Swayze

*This story is a fictitious account of real-life events from a twenty-somethings adolescence that have stained his image of self-worth, and the restorative powers of expelling these occurrences on a New Years lover.*

*****

"Will I ever see you again?" Sarah sighed and looked down, stirring a rock candy swizzle stick around the edges of her coffee mug.

"After my reveal, I don't understand why you would want to, but even so—probably not," Daniel replied.

"I'm not so innocent myself, you know; I've had my fair share of partners." She brought the swizzle stick up to her mouth and smiled.

"Sarah, it's not even about the partners, although that's usually an effective enough deterrent. It's more than that."

"What else is it?"

"I'm not cut out for this society."

She looked up at him, confounded.

"The real-world," he continued. "It's been a year since I graduated and still, I've failed to land a decent job. I apply and apply, and for what? Ninety percent of the time I don't even get a 'Thank you for applying but...'—most companies just ghost you nowadays."

"Yeah, I hear it's tough. So, what have you been doing with your time? Other than looking for work."

"The funny thing is, even though I dedicate eight hours a day to 'work,' apart from getting distracted by other people's lives on social media, it's hard for me to give you a concrete answer. 'A whole lot of nothing,' is the best way I can describe it. My mother bought me a suit last Christmas. She really went in on this thing, had a tailor take measurements. It's a tweed suit with a Prince of Wales check pattern: black and white pinstripes. I wear the suit Monday through Friday—leave the house at eight-thirty and go to this fictitious place I call my job.

"And where exactly is that?"

"It's kind of messed up. My poor mother thinks I work on Wall Street. She never asks but probably thinks I'm stacking major dough."

"But where do you actually go?"

"I tour various cafes—sit on my computer, put on an air of importance, pretend I'm working."

"Well, you kinda are. Looking for jobs is work."

"To be honest, at first I was, but when I began to appreciate receiving rejection emails because at least I was getting some kind of response, that's when I registered the toxicity of the whole thing. I felt like I'd gain more just from sitting on a city bench and people-watching. I've given up on applying for the most part. The rejection, or lack of in my case, became too much—a couple days out of the week I clean up after a contractor, but otherwise I remain idle, waiting for a miracle. Although some days I do get the urge to stand on a crowded street corner waving my degree around. The funny thing is that if I actually did that, I'd make headlines and some wealthy individual would probably take me under his wing just for the sake of a story."

"Fortune does favor the bold. And plus there are physically handicapped and intellectually disabled people in the workforce that are thriving. On the basis of last night, I'd say you're a spring fucking chicken."

"That actually reminds me of something that happened while I was still in high school—"

"Sure that you've left high school?"

"Look, I acknowledge that I may not be the most competent and driven individual—crippling anxiety has caused me to sprint out of offices mid-interview. But I still show up. I mean eventually some sympathetic interviewer will put aside protocol and pursue a shine she spotted in the rubble of my self-esteem. I'm aware that I'm currently in a position where I can replace my suit with a chicken costume and, apart from a couple of mixed reactions, nothing would change. I'm not proud of the fact that nothing depends on me."

"Actually, Planet Wings might hire you—you'd have an auspicious start in the industry. He already comes with a costume. You could even become the face of the company, like Jared and Subway or Colonel Sanders and KFC...I can see it now," she said looking up, waving her hand into space. "Daniel, the Planet Wings Chicken."

"And I would be the best fucking mascot around if they just gave me a chance!"

"You gotta take chances like that. Like I said: fortune favors the bold. Walk up to a restaurant and demand a position as a mascot, say you'll give out free samples and twirl a sign. Soon enough, they'd put you in commercials, and that's when the money starts pouring in. Eventually, they'd make a documentary about you, your bold start credited to me."

"Ok. I probably deserved that."

"No—but I'm serious, if you market yourself daringly, offers will come. Look at the music industry nowadays. One of the most popular rappers of our time has rainbow colored hair and teeth, and tattoos on his face. That's what it takes to get yourself noticed. You need to give zero fucks in order to make a million bucks."

"Would you still be attracted to me if I had rainbow colored hair and tattoos on my face?"

