Jack and Diane [part III]

Continued from part II

Six years later, to the month, the girl, who now lived in the Big City, recognized a name on the FROM line of her email inbox. A Christian name given to movie stars, hockey players, and hosts of popular reality shows, coupled with a family name that, while common when spelled with an O, is rarely rendered with an E.

It was from the boy she had called Jack.

The subject line read only, "?" and the body of the message was blank. There had been one or two similar missives since that day on the beach, and for the first three years there had been birthday greetings, but nothing since then. The girl had kept her promise to the boy who loved her very much: she had never replied.

This time, she did: "Hey, you. Let me know next time you're here. Maybe we can get together for a beer."

"I'm here now," he emailed back.

And the girl, who had always believed in fate, and who had been laughed at, and told, that's why the Boston Red Sox will never win the World Series, felt the tiniest glimmer of a feeling she hadn't felt for the past two years: hope.

* * *
You see, two years earlier, again, to the month — a month she now feared and despised — the boy who had loved her so very much told her he was not happy, and walked out the door. He abandoned her completely; left the cats, left the new new house, left the money in the bank and the furniture on the floors. He came back only once, for his clothes and his records. On her birthday. While she was out.

Three weeks later her mother died, and the girl had never felt so alone.

There followed many bad, bad days. After the funeral she crawled into bed and didn't emerge, but to tend to her cats, for weeks.

She thought about Jack. She wanted to call him. She knew she didn't have the right.

Eventually, she got out of bed and began, tentatively, to live again. It was the hardest thing she'd ever done. She thought about Jack every day. She wanted so very badly to hear his voice. To have him wrap his big, strong, arms around her and tell her she was safe. She was so terribly afraid, all the time.

But the girl did not call Jack. She could not bear the thought of him seeing her like this: needy and helpless. And she could not bear the possibility of rejection. Not again.

One spring day, two years into her aloneness, the girl made a decision: she would forget about Jack. She would never contact him. Her mind made up, she spring-cleaned her closets, collected the things that he had given her — a Frank Sinatra CD, a Dr. Seuss book, the song he had written for her, and Horse — and went down into the basement and threw them into the incinerator.

She stepped outside, into the warm, May day, turned her face to the sky, to the representation of Fate, and said, "There. It's all yours now."

The email appeared in her inbox four days later.

* * *
Go to Jack and Diane [part IV - fin]

Please, Mister Postman

Recently I added a new section to the blog margin (see right) called, "Postmodern Sass Appreciates." It's a list of people who have commented on my stories, either through their own blogs or via email.

I wanted you to know that I appreciate you, Gentle Reader.

I've been asked now and again, and more frequently since I began the story of Jack and Diane, why I don't have the comments feature turned on. Please know, Gentle Reader, that it is most definitely not because I don't want to hear from you. I very much do want to hear from you, and I truly appreciate those of you who have taken the time to write to me.

I choose not to use the comments feature because I don't view this blog as a forum for discussion. If that sounds... unbloggerly, I'm very sorry. Those of you who have been my readers know that this blog isn't like most other blogs. It's not a political rant, it doesn't pretend to be journalism, and it doesn't have its finger on the pulse of technology thought leaders. Readers who are looking for a forum in which to discuss politics (or whatever) know where those exist. It's not my objective to provide another one. Neither is it my desire to bore you with what I had for breakfast this morning.

I started writing this blog because I hit a writer's block while working on a novel about two characters named Alistair and Hope. (Any resemblance they may have to Jack and Diane is purely coincidental.) The novel's organizational structure, rather than the typical chapters, was dated entries written by an unamed omniscent narrator. A diary as it might be written by a fly on the wall, if you will.

One day it occured to me that my novel's format was blog-like, and so I began this blog so that I could "see" my stories published. It makes them more real — to me. It makes me keep writing. I haven't had writer's block since. If anything, I have the opposite problem. There's so much I want to put in writing before I die.

How would I categorize this blog, you ask?

Fiction. With a gimmick.

As the margin disclaimer disclaims, the stories are true, except where they've been completely fabricated. All writers of fiction base their characters and their stories on real people and real experiences, but unlike, say, most directors named Oliver Stone, they don't present their fiction as "truth."

