Will I meet a special guy by Valentine’s Day?
The view outside my window was a haze of white.
Just your typical Canadian blizzard. Maybe my man was somewhere out there, in his car late for work and annoyed by the weather.
With a storm this bad, I sure as hell wouldn’t be meeting him today. Nor would I be headed to the gym.
So what was the back-up plan? Gooey apple pie in my fuzzy pajamas?
As I tried to decide if a quarter of a pie would be enough to fill my needs, an e-mail landed in my inbox.
It was from Jayla, a friend from my previous job.
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Hey Everyone!
Sorry about the mass e-mail, but I wanted to announce it at once:
-ADRIAN AND I GOT ENGAGED!!!
The wedding’s right here in Sydney on November 22nd, but we’re coming back for a visit in September. That’s when we’ll be having our “Toronto Engagement Party” so you better show up!
By the way, thanks for all your love and support throughout the re-location, I miss you guys!
And also: AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ENGAGED!
Love,
Jayla
xx
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Before I had a chance to absorb all the exclamation marks, my phone started ringing. I glanced at the call display and it all made sense.
So Laura’s read the e-mail too.
“Good morning darling,” I said. “Is this an urgent matter? I’m quite busy here.”
“Shut up,” said Laura. “I know you read it too.”
I’d met Laura along with Jayla at my first corporate job. Laura was my “best friend stand-in,” as my childhood one was finishing with med school in Boston. Laura didn’t mind the term, and I played the same role for her, with her own best friend a two-hour drive away.
“I just read it now.” I minimized the e-mail off my screen, not because I was scared to read personal e-mails at work, but because I could feel it mocking me. “Are you happy for her?” I asked. “Or are you ready to puke from all the jealousy?”
“Come on, you know I love Jayla. But also…” She let out a heavy sigh. “I guess I’m twenty-percent jealous. I just can’t believe that she randomly met him on vacation!”
“THAT’S what you can’t believe? I can’t believe she stole my dream of marrying for love without your Indian parents killing you. Like he’s an Aussie white dude! I also can’t believe she scored an office transfer to Sydney. How come one person gets all the luck?”
“Yeah, too bad you work at a Canadian company. There’s no office transfer for you which means NO MORE foreigner boyfriends with expiring visas!” She laughed.
I did not.
“Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t quit,” I said. “Maybe they would’ve shipped me off to…Paris. You can’t not fall in love while you’re in Paris.” I sighed and started pulling balls of lint off my brown wool sweater, wondering all the time if decisions had any meaning at all. Am I really meant to be here? In this job? In this chair?With not even a glimpse of a boyfriend?
“Hey, are you listening?” Laura had apparently been talking all this while.
I stopped with the lint balls and tried to focus in. “Sorry, someone was at my desk,” I lied.
“No worries! I was just saying you should be glad we left that corporate pit. I mean yeah, Jayla stayed and got the chance to move to Sydney, but remember how we had to wear suits every day? Ugh!”
I rolled my eyes at the thought of Laura’s curvy bod. “Oh please, you took painted-on tailored suits to a whole new level. Long blonde curls, petite little frame and your ass bursting out of your office pants? You disgust me.”
She does, she really does. Had I always felt this way about my best-friend stand-in?
“I disgust YOU?” She laughed. “Then why am I the one who’s puking? You’re so much taller than me! You can gain five pounds and no one will even know.”
“Too bad I gained fifteen though. God...what the hell did I eat last year?” I poked my belly with my index finger, sighing at how easily it squished.
“So how’s the gym going?” she asked. Good ol’ Laura, forcing me not to dwell on last year’s menu.
“The gym’s alright. It’s way too early to hop on the scale, but I worked out twice in the last couple weeks. Tonight I’m gonna chill with some pie.” I smiled.
“Twice in the last couple weeks? Pie? So let me get this straight: your parents are going to saddle you up with a stranger, while my Italian family is predicting that I’ll wind up a spinster. And you’re talking about pie?!”
“But it’s APPLE pie.” I loved apple pie but she had a point. I hadn’t been out on the prowl even once, since Eleanor and I were in hiding from this horrible weather. But this was Canada. If we waited for spring we’d be waiting ‘til April at least.
