"So?"
"So?"
"You ever pull out your nipple hairs?" John asked casually. Nothing in his voice suggested he was joking. He sipped from his pint glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Yeah," answered Paul. "Those suckers get long."
"They sure do."
The two fell silent. Paul concentrated on his beer and rubbed his temples. John glanced over his shoulder and surveyed the meat dancing behind him. Bodies oozed and undulated. Primary colored lights danced off the mirrored panels of the disco-ball; they gyrated and strobed and highlighted the simulated sex-acts that, performed anywhere but the dance floor, would have resulted in a civil suit and two-to-five in the hoosegow. The music, if it could be called that, manifested itself in Paul's ears as a high-pitch buzz; his eardrums vibrated in time with the synthesized drone. He considered stuffing beer-nuts in his ears, but was afraid of one becoming stuck. He had heard stories of poor fools who had gotten various things lodged in various orifices for various reasons and were, therefore, subject to the sort of humiliation and ridicule that only loved ones and hospital staff were capable of inflicting. He did not want to be numbered among them. He did not want to be a water-cooler story.
He took his eyes off his beer and glanced around the bar. Everyone else was smiles and giggles and drunken laughter-with one exception. In a corner booth, on the far side of the dance floor, sat an icy man and fiery woman in the midst of what appeared to be the much maligned "breakup date"-possessed, as they were, by accusing fingers and angry scowls. They appeared to Paul in slow motion-she with her red vampire lips, he with his pale blue zombie eyes. One drew a line through the soggy cocktail napkins and basket of half-eaten buffalo wings and dared the other to step across. Bracing herself on the table, the Vampire leaned into the Zombie as if she intended to bite him. Expressionless, the Zombie leaned back and crossed his arms. He sat just clear of her rabid attack. Oh good, thought Paul, company.
"Sometimes I cut them, other times I pluck them. I don't know, though; I hear that if you cut them they come back thicker. I tried waxing once and only once. Thought I ripped my nipple off. Take a word of advice-never wax your nipples, man. Those things are sensitive. Damn, that hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Nearly passed out from the pain. So, I mean, what are you supposed to do? Electrolysis?"
Paul increased the pressure on his temples. "I honestly don't know," he said, looking to the end of the family-size table at which he sat. He remembered that he and John were not alone. Thankfully, Tom and Sarah were deeply engaged in "couple talk." Perhaps his conversation with John, his exercise in the insipid, had not found its way into the forefront of their collective consciousness. He took another drink from his mug, swirling the remaining foam around in the glass before finishing it.
"You use your finger or tweezers?"
Paul stared at John, blankly.
"I mean, I can't even get tweezers to work. The hair just slips right out. How do chicks do it every day? Those things are a pain in the ass. I just use my fingers. Pop 'em right out. Like nothing. I don't even know why you'd need tweezers."
"Maybe you're going it wrong," Paul said, reconsidering the beer-nut idea. Or maybe you're just a bloody idiot, he thought.
John yelled, attempting to make himself heard over the drone of computer generated noise. "Nah. I don't think so. I mean, they're tweezers. You tweeze. How can you do that wrong?"
I be you're just dumb enough to get it wrong, thought Paul. "Yeah, I hate tweezers too," he shouted, "Don't know how chick can do it everyday." He faked a smile, hoping John possessed the mental acuity needed to process the hint into something approximating comprehension.
John didn't.
"Hey, let me ask you something," John said after flicking a beer-nut at a couple of dancing prime-rib steaks in black, Lycra mini-skirts.
Please don't, thought Paul. He took a sip of air from his empty mug.
"You have a butt towel?"
Paul knocked the mug on his left, front tooth. He said "Ouch," reflexively and felt for any chips or fractures that may have been sustained. He wiggled it. He wished that it had been knocked out so he could leave without the humiliating, obligatory insistence that he stay. Lacking any real hope of escaping the forthcoming exchange, he stifled a belch, closed his eyes, and resignedly asked, "A butt towel?" He sounded louder in his ears than he intended. Had Tom and Sarah overheard? Paul threw a sideways glance in their direction. They sat opposite each other, holding hands across the table, faces nearly touching. They are not even in the bar, thought Paul. They are somewhere else, far away from butt towels and nipple hairs.
"Yeah. I keep two towels in the bathroom for when I shower. One for my body and another for my ass."
Paul wished he could go with Tom and Sarah, wherever they were.
"I mean, let's say you dry your ass, right? You don't want to dry your face on a towel that was just on your ass, do you? No, of course not. That would be like wiping your ass with your face, and that's disgusting. I, personally, don't want my face anywhere near my ass. I mean, do you have any idea where my butt has been?"
With closed eyes, Paul imagined the sweet relief of throwing himself off a tall building. He opened his eyes and began to beg for mercy. "No, I don't. Listen, please..."
