Last week we posted a long lost short story from our very, very brief stint as columnists for a now defunct magazine, a magazine that may or may not have been so terrible that words were routinely misspelled on the COVER. Let me just say it's pretty awesome having this kind of conversation with your mother.
But we're not here to talk about that. No, we might share that story one day, but for now, we're here to talk about Slim Dyson, the homeless (yet optimistic) novelist. He was well received last week, so starting today, we'll be resurrecting Slim and turning him into a regular feature every other Thursday.
This means we'll be writing new Slim short stories, which we're planning to weave into an actual novel. Also, this means that for the sake of you the reader, each short story will be able to stand alone, so whether you have the time to read Slim's past adventures or not, you'll be able to enjoy and understand each story. As busy bloggers, we know it can sometimes be a pain to stumble upon chapter 46 of someone's novel, and to have to read the previous 45 chapters just to understand what the hell's going on.
But, if you DO have the time and you missed it, here is Slim's first adventure...
Slim Pickings - A Day in the Life of a Professional Writer
And so, without further ado, Slim Part 2: Slim's Adventures in E-Dating.
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With my hands laced over my chest, and my moth-nibbled socks comfortably stretched across the leather couch, I sighed and stared at the ceiling. The Armani-clad woman listened carefully from the plush chair beside me, nodding at all the right times. I reluctantly considered her last question. The subject always came up at some point, didn’t it?
“Well, I hate to brag,” I said, “but as far as relationships go, I’m never really at a shortage of interested ladies.” Which was the truth. In fact, if the free trial of my eLationship account hadn’t expired yesterday, my inbox would have caught fire from all those hot and bothered honeys. It seems like every woman in Denver wants to date a professional writer.
“So, you would say you do a fair amount of dating, Slim?”
What an understatement. I rolled my eyes, pulled a little black datebook out of my jeans, and rifled through it. “Let me tell you about my week.”
On Monday I met Lucille outside the City Park Food Festival, just as we’d planned. She recognized me by my fading leather jacket, and I recognized her by the purple braided weave that hung from her head like a strangled Easter-colored python. She was pretty from the neck up, but from the cleavage down she did her eLationship profile photo a great injustice. Cannibalism, from the look of it. Now, I’m not the kind to scoff at a little extra cushion, so I smiled and decided to give this African princess a chance. I bought some food tickets and strolled around the vendor booths while I calculated just how far I could stretch two dollars worth of vouchers.
I’d haggled the girl at the Hoffbrau stand down to a full soda and three quarters of a wiener schnitzel when Lucille began to laugh at me. It shook the air like diabetic thunder. “Don’t worry, honey. Lunch is on me.” Her purse was brimming with cash. “We need to fatten you up. I like my men meaty.” She slapped a greasy stack of food tickets on the counter, was handed a garden hose length of sausage, and hung it over my shoulder while she noshed on one end. I played wiener caddy as we continued to walk.
Three stops later, I looked like Chef Boyardee’s pack mule. My edible ensemble now included a knapsack full of eggrolls, a scarf of two tied turkey legs, and a sombrero brimming with tortilla chips. I had never seen this much food in my life, especially not at the local soup kitchen, and I thought I might be falling in love. That was right up until she mistook my hand for a bratwurst. In an instant, my arm had been sucked up to the elbow like a spaghetti noodle, and I barely managed to jab Lucille in the nostril with a turkey leg before I fainted.
After I woke up, the crowd scattered. I still had all my fingers, but my ravenous date had absconded with the appetizers. A skater kid put a consoling hand on my shoulder and told me, “Dude, that fattie stole your sausage.”
Alas, it wasn’t meant to be.
Tuesday was a better date. Cindy was a young, slender yoga instructor, the kind of girl my slightly unrefined pals back at the homeless shelter would have gladly exposed themselves to. She met me behind the Cineplex 28 at dusk. After the ever awkward introductory stage was over with, I stooped to pick up two fresh bags of popcorn.
“Aw, how sweet,” she told me. “You already got popcorn.” She giggled, confused. “What are we doing back here? Don’t we need tickets?”
