Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7: THEY SANG SONGS, & GOT IT WRONG
9/11/11

Zane fidgeted;
He was alone at home.

Callista had gone off on her date.

He couldn't decide what he was more flustered about – missed opportunities, or reliving the embarassment via Bananapants calling him out. Wellp; whoever sent that email was surely trying to frame him. But then, anyone who'd heard Zane lament about Billy would know the general patter. He didn't know most of the content, except for the part about stealing lawn gnomes. You know, because a pile of lawn gnomes comes in handy...

He was camped out in the kitchen, waiting for his mom to come home. He wasn't expecting her sympathy, or even any advice.

He kept thinking, if this was a movie, he'd end up with Callie. There'd be some ridiculous nonsense about them getting together – after years of adorable crushes, they confess and go from there. In reality, they'd tried that, already.

It'd been around August of last year. They'd gotten stoned – on advice from his mother. Corine Maidenrod was a bit of a hippie, despite being about 10 when the 60s ended. She'd had Zane somewhat late in life, and in doing so, had done all of her young-and-stupid stuff beforehand. Of course, Momma Maidenhead had had superior weed; nothing but the best, for that one. They'd smoked about three bowls before it hit. By then, they were blitzed and laughing like donkeys. They'd barely bothered with weed back in school – Callie and Zane had been more in the drinking-on-the-weekend crowd.

At some point, Zane'd let loose his epic confession of undying love. Who knew if any of what he said made sense; apparently, Callie had gotten the gist of it, because she stripped off her pants, and sat in his lap. He could still remember her pastel blue panties, with whimsical clouds on them. They'd just kind of sat that way, staring at each other. Of course, the truth of the matter was that Callie wasn't a virgin by then – she'd lost it to her prom date. That.. Pierre kid. What WAS his last name?

Failing to invoke smooches, or a boner, Callie eventually got back up, and got back to laughing at dust. They'd sworn to keep it a secret, forever on. Well, now...

Stupid Billy. Stupid Bananapants. Fuck him, and his stupid Vanilla Ice hair.

What was Callie doing with a doof like Billy? (The better question was, why was Zane so mopey without her?)

But then, there was always Janet. Dear Janet; she was about as prim as an entry in a Miss Manners page. Sometimes, when Callie would complain about her various boyfriends, they'd also bitch about Janet; Callie would sing Damnit, Janet, from Rocky Horror. Usually, as a reply, Zane would sing Touch-a, Toucha-a, Touch Me. Mostly out of a vague sense of wishful thinking. But then, Janet did cheat on Brad, with Rocky. Maybe not, then. Janet vaguely reminded him of Callie's cousin, Sissy – pre-cancer, of course. Well. If Sissy was virginal, and hellbent on Grease. Hairspray. Jesus. Maybe she was gay?

He was eating a bagel, when he first came in; now, he didn't want it. He hucked it in the general direction of the garbage, missing entirely. Stupid wholegrain crap...

The clock told him time was verging on midnight; who knew where Mom was off to – she'd been hanging out with some friends from her college days. Probably hooking up with dudes, from those days. Maybe he'd wake up, and meet one of the guys he'd heard stories about? Maybe Fro-Master, or Blue. Maybe Capt'n Fatass. Maybe Mom'd show up at 3 AM, toting the whole party. Well, at least that'd be something to do, at 3.

For a lady verging on 62, she sure had lots of stuff to do, that Corine Maidenrod.

Zane knew people with grandparents as old as his mom; none of those people went to recent-band concerts, or tried to shack up with 20-somethings. Wellp; Mom was real special. Cher was older than Mom, by a decade. Yoko Ono was also in her 70s. Both of those ladies seemed to be rocking forever-on in to their golden-dentures years. At least he knew there were no other sisters planned – Dolly happened 2 years before he did; both of Corine's kids were planned – then, she had her lady-bits pulled out. Mom could shack up with Zac Efron, but, she couldn't produce another sister.

Dolly had been over, about 2 weeks ago. Dolly usually stayed away from town – she was an art student, moonlighting as a hairdresser to cover expenses for her little studio in New York. She rarely came up Canada-side; she was in town for a high school-type reunion with friends. Must be something in the air.

The proof of her visit rested right by the cowlick on his head: a big stupid bleach patch, messing with his fro. He'd been meaning to dye it back out, but he'd been too ashamed to go in to the pharmacy, to get the dye – he'd sort of stupidly hit on the cashier, while buying an assorted pack of condoms. The girl – early-30s, curvy, and tattooed all to hell – hadn't been impressed with his slice-of-life silliness. He'd done the whole wounded walk-of-shame out of the store, a while ago, and had never gotten up the cojones up to face it again.

Not like Janet would take up the offer of sex, condoms or no.

Sex was getting pretty dull; ménage à moi – gentlemen's time with Palmala Handerson – was getting old. Being a virgin at 22 wasn't really a dudely thing to be; girls could be virgins at 22.. if they were all like, religious, and waiting to be married. He wasn't a girl, a Mormon, nor waiting for marriage; he just happened to be a goofy little shit who loused up EVERY opportunity passed his way.

A girl he'd went to school with once said, “He was fine until the 10th grade; he just never grew up past then. He's like that Michael Cera guy – a boyman, forever.”

He'd heard plenty of people fucking; so, at least he wasn't as naïve as to expect every girl to scream, moan, and wail. Actually, judging from the old shaky-shaky, he'd be the one making goofy little wimpers. Not manly, at all. Possibly cute? He had no one to ask. Janet had seen his junk once, and had spent a whole week ranting about the evils of boners in movies. Yeah. Maybe she WAS gay...

Time passed by slowly. Mom wandered in at 2:12 AM, drunk. She waved, blearily, and headed to bed, with a bottle of shiraz tucked under her arm. He felt pretty let down.