The Road to Nowhere: Part VI

Does anyone remember when I started this story. . . back in July 2007?!?!?! That was two flippin' years ago! But I remember it all like it was yesterday. And so, on this, my day off, I'm going to get to you the long-delayed penultimate part of my story (with a title that now has more meaning than before!). . . . .

You're probably gonna need to update yourself, so here are the links to the first five parts of the story:

PART I
PART II
PART III
PART IV
PART V

And here is Part VI:

"What the hell, Mike?!?"

Michael heard it again. Suzanne's shriek startled him, and this time he had a response.

"What the hell? Suzanne, I was thinking the same goddamn thing! What are you doing grinding on this Joe College Douche?!?"

Jack was now on his feet and was uninterested in their childhood drama.

"Who are you calling a douche, douche!?!"

Eloquent as always.

"Jack, I'm sorry I hit you. Just step off for a minute. I need to talk to Suzanne."

"No, you need to talk to me."

Jack stepped forward and attempted to land a rather awkward punch to the face of his weekend warrior college buddy. Michael, still not close to sober, watched in slow-motion as the fist hurtled towards him. It was at that same moment that a monster of a man, a 6'5'' 300 pound behemoth, walked in between the two college kids, not knowing what he was getting in the middle of. Jack's fist hit the giant in the ribs, causing a hush to fall on that side of the dance floor. On the other side, the bass continued to pound. The strobe lights continued to flicker. The twenty-somethings continued to live.

Goliath turned and stared Jack down. He then looked at Suzanne and then turned and faced Michael. All three gave him back the same look: eyes wide, mouth opened, body clenched. Goliath peered back around at Jack, but the clean-cut Mama's boy was already racing towards the door, forgoing his coat at the table, with only freedom on his mind.

Usually, Michael thought to himself, something like this escape attempt would cause Goliath to chase after his college buddy and beat him to a pulp. But that didn't happen. Instead, Goliath just stared at the two lifelong friends and in one word, gave them directions as to their next step of the evening: "Get".

Michael and Suzanne made their way to their table (curiously missing Allison, who undoubtedly ran off when she saw Jack fleeing the scene), picked up their items, and made for the door. It wasn't until they were just far enough out of reach of the booming music that Suzanne broke the silence.

"I can't believe you punched him, Mike. What came over you?"

Words flashed through his mind. Apologies. Justifications. Jokes ("Now is not the time!" he told himself, the filter finally flicking on). But as many times before, the filter only worked temporarily.

"Let me take you home."

They were silent the entire way back to Suzanne's house. When she got out of the car, Michael stared straight ahead, mind racing, and yet he couldn't bring himself to say a word. Suzanne, on the other hand, tried something she hoped would work to save the friendship.

"I wasn't gonna do anything with him, Mike. We were just dancing."

"Suzanne, it doesn't matter. You don't listen to me. You wear stupid shirts and dance with stupid guys. ."

"That you invited! To dance with me!"

"I didn't think you would be so proud and public about it though. You're my little Suzanne. You don't dance like that out in the crowd."

"And that's where you're wrong, Mike. I'm not yours. We're friends and that's it. Nothing else. What, just because you saw me naked at age 7 you think we are meant to be together?"

"It's not like that. It's just that lately. ."

"No. I don't want to hear the end of that sentence. I'm going inside, going to sleep, and then we can talk tomorrow."

"Fine."

Michael sped off, blaring his music at nearly midnight. Suzanne watched for just a moment and then turned towards her house and walked inside. What was Michael thinking? Them, together? It was something she had never thought of before. Who were they, Ross and Rachel?

She chuckled aloud, but her mood was not that way. Her pink pillow became a tissue for her tears as she laid on her bed, alone on another Friday night.

She was almost asleep when her phone rang. It was Jack. The night had only just begun. . .

The Road to Nowhere: Part V

For a (much-needed) recap, here are the first four parts:

PART I
PART II
PART III
PART IV

- - - - - -

Suzanne's eyes had been closed when she felt a rush of air move by her face. One second she was was inappropriately dancing (dry-humping, to be more exact) with a significantly tipsy, extremely attractive guy and all of a sudden the pressure on her hips was gone. She did not have to wait very long to uncover the mystery of the missing dancing partner.

All she had to do was open her eyes.

And when she did, she found herself gazing upon a pair of blood-shot eyes contained within the never-before-seen enraged face of her best friend. These eyes were not staring back at her, though, as they searched beyond her, onto the floor directly behind her. There, holding his left eye and writhing in pain, was the recently-punched Jack.

The music continued to blare. The clubbers continued to dance provocatively. The world continued to spin. But for these three individuals, time stood still.

