More Sh*t My Dad Says (13 page)

“What are you doing?” Sarah asked.

I popped my head up.

“What?” I asked.

“What are you doing?” she asked again.

“Kissing your boob?”

“Well, it’s just—they’re talking about whether or not Jack Nicholson ordered the code red on that guy,” she said, pointing at the TV screen.

I grabbed the remote and pushed pause.

“There you go. You won’t miss it,” I said.

She grabbed the remote and unpaused the movie.

“I want to see if he ordered the code red,” she snapped.

“He ordered the code red.”

“I don’t think he did.”

“Of course he did. That’s what the whole movie is about. I’ve seen the movie.”

“Geez, well, thanks for ruining it for me!”

“Ruining it for you? They tell you forty-five minutes into the movie that he ordered the code red. The rest of the movie is just about whether or not Tom Cruise can get him to
say
he ordered the code red.”

“Don’t tell me what the movie’s about! I know what it’s about!”

By now, of course, I had absolutely destroyed any mood there was to begin with, and hurt her feelings in the process. I needed to think of something fast.

“I’m sorry. Do you want some cake?” I asked.

“What?”

“Let’s just watch the movie. I promise I didn’t ruin it for you,” I said.

“Sorry, I’m just into the movie. Why don’t we just have sex right now? That way we can watch the movie afterward and not have to worry about having sex,” she said.

Now that I’m older, it seems like a pretty obvious sign that your relationship isn’t going well if your partner asks you to get sex out of the way so she can finish a movie. At the time, though, it sounded like a perfectly reasonable request and I jumped at her offer.

I pressed pause again, pulled out a condom, and started to open it—first with my hands, then with my teeth, then, finally and frantically, with both teeth and hands, which proved successful. Then I reached over and flipped off the lights, and for about a minute and thirty seconds we had sex. In all the thousands of sexual fantasies I’d had, I only concerned myself with making exactly one person happy: me. But as I rolled around on top of her, like a zombie trying to maul a sleeping camper in a horror film, I fully realized all the pressures that come with having sex with someone. I was supposed to try to make it as good for her as it was for me. I had responsibilities. And it soon became evident—as soon as I realized it would be over very quickly—that I didn’t know what it would take to make things enjoyable for her. Before that night, when I’d heard someone say their first time was disappointing, it had always rubbed me the wrong way, like hearing a millionaire tell you their life is too complicated. But now that I’d had sex, I
was
disappointed—because I had sucked so badly at it. There was nothing romantic about it.

After I finished, I collapsed on top of her. She tilted her body and I slid off her. She went to the bathroom, then got back in bed and hit the play button on the remote. I was asleep before Jack Nicholson yelled “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!”

The next morning, Sarah left early to pick up her sister from the airport; when I woke up she had already gone. I drove back to my apartment, unsure whether what had happened could be considered a success. When I walked in, Dan was having breakfast.

“You do it?” he asked as soon as I walked in.

“I did it,” I said.

“Let me guess how long. Five minutes?”

“Divided by two . . . and then minus another minute, I think.”

“Look who just became a man!” he said, laughing.

A couple days later, Sarah called me while I was at work. Bob called me into his office and handed me the phone.

“I don’t like personal calls, Skippy,” he said.

“Sorry, I’ll make it quick,” I said, and picked up the phone.

“What’s up?” I said into the receiver.

What was up was, she thought we should break up.

“So, you’re really nice, but I just don’t think I’m going to work at Hooters anymore, and it’ll be hard for us to see each other and stuff,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, trying not to reveal my hurt feelings.

“Okay. Sorry. Could you put Bob back on? I want to tell him where to send my last check.”

I handed Bob the phone.

“She needs to talk to you,” I said.

I turned to walk away.

“Hey,” Bob said, stopping me. He held his hand over the receiver. “Just make sure you remember what she looked like naked so you can jerk off to her later, bud.”

I walked into the kitchen and told Dan the news, trying to hide my embarrassment.

“Well, at least you got to have sex, right?” he said.

I kept waiting for that to register with me, but the truth is, I felt no more like a man than I had felt before I’d had sex.