“Alright that’s it,” stated Laura. “Tomorrow we’re going to a happy hour place. There’s this awesome swanky bar downtown. I haven’t been, but my friend told me Thursdays are crazy.”
“Crazy?” I didn’t like the sound of this.
“I mean like crazy-busy. They have a velvet rope with a bouncer, and from what she said the place is just crawling with investment bankers, executives, lawyers...do I have your attention?”
“You have my full attention, but I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Can’t we just wait until I lose five pounds?” As if I want an investment banker grabbing at my “rolls.”
“Ugh, stop being such a loser! You are lovely. The weight thing is more about being active, so you’ll stop running out of breath when you climb a flight of stairs. And yes, I’ve seen you do that.”
God, who ELSE knows about my terrible stamina?
I really couldn’t think of other reasons not to go. “Okay, but just to clarify…I’m looking for somebody to fall in love with, and money doesn’t equal love---”
“And blah, blah, blah, I promise we’ll find you a prince, blah, blah, blah. But seriously, we’re going tomorrow night. We can be each other’s wingmen!”
Man-hunting missions at a hot trendy bar? Maybe I’d find a Valentine after all…
***
I arrived outside the bar at six o’ clock the next night, feeling nervous, cold, and tired from a long day at work. There was indeed a red velvet rope, holding in a long line of people huddled up in coats and scarves. There was also a scary-looking bouncer. What IS this place?
“Romes! Over here!”
I followed Laura’s voice to the front of the line. Her grey wool coat hugged the curves of her short but well-toned body. I turned to the bar’s long windows to catch my reflection. My wool winter coat was of similar length, but it seemed to give my shoulders a boxy look. And why was it the same boxy shape from top to bottom?
I spun around to face Laura. “How much did it cost you to tailor that coat?”
“It’s not tailored.”
“So your coat fits like that on its own?”
“Fits like what?”
“I hate you.”
Laura simply laughed as she pulled out her phone. Meanwhile my mind raced through scenes of Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts in romantic comedies. Once I was finished I frowned at the disturbing conclusion:
-Leading ladies are always hotter than their sidekicks. So why are all my sidekicks hotter than me?
Maybe I was in the wrong movie.
***
The bouncer let us in and I immediately lost my way. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkened interior, I sensed the beginnings of a lobby, with hundreds of candles further along the way. Those candles were my only guide to the trendy décor, complete with Japanese-inspired sculptures, black leather couches and red-painted walls.
But what was that smell?
Things became fuzzy in a matter of seconds, as my nose fell victim to the toxic levels of cologne. I wondered if the men had conspired to emit this gaseous roofie; was there a pile of passed-out women around the corner? I suddenly noticed that Laura was nowhere in sight. My mind flashed back to being five years old in a department store, and losing my parents in the dishware aisle. I eventually found them, but not before falling down the last two steps of an escalator, with my mouth slamming hard on a bin of men’s underwear. I chipped a tooth that day.
I had no intention of chipping any grown-up teeth, so I stayed where I was like a fearful deer, waiting for my little Laura.
“Romes! Where were you? I thought you were coming to the coat-check.” Laura was suddenly in front of me, minus one tailored coat, but plus one fitted green sweater and some hip-hugging pinstriped pants.
I followed Laura to a corner of the lobby, where a beautiful woman with giant boobs took my coat.
Can everyone please stop being so hot?
“How do I look?” I straightened out my baby-blue blouse that was saved for special occasions. Worn with my black office pants, it was a very professional outfit. Well, almost.The shirt was extremely tight and made of five-percent spandex, which managed to give my boobs some faux abundance. The only downside to a shirt so tight up top was that the bottom hugged my body too. This was less than ideal considering my stomach’s little rolls. But who will even see them in this darkened bar?
Laura simply smiled at my outfit choice (was that a patronizing smile?) before leading the way to the lounge.
We quickly decided that a table was out of the question. The place was packed. I couldn’t even tell where one person ended and another one began.
How are we supposed to find the men when we can’t even see?