"What the hell, Mike!" Suzanne yelled, not in anger, but out of shock.

As Michael stood there, seething, the angry shade of green slowly began to dissipate from him, leaving behind the mere mortal Bruce Banner-like man. He looked away from his temporarily fallen victim and set his stare upon his Suzie, the first person to truly befriend him. She had accepted him when no one else could stand who he was. This was the person who had helped him pass his senior English class, and without whom he would have not graduated. But most of all, this was the girl who he knew deep down should be his significant other. No one else knew more about him (frankly, he felt, no one else cared) and no other soul made his so happy.

On the other hand, the suddenly apparent clarity seemed too quick and easy to Michael. One second he is sitting at a table, enjoying his eighth beer (but maybe it was nine or ten), and the next he is committing an assaultive act upon his college buddy, and furthermore, realizing feelings he has for his long-time friend. Was he purely using this new-found attraction as an excuse for his rash decision to deck his frat pal? In all honesty, he had no clue. He realized, though, that he better get a clue fast because not only was Suzanne getting upset, Jack had decided it was time to get back on his feet.

Try as he might, Michael couldn't help but laugh at the situation. He was not a fighter. He didn't punch people, especially the guy who he hung out with on weekends. But here he was, in the middle of a crowded dance floor, with a throbbing fist, displaying a pinkish hue from the contact that it made with the side of Jack's face. Seeing that both Suzanne and Jack would be needing some answers, Michael knew that he would have to come to a conclusion on his reasons behind his violent decision-making. He knew he couldn't say that he didn't know. That would never fly with the two of them, let alone himself, come to think of it.

So Michael stood there, hands to his side, (but at the ready, just in case Jack felt inclined to offer an idea of his own) feeling like an interrogated convict. He really couldn't care less about what Jack had to say, but Suzanne was another story. She looked legitimately frightened by what had transpired and he felt like he should say something, anything, to try and justify his actions.

But just like every time before, Michael had to go and say the wrong thing. . .

The Road to Nowhere: Part IV

For Part I, go here. For Part II, go here. For Part III, go here.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Suzanne was immediately interested in Jack. It hit her like a semi-truck. She was annoyed by his arrogance, but it somehow intrigued her. He was interesting, popular, and cool. And this guy could be hers.

They began chatting and the convo then moved to the dance floor. They each held a Miller Lite bottle (thanks to Jack - the fact that he was twenty-one made her knees a little weak actually) and held on to it tightly, almost as if the bottle they grasped contained their hopes for the remainder of the evening. Neither one was letting go.

The conversation spread across all the possible continents of the world of small talk. They discussed movies (for her, it was the sappy romantic ones like "The Notebook" or smart comedies like "Adaptation"; his favorite movie is "Dude, Where's My Car?"), music (she really went for anything with a good beat; Jack turned out to be a fan of whatever was popular at the time - he was one of those guys who jumped on every pop/rock bandwagon), and books (she always claimed to like all the contemporary brilliant minds over those ancient classic-writers, be it Nick Hornby instead of Shakespeare or taking Chuck Palahniuk over Dickens; Jack's eloquent response: "Fuck books."). She knew that these responses were not exactly what she looked for in a guy. That didn't matter when she caught his glance, and his baby blue eyes convinced her to keep dancing, talking, and most important of all, drinking. So she did.

At a table just ten feet away, Michael and Allison sat there quietly, not talking. Poor Allison had tried to get things going with those classic conversation starters ("So, where are you from?" and "What do you do?" being two examples), but it was to no avail. Michael was too busy putting beer after beer away while constantly staring at the budding romance in the center of the floor. Michael had never felt jealousy like this before. It was eating him up inside like some kind of animal. And he was doing everything he could to drown that animal with assorted adult beverages.

It was nearly ten o'clock, and Michael was about forty-five minutes passed buzzed. He looked away from the dance floor for just a second and noticed that Allison was no longer sitting across from him. He was in a crowded club, but he was completely alone. As he made his way back to the bar to pick up yet another thirst-quencher, he locked eyes with Jack, who was dancing behind a tipsy Suzanne (in that slow-then-quick, sex-with-clothes-on way). Jack winked at his pal and then proceeded to put his non-beer hand on Suzanne's hip.

It was at that exact moment that Michael cracked. He wasn't sure what he had expected when he invited Jack to specifically hit on Suzanne. All he knew was that it infuriated him to watch his best friend be treated like that by a complete asshole. The night was going to be defined by whatever Michael did next. He could either continue to the bar, drink his frustrations away, and not care what happened between Suzanne and Jack, or he could step in and politely ask Jack to back off from his best friend.

