74. Serial Dater Outslicked-Eric (Inspired by Adam Buck)




• Gina and I were under the Walking Bridge in downtown Chattanooga sitting next to our homemade Irish coffees, which were a lot more Irish than coffee.
  
  We were sitting on the wooden planks of an empty, outdoor amphitheater, smoking cigarettes. She finally stubbed out her cigarette with her puffy, truck-driver fingers and popped the question.
  
  It wasn’t exactly the question, I would have died right there. Still, for me it was close enough. It was a derivative of that question. The same way a wolf sniffs the air for the scent of blood to find prey, people will hint around to the question of marriage to feel out a potential mate, without actually asking the question directly.
  
  “Ruben, what’s the longest relationship you’ve had,” she said.
  
  “Almost four years."
  
  She took a sip of her Irish coffee.
  
  “Hmm, what was her name?"
  
  I took a sip of my own whiskey-laden coffee to make it a little easier to discuss.
  
  “Netflix.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “I joined Netflix almost four years ago.”
  
  She spit up her coffee.
  
  “Don’t spit up your whiskey, that’s alcohol abuse,” I said.
  
  She smiled at me. Half of her front teeth were missing. If there were a missing link this hairy Neanderthal would have to be it.
  
  “That’s why I always take you with me, you can turn any boring road trip into a feature film,” she said.
  
  She was referring to me traveling along with her in the eighteen-wheeler across the country.
  
  And she thought I was joking about my longest relationship, the poor thing. But my Netflix subscription was really the longest commitment I had ever made, and I didn’t even use my own credit card to subscribe. I used my mother’s check card and home address.
  
  It’s not that I’m afraid of commitment. I’m just in complete awe of why people still actually believe in it.
  
  Given enough time, eventually everything expires or collapses. Even the Universe will eventually collapse some day according to Hawking. It’s the Law of Entropy.
  
  It works the same way on a microcosmic level. Everything has to eventually be replenished, replaced, reapplied for or simply forgotten. It seems pointless to get involved with anything when it never reciprocates and stays committed back. It’s even hard for me to be a good alcoholic because it requires a regular drinking schedule.
  
  People get old and die, flowers wilt, groceries spoil, memberships expire and relationships end. Even a driver license doesn’t stay valid for more than six years in most states.
  
  Speaking of a driver license, that’s my main criterion for dating. I won’t date a girl unless she has a valid driver’s license and a car. If she starts racking up too many points on her license then it’s over. I also won’t date a girl that has more than three front teeth. She has to be ugly enough to stop time because if she’s not, there’s a chance that she’ll eventually get the courage to look for someone else. Then I’d be out of transportation and my life would be over.
  
  Finding Gina was like finding the Holy Grail of girls with no self-esteem because she also has a CDL license. That means we never have to stay in the same state for more than three weeks at a time.
  
  “Seriously, what’s the longest you’ve been with someone,” she said.
  
  I swished the coffee at the bottom of the cup and gulped it down.
  
  “Do Fruit flies count?”
  
  She rolled her eyes.
  
  “Well, we need to get some sleep. LA is a long way,” she said.
  
  We stumbled our way up the winding sidewalk that gradually ascends to the embankment of the Walking Bridge. She started up her big, red Dodge and dropped me off at the closest thing I have to a home, my mother’s house.
  
  My mom gave me a duffel bag and pulled some clothes out of a closet. She handed me some socks, underwear, jeans, and a few T-shirts. I walked to the closet and looked through it.
  
  “How’s your book doing,” she said, her left eye fluttering in spasms like a Hummingbird’s wings. She had a facial tick as long as I can remember.
  
  She was referring to a self-published book I supposedly wrote, which was nothing more than a coil-bound notebook chalk full of sad details I ripped off from my own life.
  
  Everything seems to be a rip-off of a rip-off somewhere down the line but this little journal was the only way for me to still pretend that I had some kind of connection. It was my last-ditch effort to pretend that I still had something solid and tangible to hold on to.
  
  Even I needed to lie to myself every once in a while. And after she reminded me of the journal I scoured that entire closet for it and came up with nothing. I was pissed and tempted to stay until I found it.
  