She was already into me. I gave my most roguish grin.
“Tickets? Psh. Hang on a second.” I eyed my watch and pushed her to the wall just as a janitor pushed a trash barrel out the back door. I hauled her inside before the door closed.
“Oh,” she said. “We just snuck in, didn’t we?”
I didn’t even have to answer; I’d just won her over with my outlaw charm. She nibbled at her popcorn as we walked down the neon draped hallways.
“Now we can watch anything you want,” I told her. “Or everything. We might not catch the entire movie, but that’s no biggie. What do you say?”
Cindy looked from me to the exit, then back to me and sighed. I could tell she was as eager as I was to get out of here and make out, but there were formalities to attend to first. Dating rituals. Courtship and all that.
“Hmm,” she mused. “The new Dawnslight movie looks so romantic.”
“Romance it is.”
We were forty-five minutes early for the next showing, so I decided to spring my move while we waited in the empty theater. To my surprise, she played hard to get and dodged my first round of kisses. However, I was no greenhorn to the dance of love, and knew she was dying to find out whether I was a boxers or briefs kind of man.
Cindy rubbed her stomach and winced. “This popcorn tastes funny.”
“Actually, I wear boxer-briefs,” I answered coolly.
“What are you talking ab—wait, what’s this?” she said, and pulled a green, crusty wad of tissue from the depths of her popcorn bag. “Oh my god—it’s—that’s a—”
“Lucky you!” I told her. This girl had just gotten a free hanky for the sob story we were about to watch, and was going to get some tongue to console her after the show. How could you top that kind of night?
“Ugh, it’s a used tissue!” Cindy’s face paled. She covered her mouth and gagged. “Oh god. That is so disgusting. You’ve got to take it back. Take it back to the concession stand right now, Slim!”
“Why would I do that? I didn’t buy it at the concession stand.”
“What?”
“No way. I hand-picked every one of these salted corn nuggets from the dumpster out back before you got here. Just for you, babe.”
I had dropped the b-word, hoping it would help us grow closer, but it looked like she was still playing hard to get.
“What! Is this a joke?”
“I know, it’s ridiculous how much food people waste, isn’t it? And the prices they charge for snacks here…” I shook my head. “That’s the real joke, milady.”
Admittedly, I’d been vomited on before (What can I say? Life at the shelter is unpredictable when you live with the overdose-prone), but I’d never worn the spew of a pretty woman.
Ten minutes later, Cindy was all strapped in and the ambulance drove off, sirens wailing. Who knew anyone could have such weak resistance to salmonella? The manager gave me a bunch of free movie tickets for the trouble, but I was inconsolable. I think Cindy will always be “the one that got away.”
Wednesday was another story. I knew this gem was into me the moment she stepped into the restaurant. I don’t remember what the restaurant was called—something French and flowery sounding—but it had been her idea, anyhow. I was just here to collect on some sweet make out time, and my date was certainly a viable candidate. Katie was young, and she was pretty, with shimmering makeup and tightly coiled blonde locks. She looked like a prom queen.
“Smells great inside, doesn’t it?” she said, after we gave our introductions. “That’s the garlic bread. It’s heavenly.”
“They won’t let me within 200 feet of an Olive Garden anymore,” I told her, as I surveyed the other happy couples already sitting down. There were so many men wearing tuxedos and so many women wearing cocktail dresses. Come to think of it, this girl was wearing one too. “Not since they caught me on security camera digging breadsticks out of the dumpster.”
She gave this flirty giggle that was cutesy and flowery and sounded like music, and she told me she loved my sense of humor. The charm had only begun.
After we were seated, Katie was quick to ask about my career over some vino. She insisted on ordering the most expensive wine in the house. What a generous girl she was, treating a writer down on his luck.
“So you write, huh?” Her eyes were sparkling, or maybe it was just all that sparkly make up. “My mother always said I should marry a nice, rich writer.”
I picked up a piece of the garlic bread and sampled the wine. It certainly tasted better than the fermented mush Crazy Al brewed in his toilet tank. “Your mother’s a wise woman.”
“So have I ever read any of your work?”