"No, no one respects a blatant copy-cat. Face tattoos are trending, so it may be hard to omit them. I'll design them. We can do that ever-glum, pessimistic donkey from Winnie-the-Pooh."

"Eeyore?"

"Yes!"

"But before my parents discommunicate me for all the heinous things I'll start doing to myself in hopes to get rich, will you let me buy you a drink? A final toast to normality, blending in, and abiding to bland social constructs."

Daniel looked out across the heads of people sitting at their booths conversing about New Year's resolutions. He began to wave at a waitress hovering in an aisle a couple sections away.

"With what money?"

"With my deceased grandmother's." After a tense silence, he continued, "Now back to what I was saying earlier. I worked at a supermarket briefly while I was in highschool. There was a group of intellectually disabled workers. I'm not exactly sure what they did at the store, perhaps retrieve loose carts around the parking lot, but I know that they were the most productive employees there; you could just tell by their artlessness and spirit. As I get off for lunch one afternoon, I greet one of them, asking him how everything's going. He says to me, 'Another day, another dollar.' He tried to sound nonchalant, but from his eyes and that fantastical smile across his face I could tell that he was loving every minute of it. There was something about him—like happiness flooded his being all hours of the day. He could've easily looked around and thought—Look at all these stoned ungrateful scumbags—but something so vile could've never crossed his mind. He held the same level of love and respect for all, and was even seen as a leader among the disabled group.

"Another day, another dollar," Daniel sniggered in reminiscence. "You know what happened to me later that day, at the end of my shift? One of the managers pulls me aside—Greg. Picture a massive egg containing a baby chick six feet tall at birth who had managed to poke only its legs out while its upper half remains encapsulated in the egg, running around blind. So, Greg sits me down in his office. 'How's everything going?' he asks contemptuously. Of course I say, 'Another day, another dollar.' 'Looks like it,' he responds. 'For your past three shifts your register has been coming up short. Now, I'm not accusing you of anything, and I can't confirm malicious activity but take this as a warning.' I'm fed up at this point. At myself, not Greg. I can't even properly give out change. Easiest job in the world; requirements: be able to scan items and translate digits on an electronic panel into bills and coins. I can't even do that. At this point I'm about to ask if I could join the intellectually disabled guys, doing whatever they do, thankfully minding my response, realizing that had I pursued the thought, I'd be offending both myself and the only ones who've kept my sanity taut. 'I'm sorry, it won't happen again,' I assure. I never came back after that meeting. Didn't even respond to their phone calls, couldn't bring myself to it. I was top of my class back in elementary school, now I can't even correctly count out change. What happened?"

"Aw—honey. When we get the check, give me your money so I can count out the correct amount."

"Yeah, yeah—joke now—cause in a couple more years I may not even trust myself retrieving carts. I may spot one at the far end of the parking lot, get to it, then have little recollection of how I ended up there in the first place, let alone what my intentions were with said cart."

"Are you saying you have Alzheimer's? That's not a joke."

"I'm saying that I probably will. It's genetics. That's how my grandmother went. My father shows symptoms of it as well; he's more far gone than I am. For example, he wanted to sell his car recently. He needed the money—we needed the money. Problem was, he couldn't find the title to it. For days, he seemingly searched every nook and cranny in our home. One day I ask him, 'Did you check the closet at the top of the stairs?' That's where he keeps his accordian folder with all his important documents. My room is next to this closet and for many years I've sat at my desk, plugging numbers into formulas that I've been told to trust blindly while my father rummages through the folder angrily, desperately trying to find proof that credit card companies are finagling him. When I asked him, almost sarcastically, if he checked the closet, he stared at me blankly. This man had no recollection.

"He stomped upstairs to check. Sure enough, that forest green folder sat in the bottom corner, all tattered and neglected.

"He spent a good while flipping through each section. But it wasn't in the folder. That's when I knew my old man had lost it. Both the title and his mind."

"You still live at home, right?"

"Yeah. Unfortunately."

"You should move out. It's like you're embracing his shortcomings. If you were away from him I think it might help, perhaps move in with a memorist. They say you become like the people that you hang around."

"I'd like to, but I have no income or even savings. If I move out now, I'll be homeless in a couple of months."