  “It’s doing good, mom. I just won the Pulitzer prize for fiction last week.”
  
  Her eye fluttered faster, she walked over and gave me a hug.
  
  “That’s my boy. I knew you were going to do something good. How is Jenny?”
  
  “Gina you mean?”
  
  “I’m sorry, they change every week though. I can’t keep up with them in my old age.”
  
  “She’s doing good, we’re heading to LA in a few hours.”
  
  “Bring me back a souvenir?”
  
  I nodded and filled the duffel bag with a few more pairs of socks. When she wasn’t looking I stuffed a hundred dollar bill inside one of her shirt pockets in the closet.
  
  I kissed her and left the house and finally managed to hitch a ride to a random dive bar.
  
  I waded through the blue, smoky room and called Gina to let her know where to pick me up. When I sat back down next to my mangy duffel bag I felt eyes on me. I hadn’t shaved or showered in a while and I was walking around with a duffel bag, so who knows what they thought.
  
  After several shots someone started singing Cat Power’s The Greatest in the karaoke booth. I continued drinking shots for some time, trying to soak up the music.
  
  My stomach was growling. I should have eaten at my mother’s house and got some sleep for the trip instead of drinking here. These thoughts went through my head as the room spun and I crashed down on someone’s table.
  
  The two guys said something and hoisted me up. They carried me out arm in arm and threw me out into an alleyway. The world was blurry around the edges and my throat felt like sandpaper. I leaned on a car to keep my balance and I heaved all over the hood. A few minutes later someone came out.
  
  “Hey, get the fuck off my car you bum,” someone said.
  
  I turned around. It was one of the guys who threw me out, only this time there were three more behind him. They took turns wearing a bulky Class ring, and punching me in the face.
  
  I had never been in a fistfight before, so I underestimated how awkward it would be for four guys trying to keep their balance while they took turns beating the shit out of me. They stumbled over each other, tripped and grunted, trying to land that perfect punch on my face. I almost felt sorry for them. I contemplated walking into a blow to make it easier on them when someone hit me so hard the bloody ring flew off of his hand. It rolled down the street, clinking down a gutter.
  
  Everything went black for a few seconds and the back of my head hit the pavement. Tires were squealing somewhere nearby. It was all over. As if beating me to a bloody mess wasn’t enough. I braced for the tires that would be rolling over me but instead I heard people yelling and then a crashing sound.
  
  I looked up and there was Gina in her Dodge with that big, toothless grin. Behind her were three men lying around like toppled bowling pins. She jumped out of the truck and scooped me up with her big, grizzly arms. She hoisted me into her truck with ease. We heard sirens. She peeled out, pelting the back of the bar with gravel. We pulled onto the road and drove as far away as we could.
  
  It’s times like these that make you feel bad for using someone. Here I was, hopeless and on the verge of extinction when she appears out of nowhere like some kind of sasquatch angel and saves me.
  
  She handed me an old shirt and I wiped my forehead with it. Blood continued dripping down my face so I grabbed a bottle of Vodka from the floor and doused the shirt with it. I pressed it hard against my face. On the floorboard next to the Vodka bottle I saw my journal. I prayed she hadn’t read it.
  
  She turned to me and smiled.
  
  “Open the glove box,” she said.
  
  With my free hand I twisted the notch and out popped another journal. My handwriting was inside. Funny, I don’t remember having two journals, I thought. Wait a minute.
  
  She smiled at me again.
  
  How could she?
  
  As if she read my mind she said, ”Come on, did you think you were the only one?”
  
  A Neanderthal had just outslicked me.
  
  “What are you talking about,” I said, trying to play it off.
  
  She laughed. She pulled a prescription bottle from her pocket. Percocets, good. I popped a few.
  
  She said, “Who were you trying to kid, Ruben? You’re thirty-two, you smell horrible, you don't have a job, and you live with your mother. You’re a bum.”
  
  My head throbbed. Shut up. Just shut up, I thought.
  
  “And you're always broke,” she said.
  
  I turned to her, still holding the shirt over half of my face.
  
  She said, “Hey, we all have our criteria, right?”
  
  She put her hand on my shoulder, and at that moment I fell in love for the first time in my life. I tossed our journals out of the window. We kept on driving.