Michael chose Door Number Three.

The Road to Nowhere: Part III

I had a change of plans today. . . so here you go!

For Part I, go here. . . For Part II, go here

. . . . . .

Three Hours Earlier. . .

Michael's watch beeped twice, signaling that it was eight o'clock. He was in the middle of a line of people that wrapped around all of the stores that surrounded the oddly-located (it was an outdoor Outlet Mall for God's sake!) eighteen-and-over club called Remy's. The club still offered alcohol to patrons of the legal age, which was the only reason that Michael was even present. Standing next to him was his long-time friend Suzanne, fidgeting and biting her fingernails. They were planning on meeting some people there, including his new college buddy Jack (who had just turned twenty-one the day before), and one of Suzanne's co-workers named Allison.

The night was young and innocent, much like the dolled-up Suzanne, who had taken over an hour to prepare to go out this night. Sure, the nineteen-year-old ("Nineteen and two-thirds" she claims) had her fair share of experiences; it was just the comparison with her comrades that made her innocent. Despite what many said, Suzanne could be very pretty. However, even in her made-up state, she was lacking the most important accessory: self-confidence. Just an hour before, she had annoyed the hell out of Michael with countless questions about her appearance.

"I have tried on every shirt I own, goddammit! Which one looked the best?"

"Suzie, you looked fine in all of them. . . except for that pink one. It's just not you, pal."

"Ohh. . . . That was the one I was leaning towards." She began to sob, but just slightly. "Mike, I don't know. . ."

"Alright, well, I'm gonna head downstairs - come down when you're ready. But trust me on this one - don't wear the pink one."

Now the line was moving. They had a good chance of making it into the club that night. As they got closer, they could hear the sound of music blaring. Michael looked down at his friend and prepared to make some joke about it being fine if he went deaf, seeing as he wasn't married. In that split-second, he noticed a hint of pink under Suzanne's jacket. Now normally he wouldn't make a big deal about a little thing like a shirt, but tonight was his friend's chance of ending her loneliness streak. She was in the midst of a substantial sexual dry spell. It was Michael's idea to bring her and a co-worker out on this Friday night to get her some much-needed action. He figured that the combination of a club-setting, a friendly face in Allison, and a nice outfit might make Suzanne more likely to engage in some sort of intimate behavior. He was merely looking out for his recently-depressed friend, (so he told himself) as he began to criticize her wardrobe decision.

"What's with the pink? Do you pay attention to me at all?"

"I knew you were thinking about that - just drop it. We're in public, now."

"Yes we are. And that's why I'm worried. You can't possibly believe that you look that good in a pink tank top and blue jeans. . . this is a club, Suzie! What is wrong with you? How are you going to attract anything that breathes in that outfit?"

"Where do you get o-"

They entered Remy's and Suzanne's rebuke would have to wait. Swarming with young people (and the occasional forty-five year-old man wearing a Members Only jacket), the place was hopping as usual. In the distance, they saw some tables with assorted objects holding places on them. As they walked through the dancing crowds, Michael thought about the worth of some of those placeholders - Coach purses, most notably - and why girls required such expensive wallets. Regardless of their monetary status, the two of them began to migrate towards an empty table about ten feet from the main dance floor.

Coincidentally, as they began to drop their stuff on the table, Jack and Allison both approached. Jack was almost the same height as Michael but wore his hair short at all times (only Michael could pull off the long hair). He had been raised by a single mother who was attentive to a fault. She even went as far as picking out his clothes for him and laying them out on his bed. Beyond that, anything that he wanted, well, he usually got it. This included women. Jack was a "ladies man" just long enough to get what he desired and then he magically turned into a douchebag. He was that stereotypical twenty-something college student - there are actually more of them than one could guess.

And unbeknownst to Michael, Jack had his eye on Suzanne. . .

The Road to Nowhere: Part II

For Part I, go here

. . . . . .

With his hands firmly in place covering his face, Michael sat all alone in a booth in an all but deserted Johnny Rocket's. Sure, the restaurant had been closed for a half hour, but the workers could clean up around him. No one could convince him otherwise. Depression was slowly setting in through incessant flashes of past wrongdoings and mistakes. It was his most recent slip-up that was causing this particular inconsolable heartbreak. Words he wanted to take back. Images that he wanted to delete from his memory. Anger he wished he had restrained. And now, he believed in the deepest parts of his quickly-breaking heart, it was too late to fix what he had done.