“I’m sure you have,” I told her, as I nibbled on the garlic bread. “In fact, I sold a great piece to Wal-Mart last week. Look for it in your next circular.”
She giggled, and I took another bite of my bread. The girl wasn’t kidding, that stuff was incredible. The waiter came by and Katie was ordering something with a mignon or a lobster tail in it, but I wasn’t paying much attention because I was shoving my jacket pockets with bread. The waiter asked dryly if I wanted anything, and I told him I’d love some more of that bread.
“You’re stealing the bread?” My lovely date’s musical giggles were waning.
“Au contraire,” I reminder her, “it’s free. And it’s delicious, no? They sure don’t have bread like this at the shelter.”
“The… shelter?”
“Yeah, the homeless shelter. You should come by some time when my bunk mates are out.”
There, I had done it. I had thrown out the invitation for a roommate-free make out session, and my little prom queen went hysterical. I imagine she just wanted to cut to the chase, and I, myself, was inches away from swiping everything off that silk tablecloth and laying her down for some sweet, public tongue…until she dropped a verbal bomb on me.
“Who’s going to pay for all of this? Y-You said you were a paid writer! You lied to me!”
“No I did not,” I said sternly, and excused myself from my seat. “And I am indeed a paid writer. I made $10 just last week… none of which will go toward the after-dinner Slurpee I was going to buy you.”
I knew that one stung. She was screaming something about not having her wallet and who was going to pay for something, but I was too busy waddling out of the restaurant, carrying my 5 lbs of bread and my dignity.
After that, I knew Thursday was going to be a tough sell. Karen was a lawyer, and I wasn’t a big fan of the law. Right off the bat, I let her know it.
“The judicial system is so flawed,” I told her. “You try to sleep on one park bench, and suddenly you aren’t allowed in the park anymore.”
She asked me the usual questions. “Are you on drugs right now?” “Did you know what you did was wrong?” “Will you please stop staring at me like that?”
I didn’t meet this one on eLationship, by the way. She was some kind of public defender, and none too keen on my advances. It was only business with this one. She had a beautiful office and a desk big enough for me to sleep under… if things got serious.
“The judge will give you probation,” she said, and arched her auburn eyebrows in a way that made my heart flutter. “Just stay out of trouble for a while and watch where you doze off.”
And with that, the ticket I got for falling asleep in the IHOP bathroom was dismissed. Also, I’m no longer allowed within 200 feet of Karen, which is unfortunate because I think she was really getting into me.
I expelled a deep breath as I laced my hands behind my head, still staring up at the ceiling. I kicked a foot over the leather couch’s edge.
“And Friday wasn’t any better,” I explained to the Armani-clad woman, still seated in her plush chair, listening raptly. “I met up with this girl for brunch, but she just wasn’t feeling it. I think it really turned her off when I tried to pay with my food stamps, but I was just being chivalrous. I like to pay for a date every once in a while, you know?” I sighed, rolled my head over, and said, “So…that brings us to today. What do you think?”
“I…” The woman looked wide eyed. Horrified. “I think this is the worst date I’ve ever been on in my life. And I think I’m quitting eLationship immediately.”
She stood quickly from the plush chair nearest the barista, and didn’t even think to grab her latte.
“So you’re not going to want to come back to the shelter to make out?” I asked. “Your profile said you love snuggling around a warm fire, Becky, and I love to cuddle. I can build us a trash fire.”
Rebecca ran out the door, and the Starbucks manager, looking quite miffed, came over and escorted me out. He said something about not laying down on the couches and to take my shoes and my jacket with me. Rebecca was long gone.
I shook it off, sipped Rebecca’s still-warm latte, and started my way back toward the shelter. Today was a bust, but I was feeling optimistic about tomorrow’s date. Her name was Franny, her eLationship profile said she loved Italian food, and I was certain of three things: that tomorrow was spaghetti night at the shelter, that I still had a pocket full of 4 day old garlic bread, and that my last four dollars and sixteen cents would buy plenty of Listerine for a full night of making out.
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Cheers and stay classy, friends,
Bryan and Brandon
Music: The Mars Volta
Beer: Victoria
