a huge mouthful of red wine.

And then things really start going downhill.

He lifts a cheek and lets off a tremendously wet fart. And sighs.

Spits.

And stands.

“Hey, what do you think of my nipples?” he says, lifting up his T-shirt to show me his right nipple.

“Uh, what about your nipples?”

“I had surgery on them. On my nipples. They were too puffy. How fucking cool is that?”

I stare intently into my wine glass, which is unfortunately empty.

He picks up my hand, and clucks his tongue.

“You really need to come with me to see the Vietnamese ladies,” he says.

And suddenly, I’m furious, red-faced, teeth-grinding furious.

He grazes his fingers across my cheek and lips, which feels kind of nice.

And scratches his ass.

“Hey, I gotta make a call. Get me another beer, would you – and get a refill for yourself.”

I look at the door. It’s right there. He’s on the phone, talking to a friend in Seattle, some other Canuck he graduated with.

Oh, yeah, he’s Canadian.

I have past troubles with Canadians.

I stand – and should really get my coat and slip silently out the door – but go to the kitchen and reminisce about the conversation I had with my BFF Toby before the sonofabitch moved to New York, the ungrateful turd.

We were having coffee, me with my legs tucked under me in a gaudy purple velvet chair that looks like something out of, well out of Friends. I fucking loved that show.

“I don’t think he likes me, anyway.”

“Why is that?”

“I think maybe it’s because he’s Canadian.”

“What?”

“Canadians, I think, tend not to like me.”

“That’s a pretty big country to piss off, don’t you think?”

“Well, maybe not all Canadians. Just male Canadians. I think maybe I’m too loud for them.”

“So, there you go.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, beer me, will you?” Josh says as he passes by the kitchen and I’m snapped harshly back into the present. “I’ve gotta drain the main vein.”

Uhg.

I get a Shiner, twist off the cap, toss it onto the counter. I fill the wine glass to the brim and a little sloshes onto the kitchen tiles. I rub the wine into the grout in with my big, fat, ugly toes.

“Whoa, I just pissed like a Russian race horse. You know how good that feels?”

This is probably a good time to confess. I slept with him. Thursday night. After trivia night at the Screaming Goat. In the fucking parking lot. (I’ve got to stop doing that.)

He’s going on about my boobs, which are fantastic, I must admit, as we walk back into the living room. Arcade Fire is playing on Austin City Limits. I want to watch. He’s starting to get grabby.

“You staying over?”

I stare at him. He swigs his beer, I watch the tick-tock of his Adam’s apple as the beer flows down his throat. I swallow, hard.

He belches. Picks up the Mason jar and flicks a brown stream into it.

Just go, I think. It’s late. Austin City Limits is nearly over. I DVR'd it, anyway.

“Hey, have you ever seen Playboy?”

“The magazine?”

“Yeah. Because those girls, if they aren’t totally shaved, they’ve got their cooch all trimmed and shit.”

“So?”

“Well, you’re such a pretty girl, you should really take care of that stuff.”

I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I have a thatch or anything. I’m a road cyclist.

“Shaving or waxing down there causes problems when I ride, it’s really uncomfortable,” I say. “Besides, it’s my armor.”

“Yeah, armor is right – protecting you from ever getting laid again.”

I stand, woozy, and realize I’m crying. He’s not getting up or anything. I turn to scream at him, but he’s back on his cell.

I grab my coat, walk out the door, down the steps and get into my car. I’m halfway down the block before I’m fully sobbing. I pull over, take out my cell and text Toby. It’s late in New York, but I take a chance.

“Canadian was a disaster…need to tell you about it.”

I wipe my eyes and stare at the screen.

“Were you too loud?” Toby writes.

“Epic disaster. But sort of so epic, it makes for a great story. I left his house speechless, and in tears.”

“There’s a first.”

I laugh.

“Missing my chicka right about now,” he writes. “Calling.”

The phone rings and I find that I’m smiling. Toby’s therapy sessions are always free.

And he never judges, since as far as I know, he’s got nothing against Canadians.