John cut him off. "It's been on toilets, Paul. Toilets. Toilets that other asses have been on. Strange asses you and I don't know. In effect, your ass has rubbed up against those strange asses. So not only are you wiping your face with your ass, you are wiping your face with a bunch of other strange asses. I mean, you don't know who belongs to those asses. Those asses could belong to anyone. And if you think a hairy back is disgusting..."
"Listen, John..."
"No, wait, I'm not done." He took a quick drink. "So, not only are you wiping your face with their strange asses, you are wiping your face with every ass that ever sat on the toilet that the stranger's ass sat on. Do you have any idea how many asses that is? Millions, Paul. Your face has essentially wiped a million asses. Not mine, though. I play it safe. I mean, do you know what goes in a toilet? Poop, Paul. Poop. That's what goes in a toilet. That could be what you are wiping your face with. Millions of people's poop! Think about it!"
Paul thought. "I'm leaving," he said.
"Why? It's early."
"Because you're an idiot."
"What? That? The butt towel? I was only kidding. It was a joke. I mean, come on. Relax, for crying out loud."
"I don't think so, John." Paul stood and removed his wallet. He'd had enough.
"Please. Sit. Have another beer. I'll buy."
"I'm going home."
"What are you going to do at home? Sit? Watch TV? Sit in your underwear and eat Cheetos on your futon?"
"No," he lied.
"Sit," said John. "Please."
Paul weighed his options. The Vampire, while still bearing her fangs, had quit pointing her red claws at the Zombie. Tom and Sarah were still inside their cotton-ball and gauze-lensed world. Paul noticed that Tom's elbow was resting in an ashtray. John stroked his chin and assumed a pseudo-intellectual expression that Paul had grown used to seeing during the past three months.
"Something is clearly on your mind and I think I know what it is," said John. "Sit, have a beer, and let's talk about it."
Paul quickly performed a mental compare and contrast of John versus Cheetos. Cheetos won by unanimous decision. But a free beer and bad conversation beat loneliness every time. He sat.
"Cool," said John. He motioned to a waitress. He gave their drink orders to her breasts and as she walked away, John's eyes engaged in an unspoken dialogue with her skirt-covered ass. They sat in silence waiting for their beers. Paul's ears hurt worse than ever. He hoped to simply go deaf soon. Then he wouldn't have to listen to the music or John. Glancing to the dance floor, Paul frowned. If only I could dance, he thought. He looked to Tom and Sarah. He frowned. If only...
Looking to see how his arguing couple was faring, Paul found that the Vampire had stopped snarling and the Zombie was now talking. They were engaged in what appeared to be a quiet but serious talk. What are they talking about? Paul wondered. He imagined all sorts of melodramatic innuendo: cheating lovers discovered, heroin found under the bed, murders that hadn't been disclosed earlier in the relationship. Or, maybe, thought Paul, Zombies and Vampires just don't speak the same language. When Jon's eyes fell to breast level, Paul knew their waitress was returning behind him. She gave them the beers. John paid. She left.
"Now," said John, throwing a beer-nut into the back of his mouth. "I know what your problem is and it's okay to feel the way you do."
Paul wondered how long John could talk without sounding stupid.
"A lot of people are intimidated by me. Hell, I'm pretty to look at. I mean, what can I say? I was blessed. But it's no reason to get jealous."
Hmm. About ten seconds.
"Plus you're new here. Don't know the area real well; don't know anybody but us and we're a little younger, so naturally you feel a bit out of your element. Am I right?"
"No, you're not right. If fact, you couldn't be more wrong."
"Then what's your problem?"
"My problem is I can't figure out why the Hell I am even talking to you. You are a dumb!" Paul searched his mental lexicon for the word with just the right subtleties and nuances to accurately express his utter disdain for everything John. "...asshead." Having said it aloud, Paul believed that he had succeeded.
"Asshead?"
"Yes. You are an asshead and we have nothing in common. I have nothing to say to you and you have nothing to say that I want to hear." Paul's voice escalated. "I have been here for three months, I see you people five days a week, and I know nothing about any of you. And everyone we work with talks just like you. I have had conversations about where the centers of doughnuts go; what nougat is; if Trafalmador is a real place; the wonders of being a hermaphrodite; how many beers I would have to shotgun before it undermines my body's molecular integrity; theories on why old ladies perm their hair into an afro and dye it blue-and the list goes on and on and I can't take it anymore. I want to know something real, something that matters. What your last names are; where you were born; what your goals are; what make you cry. Something, anything. Because, right now, I know nothing. Nothing! And I am sick of it!" Paul stopped to catch his breath.
Tom and Sarah stared at him.
The Zombie kissed the Vampire.
"My last name is Oaks," said John, "I was born in Santa Rosa, California, and red onions make me cry. The white ones not so much. But you know, I'm not much of an onion guy anyway-they give me diarrhea..."
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