We delayed the man-search and squeezed towards the bar instead, to order ourselves some pomegranate martinis (classy yet delicious).
From there we moved to an empty space of floor by a wall post. Once we had claimed it as ours, we finally surveyed the scene.
A scene that was entirely shocking.
“Wow,” said Laura, with the widest eyes I’d ever seen.
“Is this the right dimension of the universe?” I asked.
“All of these girls. They’re actual, official...”
“Sluts.” That’s all I could say before reverting to a stunned kind of silence. A silence created by an over-flowing scene of slutified Barbies, crowding each other on the Skanks-R-Us shelf.It was so much more than cleavage and colossal boobs (which was still intimidating, but at least within reason). It was more like mini-skirts, pointed hooker boots, and hair volumized to high heaven.
“Look at the girl standing next to the statue of the silver Buddha. Her shirt is back-less. Her shirt, DOES NOT HAVE A BACK.” My voice had quickly changed from shocked to incredibly threatened.
“The one by the corner couch keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs. She’s wearing a tiny skirt. I can…see things.” Poor little Laura was tainted, yet she still couldn’t look away.
“There’s no way in hell these girls are from an office. Unless they brought duffle bags, and changed into their slut-gear after work.”
Laura nodded rapidly. “I think you’re right Romes. Like the one to my left is chewing bubble gum, IN A BAR, and the one on my right just asked a guy why he uses spreadsheets when he can use a calendar. These girls are from the outside.”
Once I had processed her findings, I suddenly had a flash.
“I know exactly where these girls are from. They’re from low-paying, boring jobs. They toil away all day and race downtown at five, so they can live out their childhood dream.”
“To get married?” asked Laura.
“Eventually. But for now their dream is a short-sighted one: to sleep with a white-collar dude.” My eyes bulged with realization as I continued. “They’re rarely seen as proper girlfriend material, but they relieve a man’s stress from his grueling day at the office. And if he’s married? No big deal. Being a mistress is extremely chic right now. And it leads to a lot of gifts.”
Laura looked at me, her face contorted in confusion. “So their dream is to be a mistress?”
“Damn right it is. But of course that’s never enough. For every ten dudes that a girl saddles in, she’s looking for the one who’ll fall in love with her. Like when Richard Gere’s character fell in love with Julia Roberts’s hooker vagina. From there, any one of these girls can become a second wife.” I shook my head in disgust. “This is the place where trophy wives are born.”
I took a big swig of my martini, realizing quickly that martinis should never be swigged.
My eyes watered hard from the burning in my throat, as Laura looked on amazed. “That’s a pretty detailed theory on these trophy sluts, but do you really think this bar is a place for hook-ups?”
Just then a man in a navy suit grabbed the girl in the back-less shirt. He rested one hand on her lower naked back, and guided her head towards his with the other. That’s when the kissing began.
They continued to kiss for a while. Ten or twelve seconds at least.
And it wasn’t even seven p.m.
“I bet he called her ‘babygirl’ right before he grabbed her,” I said. “Why does any woman on earth allow that nickname?!”
Laura shook her head. “It’s so sexist.”
“Forget sexist! I mean ‘BABYgirl’? Anyone who calls you that is basically admitting he’s sexually attracted to female infants.”
Laura laughed but I wasn’t quite finished. “Call the cops, I say! On any man that dare utter ‘babygirl’ again...”
I swigged back the last of my martini (yes, I swigged again), as Laura and I made a beeline back to the bar.
“Do you think we should leave?” asked Laura. “Go somewhere else instead?” Her eyes never shifted from the drinks being served.
“We could,” I said. “But that would mean getting our coats back…and walking in the freezing cold.”
“Screw it then, we’re staying here.”
And just like that, our back-up plan of getting trashed was in full effect.
***
“So Laura, why did you bring me to a sex-trade bar?” I asked, slurping the final drops of my second pomtini. “And your friend recommended it! Is she a whore?”
“She’s not a whore! She just likes sleeping with men.” We laughed. “And it’s not like she was lying. This place IS crawling with men.”
“But it’s you and me! We’re not sluts!” Though I knew my little Laura could go that route if she wanted.
“I know, I know...but at least the drinks are good.”