"See, that's your problem. No confidence. Don't you think that independence would force you to make it work? And besides, don't you have any friends that would take you in—in case all falls down?"

"I'd hope so."

"So stop fucking worrying and take a chance. It's attractive when men take chances; it's a turn off when they make excuses."

"I also worry that I'll get stuck doing something I won't excel in."

"Will decides what you excel in. And I assume that by now you've discovered things that interest you?"

"My interests are shifty and obsessive. For a couple months I'll pour all my time and energy into one thing only for it to be replaced by something else. I don't see results quick enough and it turns me off."

"You probably picture yourself at point Z and don't consider that you have to go through A, B, C, D, E—"

"I get it. No, you're right. I romanticize about things; I fall in love with ideals rather than the actual things."

"There's nothing that has held your interest?"

"Sex and boozing."

"But everybody loves those."

"Yeah, but I love them a lot, and they have me contemplating."

"Suicide?"

"Nah. That takes a strong will. I'm the type to wallow in sadness till my dying breath.

"So anyways, there's this resort in Jamaica that's all about the swing lifestyle—for the sex-positive. I'm trying to get a summer job there as a cabana boy. I figure it'd be like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing: him and those hot older women that tip him for sex. Except in my case it would be morally sound. The husband would be cool with it because that's just the lifestyle."

Sarah choked on the water she took a swig of moments before.

His face flushed red with regret. He knew she wouldn't understand. Her basic-ass relationship aspirations—one and done.

"You? Patrick Swayze? Let's take a step back, buddy."

"You told me that I should work on my confidence."

"True. But think of it like this, Patrick Swayze is like Leonardo Da Vinci's sculpture The David, a masterpiece of the male form—even more impressive actually, since he moves with such dominance and fluidity. You—you're like a promising block of marble. An artist will find you and spend a great deal of time and energy chiseling you into their masterpiece. "

"You shuddered like you were undergoing electroshock therapy when I massaged it with my tongue."

"That's why I said promising."

"And when I was hitting it from the back and flipped you over like you were some kind of wicked pancake, squeezing your throat till your eyes started to roll back."

"Be quiet, psycho, we're at a restaurant. Blocks of quality marble are hard to come by, what else do you want me to say?"

"Say that I am just as appealing as Patrick Swayze, and not some unformed chunk of rock. In fact, every time I do something sexy, refer to it as 'Swayze.' For example, 'damn, Daniel, the way you paid for my meal, that was so Swayze. And the way you nibbled on my earlobes, so Swayze.'"

"Fuck off, cabana boy. Can't take a compliment. Go to your sex resort. They'll have you trashing condoms and mopping up after parties."

"Gotta start somewhere."

"If you're diligent enough, they might promote you to administrator of Viagra," Sarah responded as the waitress came by with their food.

She pretended to hear nothing. Daniel chortled under his breath.

"The Big Easy Benedict for you." She placed the plate in front of Daniel. "And the Southern Chicken and Waffles." She dropped the plate in front of Sarah. "Would you guys like any more coffee?"

"I think we're good," Sarah responded.

"Yeah, we're good," Daniel reassured.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Daniel smashed his hand down on the check like it was the buzzer on Family Feud. He slipped his cash, already counted out, inside of the check booklet.

"I'm sorry about the way I reacted earlier. I digested what you said and realize I'm an idiot for not registering the optimism and sincerity in it," he said.

She slowly retrieved her hands, which hovered over the booklet.

"Take me home," she responded ignoring his comment.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

As Daniel pulled into her driveway, four bundled up children were, in a mutual effort, forming an ambitious snow-boulder—to be the base of a snowman—which was composed of half the lawn's snow and almost twice the kids' size.

"Sarah, I had a good time last night, and this morning was nice," Daniel started. "I got out of hand with all that hedonist stuff. I'm probably just a lazy sack of shit who's trying to find an outlet where I can continue being one."

"Probably," she smiled.

"Yeah, well—regardless, the pleasure was all mine, and I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

The children were now sprawled across the ground, defeated by their efforts, flapping their arms around like the wings of a stingray roving across a seabed.

"Aw look—they're making snow angels," Sarah pointed out.

"I'll never forget this New Years," he said to himself, gazing out the opposite window, too forlorn to fully register her comment.

