Free Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller by Jeff Menapace

both ladies seemed to have nice figures. Karen looked as if she had fake tits: way too big and perky and close to the neck for someone as slim as she was. Some guys went nuts over implants; some guys hated them. I didn’t really care either way. As the old saying goes: if you can touch them, they’re real.
    “So what do you do?” Julie asked.
    “I’m a massage therapist,” I replied with a little trepidation. Even after six years I was still wary of the responses I received after telling people what I did for a living.
    “Really? Do you massage men too?” she asked, her tone proving my trepidations valid.
    “Of course,” I said. “I make most of my money on men. Word of mouth, ya know? Pun intended?” I mimed sucking a dick.
    She studied me for a tick, unsure whether I was lying or just being a dick. ’Twas indeed both.
    “You do not!” she finally blurted with all the grace of a belch.
    My calf and my head now hurt. I needed a drink and I needed for this girl to stop talking. I decided to address Karen.
    “You having fun over there?” I asked.
    Her attention had been fixed elsewhere while her obnoxious friend was taking up my time. I prayed they didn’t share the same demeanor.
    “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said with a nice smile.
    “You’re Karen, right?”
    She nodded. “You’re Calvin?”
    “Yup.”
    I needed a decent opening before the awkward silence polluted the air.
    “So how do you know Stacy?” seemed harmless enough.
    “We all work together,” she replied. “How do you guys know Stacy?”
    I looked over at Paul, who now had his hand on Stacy’s knee and was
    whispering something into her ear. She giggled and leaned in closer to him.
    “We actually just met,” I said with a little smile.
    “Yeah—looks like it,” she said with a little smile of her own.
    I smiled again. Karen smiled again. Julie looked annoyed. I didn’t give a shit.
    “Do you guys need another drink?” I asked.
    I prayed they would say yes. Please don’t be the types who order one and then nurse the fucker for the remainder of the evening. Please be fun. I needed
    ( alcohol )
    fun.
    “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks,” Karen said.
    They—along with Stacy and Paul—gave me their orders, and I headed off to the bar, eager.
     

15
    It was seven or eight rounds later and I was drunk; my memory, even from minutes ago, was a sieve. As I was taking a piss, I tried to catch as much as possible before it drained away (my memory, not my piss).
    I was fairly certain that Karen and I had become friendlier. And there was little doubt in my mind that Stacy was now ready to marry Paul. Did that Julie girl leave? Trying to focus on a particular incident was like trying to remember a film you saw as a kid.
    I could still feel my calf, so I was quite certain I hadn’t said anything to Paul. I couldn’t have; Stacy had been with him ninety-five percent of the time.
    How was everything else going? Was I being a fool? I’m pretty sure I was acting okay. A little affectionate and giddy, but nothing too bad. In the morning I would no doubt convince myself otherwise as my hangover-induced liturgy of doubt and insecurity would run endless laps in my head. Why couldn’t I just be like the majority of people in here and embrace my drunkenness? Laugh at my own stupidity the next day? Have no fear or regret about my gaping lack of inhibition?
    Why couldn’t I be like that?
    ( Because you’re a depressed drunk. Fire and gas. )
    I thought I drowned you.
    ( Still afloat. )
    I thought I wasn’t depressed, I thought I was just a pussy.
    ( Oh you’re depressed—no question about that. You’ve been clinically depressed your whole life. Got dealt a bad hand. )
    But…?
    ( But you’re a pussy because you know you shouldn’t drink, yet you do. You’re a pussy because you convince yourself there isn’t a line. )
    Line?
    ( Between Fantasy World and here. )
    I don’t follow.
    ( Doesn’t matter. It’ll all be irrelevant soon,