“You know what? They damn well are. Next round’s on me!”
Pretty soon we were two drunk girls at a bar, high-fiving each other for no apparent reason, and trying to guess which Barbie-slut would flirt with which banker (I was winning).
Meanwhile I was starting to develop sexy drunk eyes. It was involuntary yet mesmerizing. Sadly though, the sexy eyes were rendered useless on this night, since I sat here as a prop in this sleazy red and black bordello.
With Laura still stationed at the bar, I headed to the bathroom to relieve my bursting bladder. I squeezed my way towards the ladies room, when suddenly the front of my body brushed against some random dude.
I felt a sudden shiver, one that traveled straight to my baby-making region.
Could this be my valentine?
The man looked older than my usual target, late-thirties perhaps, and all decked out in a crisp grey suit. His hair was thick and black, shining bright from some dollops of gel. Like me he had a glazed set of drunken eyes, except they didn’t look as sexy or inviting on him.
In fact he was extremely inviting, as he wasted little time in introducing himself: “Heyyyyyyyyyyy.”
Sometimes a single word says a lot, and other times a single word releases a stream of whiskey breath.
“Hey,” I replied, trying to ignore my own heavy buzz.
“What are you drinking honey?” Before I could say a word he pulled it out.
Oh God.
It was a glowing BlackBerry, and in seconds he was furiously typing. I was slightly baffled, since typing on a BlackBerry usually means there’s an e-mail open. This guy was only staring at his home screen (which was a default desktop with some lilies and a bright blue sky).
So he’s trying to impress me with his mobile apparatus.
Despite my drunken state, I knew it was time to leave, because the BlackBerry-bonehead was hunting for a trophy-whore. I also knew that if things didn’t work for him here, he could stop off at the zoo for some “inter-species” action.
I weaseled away from the whiskey air, and from his big fat hand that now rested squarely on my shoulder, complete with a jewel-encrusted pinky ring.
Guys and pinky rings. Worse than a guy with a thick gold chain? Toss-up.
When I returned from the bathroom, I spotted a tired-looking Laura leaning on the bar. We were two wobbly girls and we’d had enough…
***
We shivered and shuffled down the street, myself on the way to the train, and Laura headed straight for the subway.
“Hey Laura, remember that time we went to New York for work?” I pushed my hands down my pockets as deep as they would go. “And we partied in that awesome club ‘til four a.m., even though we had to go to training only four hours later?”
She laughed. “Yeah, I remember. And remember those guys we met? They partied with us all night long. I mean they ended up being losers in the light of day, but it was fun!”
“I know! All we had to do was stand in a room and the guys would flock. Not like tonight.” I lowered my eyes to my feet.
“But tonight doesn’t count Romes! Not unless you were planning to become a hooker. Trust me, every single guy winds up at a bar at some point. This was just the wrong one.”
I thought about my work-friend Eleanor, and how she did so well at rounding up the guys. Maybe as a unit of three we’d be better. But then again, if I separated my wingmen I could go out twice as often and increase my chances. So I decided then and there to keep the two girls apart.
With chins buried safely in our scarves, we finally arrived at the aged façade of Union Station.
“Okay Romes, have a good night. Oh, and one last tip: buy some new shirts for going out.”
New shirts?
“But what about this blouse? It makes my boobs look big!” I leaned against a lamppost and frowned. My tight blue shirt was the best thing my closet had to offer.
“There are tons of shirts that can make your boobs look big, but if you had the chance, wouldn’t you want a big-boobed shirt that flows ‘away’ from your stomach? And I say that with love.”
“I love you right back.” I forced a smile. “I guess that makes sense. I’ll try to hit the mall this weekend.” I stumbled towards the train station concourse, as Laura laughed and waved goodbye.
It’s not that I minded Laura’s fashion tip, but she could’ve waited until tomorrow to tell me. Or maybe she could’ve pretended to like it. Would it have killed her?
I boarded the train, feeling more and more disturbed by the second.
Honesty is good; honesty helps!…At least I think so.
With eyes closed, I leaned against the train’s cold window, imagining myself in the warmth of friendly lies…