"What kind of tea do you like?" Sarah continued.

"Personally, I'm a fan of green. Highly recommend a good sencha or genmaicha. matcha is super trendy—"

"Hmm—I might have some. I also might have some Horny Goat Weed," Sarah winked, then became perplexed when Daniel's expression took on even more despair at a reference she thought would evoke curious confusion. "Do you know what that is? I don't know what it is. I just saw it at a store once and couldn't get over the name."

"I do, unfortunately. And there's a story behind it."

"I'm listening..."

"When I was in high school, I had this issue where I couldn't 'perform.' It's not that I was impotent, I masturbated three times a day back in those days—"

"Not sure that much has changed."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Aw—I'm sorry. I'm an asshole. Continue."

"True—but it's true—although not with the same vigor. Now it's dull, it's desperate—like beating at a dead horse."

"Girls must drop their panties out of pity; you're going to make me cry. But go on, continue with your story."

"Right. So, like I was saying, when the prospect of sex became real, I couldn't get it up. It's called performance anxiety, it's quite common among males, you know," he asserted, peering at her seriously.

"Why are you looking at me like I would know?"

A nervous smile crossed his face. "I'm just saying—it's a common thing. A recent study of two-thousand British men found that fifty percent of those in their thirties reported difficulties in getting and maintaining an erection.

"Anyways, I'm with this girl. Second girl I've ever seen naked—"

"Your mom—and the British—don't count."

"No," he began to laugh, "but I almost wish that was it; seeing my mother naked would've been less embarrassing than dangling my cooked noodle behind a girl who at that moment would've probably killed for some penetration. Needless to say, I took precautions with the next one. That's where the Horny Goat Weed comes in. She made it clear that it was going to happen, so, not wanting a repeat scenario, I looked into defensive measures. I wrote Viagra off, since going to a physician about ED is the last thing a shy, insecure adolescent male would consider. But I did do some research and found an Asian herb that sounded promising."

"Oh, boy."

"Yeah. And I was hopeful. I planned to go over to her house after school one day, and so that morning, I steeped the entire box in my thermos and chugged it as soon as the last period bell rung."

"Oh, boy."

"Yeah. She was really into Star Wars, this girl. She put on an Episode then hopped into bed, just like that. I don't think she even beckoned me to join her underneath the covers, I think she just trusted me to follow suit. Just imagine my nerdy, self-deprecating self standing between these powerful men wielding huge, unrelentingly erect, slaughtering Lightsabers and an actual, fully-developed anticipant female. Just as I was about to dive underneath the covers, a tiny wiener dog with a Napoleon complex—as is the case with all miniature creatures—bolts into the room, barking at my feet. Thinking that if I failed to win it over I'd blow my chances of even touching a titty, I crouched down and began petting it."

"Aw—Daniel that's so sweet."

"I was trying—but it didn't help my cause. She jumped out of bed and scolded the dog, shooing him away. He had some human name, Max, I think it was. Perhaps, if I had peered into his eyes giving him that 'I'm about to fuck your lady and there's nothing your puny ass can do about it' look, he would've scattered. That might've really got her going now that I think back. But since that's not how I played it, she must've thought something along the lines of: You'd rather play with my dog than my pussy? Messy from the get-go, really."

Sarah began to laugh at the thought.

Daniel produced a half smile, happy that his story was received with amusement, yet not so sure if this debilitating brand of humor was how he'd like to be remembered. He continued, "After what I internally noted as strike one, I nervously kissed her. It seemed to redeem me, but at the same time I checked in on my own Lightsaber, feeling around, squeezing it, priming it for battle. The Force wasn't with me last time, so why should it be with me now?"

"Did...did the Horny Goat Weed kick...kick in yet?" she barely inserted through her now incessant laughter.

"She climbed back into bed and I was still flaccid. I reasoned that I needed to see her naked body, particularly those giant, fulsome tits. Now I'm not much of a boob-man—more of an ass-guy personally—but these things were truly epic. Although, at that point I couldn't care less about what I liked, I simply wanted to prove I was, in fact, a man by making her feel like a woman. And once I had came, I'd rest easy against those two angelic pillows on her chest; my point proven."