Bob came out of the office and grabbed a six-pack of Bud Lights.

“We need to have a quick chat. Grab yourself a brewski and come meet me on the upstairs balcony,” he said to me before walking upstairs. “Nothing imported. I got corporate on my ass.”

I grabbed a Bud Light and headed up to the balcony where Bob was sitting at an open table, with the ocean behind him. In the minute I had taken to find a beer and head upstairs, he’d already finished one beer and was halfway through another. I sat down and cracked one open.

“Nothing better on a sunny day than a beer and another dude’s hard-on,” he said.

“What?”

“Just messing with you. I’m not trying to pull any gay stuff on you,” he said, laughing loudly. “Wait, how old are you?” he asked, his laugh immediately ceasing.

“Twenty.”

He yanked the beer from my hands and set it down next to him. “Fuck me. I can’t have underage drinking on the premises. You’re better than that, Bob,” he said to himself before chugging the rest of his open beer.

“What’d you want to talk to me about?”

“Well, I consider the kitchen staff here to be my family . . .” he started.

“What about your wife and kid?”

“Yeah, yeah. But, I mean, the kid’s two. He’s not even a person. And the wife’s the wife. But you guys here, when one of you is cut, I bleed. And I know some girl just gave you a dick up the ass, and I know what that can do to a man. But you’re on a team here, and I need to know that you are still focused and it’s not going to affect your work,” he said.

“Bob, I wash dishes.”

“And you’re one of the three best I’ve ever seen at it. Swear to Jesus. I’m not blowing smoke up your ass. But I’m not going to sit by and watch your skills erode because some woman has got you unfocused,” he said. Then he grabbed the beer he’d confiscated from me and pounded half of it.

“I’ll be focused,” I said.

“Good. Because that’s what a man does. He takes his shots and then he goes back into that dish pit and he scrubs the shit out of some dishes,” he said, standing up and patting me on the back as he walked past me.

I went back to the kitchen, where a mountain of dishes had piled up in my absence. I put on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and turned on the hot water and got to work scrubbing. Bob was wrong: washing a lot of dishes did not make me feel like a man. Right that minute, though, neither did having sex. A rite of passage I’d expected to mean so much had left me feeling no different at all. I had no idea when I would feel like a man, or what it would take. All I could safely say was that I was a boy who had had sex, and was really, really good at washing dishes, and that would have to be enough for now.

Give the Rabbit Its Pain Medication

After graduating from college in 2003, armed with a film degree, I moved from San Diego to Los Angeles to pursue a career in screenwriting. Unfortunately, in LA, everyone has a film degree. It’s like owning a toaster, if you had to take out a loan to buy the toaster, and then when it comes time to use the toaster, it doesn’t work. But I was broke and had bills to pay, so while I kept writing screenplays, hoping to break in, I took a job waiting tables at a giant, two-story Italian restaurant in Pasadena called Villa Sorriso, which was decorated with fake plants and generic pictures of Frank Sinatra. I was one of about forty waiters and bartenders, all between the ages of eighteen and thirty, save for one guy in his fifties whom I would often spot standing motionless in the center of the dining hall, lost in thought, with a look on his face that seemed to say, “Next time I need to remember to bring my gun to work so I can open fire on all these assholes.”

Within a week of joining Villa Sorriso’s staff, I came to the conclusion that there are basically three types of employee who work at restaurants in Los Angeles. There are people who want to be actors, people who want to be writers, and people who want to sell drugs to people who want to be actors and writers. And all three of these types usually end up having sex with each other.

I had been working at Villa Sorriso for a few months when the manager hired a new waitress: a cute brunette named Melanie who’d just moved from Colorado to pursue a career in acting. I was assigned to train her and spent a week teaching her the proper way to fold napkins, cut lemons for iced tea, and use the touch-screen computers. After we spent most of our final training day trading our favorite quotes from
The Simpsons,
I realized I had a thing for her. She was exactly the kind of girl I usually liked: smart, funny, and a little offbeat.