Michael stood a head above most people and his long brown hair was considered beautiful by most girls (guys just told him to get a haircut). He was not muscular, but he was deceptively strong. He had an odd sense of humor that either was appreciated through belly-laughing or scoffed at through shrugs and the like. Michael was the kind of person who brought up random facts and discussed them aloud - the content filter between his brain and his mouth rarely worked. Discussions with his friends had actually led to comments like:

"Have any of you noticed that keyboards and calculators have the number 1 in the lower left and count up from there while phone keypads have the 1 on the top left and count down? Couldn't they have just come up with one way to do that?"

"Why is it a pair of underwear when it is just one item?"

"Instead of food, shouldn't we be sending condoms to the hunger-stricken areas of the world? Yeah, your kids are hungry and so are you - so stop having more children!"

Michael was not the most sensitive guy in the world either. He says himself that he doesn't want to seem "gay or anything like that," as if gentleness was a characteristic that only the homosexual maintain. He enjoyed being heard above everything else - as long as someone was listening, the guy could just go on babbling on without an end in sight.

His one soft spot was for the female gender. Michael did just about anything for any breasted individual. He was the biggest flirt amongst his compatriots and had the worst ratio of girls-hit-on to girls-laid in his group of friends. Michael talked a lot, sure, but he certainly was not everything that he claimed to be.

He had grown up in a neighborhood with two other kids, one boy and one girl. The girl and him were always closer, though, despite him being nearly two years older. She seemed to get his humor and was able to see through his assholeishness (a "term of endearment" she claimed). Michael would make fun of her freckles and she would politely mock his lack of muscles (especially when he wore cut-off, or "muscle," shirts). They grew up together and learned about everything together. They took free anatomy classes at the age of seven behind Michael's giant eucalyptus tree ("I don't have one of those!" his penis-less friend had exclaimed). They discovered elementary school hierarchy together (like, for example, "That's Sherman and he will stuff you in a trash can if you don't give him your PB&J"). Michael was a shoulder for her to cry on when her parents split up and celebrated with her when her father returned home. And they were both secretly jealous when, at their senior prom, they prepared themselves for their first sexual adventure.

It was those beloved memories that rushed through Michael's head as he wondered why he had tried to do what he did. Part of the blame he placed on his penchant for alcohol. But he had been drunk before and never had he done something so stupid, so terribly ignorant as he had this horrific Friday night.

How could Suzanne ever forgive him?

The Road to Nowhere: Part I

Curled up in the smallest ball possible, alone yet again late on a Friday night, Suzanne wept softly to herself. Her pillow caught most of the tears, but several stayed home on her cheek. The bed that had seen so many milestones in this nearly 20-year-old young woman's life (all those infamous first steps that every woman must take: first cry-yourself-to-sleep night, first period, first sexual experience) was now the only object - inanimate or otherwise - that would provide any consolation.

This day had begun with yet another ten-to-six work day (an eight hour shift without a break, mind you - state rules and regulations don't mean a thing when it comes to her job). She despised working the long hours but she desperately wanted them. Well, she actually just wanted money, but rumor has it that money does not grow on trees. Throw in the fact that no rich uncle of hers was on death's door and Suzanne was not in a position to choose an occupation of her dreams.

So she had settled for a waitress job at a small bistro called Alessandro's. It merely sounded exquisite. Displaying the dreaded grade B in the front window, the restaurant did not pay either her, or the other four waitresses who worked six days a week, very well. The others worked the morning/afternoon shift so they could bartend at a local Coyote Ugly-type bar at night. Five hours of sleep was considered hibernation for these women. That's just how they lived. And Suzanne was creeping ever-closer to joining them in their hedonistic ways.

However, Suzanne was most unlike her co-workers' appearance. While the twenty-somethings that lived it up displayed their character through heavy makeup, skirts that would make Daisy Duke blush, and half-hidden lower-back tattoos, Suzanne (or Suze for short - pronounced "sooz" - she hated the nickname but who was she to stop everyone from using it!) did her best to appear innocent. The final step in her morning ritual before work was bending over with her back to a mirror to check if her full-bodied panties could be seen even just a little. Thongs never did reside in Suzanne's dresser - "I'm not that girl" she told herself.

It was if Suzanne was from a different generation, that is if that time period was the one where tan and scandalous was considered "whorish." Pale and liberally freckled, Suzanne stood an average woman's height and was no heavier than her compatriots. Her 34 double B's were perfectly proportionate to her stature and she had that hourglass figure that many women yearned to share. Her lack of flaunting (or even accentuating, for that matter) led many to believe that this girl (would a woman ever dress this simple and unmemorable?) could never be capable of "living it up." It was that constant doubt of bystanders that caused her to have the night that precluded her depressing staring contest with her lacy pink pillow.