During a slow lunch shift the following week, I was chatting with the restaurant’s bartender, Nick, an aspiring male model who looked a bit like Colin Farrell if he were made of that shiny hard plastic they use to make action figures. “Melanie’s kinda hot, yeah?” I said.

“Yeah, man. She’s totally cute.”

“She seems cool,” I said, leaning on the bar as he dried some pint glasses.

“Totally. She also sucks a mean dick.”

“What?” I said, straightening up.

“Yeah, she blew me a few nights ago,” he said casually.

“She’s only worked here a week,” I replied, my voice cracking.

“Yeah. I think it was her first day, actually. We got some drinks after work, blah blah, then she swallowed a load in my car.”

“Wow.”

“Oh, shit, do you have a thing for her?”

“I just thought she seemed cool,” I said, slumping down on a bar-stool and trying to hide my disappointment.

“My bad, man. I totally would not have done that if I knew. Next chick you’re into, just let me know right away and I won’t hook up with her.”

“No, no. That would be . . . really weird and kind of depressing. I don’t really know right away, anyway. It usually takes me a little while to see if I’m into them or if they’re into me, you know?”

“Yeah, but what if you just want to bone down?” he asked.

I smiled at Nick and changed the subject. The fact was, though, that I’d never had casual sex before. Oh, sure, I had always wanted to. In fact, I’d spent most of my late teens and early twenties trying to. Eventually, though, I came to the conclusion that I was the male equivalent of a Toyota Camry You know: No one ever says, “I
have
to
have
a Toyota Camry.” But most people who spend some time in a Camry start to like it. “It’s pretty reliable,” they think. “It doesn’t have a lot of problems, and it’s not bad to look at. You know what? I’d probably prefer a nicer car. But I can live with a Camry.”

I had been shot down countless times after hitting on women solely because I found them attractive, and the experience was usually deflating, labor-intensive, and expensive. By the age of twenty-three I was tired of chasing women who usually chose to sleep with guys who looked like they weren’t even the same species as me. At this point I generally found myself motivated to pursue a girl only after I’d decided she was relationship material and that she might also be looking for something long-term. I usually went after girls I really enjoyed talking to, who were funny and often a little shy and awkward, and so far I’d had a few girlfriends, but none had lasted more than a year.

I had my strategy, and I stuck to it—which meant I paid little attention to the cocktail waitresses at our restaurant. Their job was to get people wasted, and to do that they had to be incredibly good-looking and, more important, able to pretend that every guy, if he bought enough booze and tipped just enough, just might end up having sex with them. Because of these requirements, a lot of them seemed to be pretty unstable. Every couple weeks one of the waitresses would get fired for some minor infraction, like hurling a glass vase at a manager or snorting cocaine in the walk-in fridge. Heeding all these warning signs, I rarely spoke to the waitresses, and none of them expressed much interest in driving a Camry.

So I was shocked when, a year and a half into my tenure at Villa Sorriso, a sultry South American cocktail waitress named Simone approached me. Simone was in her early twenties, with straight jet-black hair down to the middle of her back, full lips, and bright blue eyes that gave off the kind of intense, unsettling stare I had previously seen only on Tom Cruise when he was discussing Scientology. Simone’s butt protruded from the rest of her body as if it were itself a sentient being, capable of complex thought. She was so attractive that once, when I tried to pleasure myself to thoughts of her, my imagination couldn’t conjure up a plausible scenario in which she would agree to have sex with me, and I was forced to stop altogether.

“Where do you live?” she said now, as I folded napkins on the bar in preparation for that night’s dinner rush.

“Right outside Hollywood. Where do you live?” I asked.

“How come you never talk to me?” she said, ignoring my question.

“Um, I don’t know. You guys seem really busy over there.”

“You should talk to me,” she said, then walked away toward two customers sitting in the lounge next to the bar.

Nick had been listening in on the exchange from behind the bar.

“That was weird,” I said when he came by.

“That chick’s crazy. She’s trying to be a model, but she, like, also sells rabbit painkillers or something.”

“What?”

“I think she has a rabbit, and the rabbit has, like, cancer or something, and she gets the painkillers for the rabbit, but then she sells them to people. I guess it gets you fucked up.”