And what is truth, anyway?

I am neither philosopher, journalist, nor political wonk. I'm just a storyteller.

I hope you like my stories.

And if you do — or even if you don't — I'd like to hear from you. You can reach me at PostmodernSass-at-Gmail-dot-com.

In the next story, the saga of Jack and Diane is continued. A year and a half later, Postmodern Sass has changed her stance on comments, and thanks her First Commenter, seen below.

Hey, Mister Tambourine Man

"Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas."

Hunter S. Thompson killed himself yesterday.

What a shame he couldn't take his own advice.

Go to next story

Jack and Diane [part II]

Continued from part I

So the girl and the boy she called Jack worked together all the long, long, days of that long, long summer.

The girl found she was spending more time at the office than she was spending at home. Too much time. This was partly because she was, by now, enrolled in grad school, taking evening courses in accounting and finance and marketing at the university that was much closer to her office than it was to her home. So why go home in between, she reasoned. Besides, at the office she had a printer and a computer, and could work on her school assignments more easily.

At least, this was how she resolved the cognitive dissonance she sometimes felt. She knew, deep down, that she was spending too much time with Jack. That this was not right. That the boy she loved and who loved her so very much would be ever so deeply hurt if he were to find out.

So she took great pains to make sure he'd never find out.

* * *
One morning, Jack appeared at the girl's desk and said, "Come," and so she left her work and followed him out to the parking lot.

"Look," he said, pointing to a shiny black BMW sedan. "Isn't she a beauty?"

"She sure is," the girl agreed. "Hello, Beauty." She patted the car on its hood. "But she's no match for my Baby."

Jack burst into laughter. He wasn't laughing at her, though. He affected a southern drawl: "Looky here, Sassafras," he grinned, "Y'all's car is mighty fine. Mighty fine, indeed. But — no disrespect intended to your not inconsiderable feminine charms — this here's a man's car."

"Oh yeah?" was her clever riposte.

"Yeah."

"I can take you." She looked him straight in the eye, then. Challenging him.

"No."

"Come on — right now, let's go, out on 86 North." She patted her pockets. "Where are my keys?"

But Jack was smiling down through the lashes of his steel blue eyes, at Beauty.

Then the girl heard a Zippo snap, and said, "Give me one of those."

* * *
In July, it was hot hot hot. The girl went to the office on a Sunday afternoon to work on an assignment in the peace and quiet and air conditioning. She worked diligently for several hours, speaking to no one, hearing nothing but the clicking of her keyboard. Then, the click of a door, and footsteps, and there was Jack.

"Hey, you," he said.

"Hey," she replied.

"Need a break?"

"In a bad way. And a smoke, if you got 'em."

"Of course."

They went out back to the swingset, which wasn't really a swingset at all but only a picnic table in the grass at the far end of the parking lot. He lit two cigarettes with his Zippo, and passed one to her. They sat in silence, in the beating sun, watching the railroad tracks that ran past the building.

"Have you ever seen a train go by?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "Let's go for a walk."

They walked along the railroad tracks, both of them thinking about the same Stephen King story that had been turned into a great movie, but neither wanting to admit to the other having ever read anything less Shakespearean than Shakespeare.

They didn't know where they were headed. They followed the tracks for several miles. They passed trees and ponds, and then a small subdivision. They could hear children playing in the street on the other side of the houses. There was something in the grass.

"Look," she said, and pointed.

It was a hobby horse, its head made of burlap and stuffed with straw, and mounted on a broomstick. It hadn't come from any store. Someone had made this for a child.

Jack picked it up. The girl pretended not to notice that his lower lip was quivering.

"Why?" he asked. "Why doesn't the child for whom this was made love it anymore?"

"Perhaps he grew up," she said. "Perhaps he left it out here one day, and now he can't find it, and he's very sad, but he'll never forget his Horse."

"Perhaps."

"Have you ever read The Velveteen Rabbit?" she asked.

"No," he answered.

"Maybe you shouldn't, ever."

It started to rain. Then it started to pour. There was an overpass not far ahead, and they ran toward its shelter. They sat high in the corner of the angled concrete, listening to the cars rumble overhead, and watching the water fall on either side. They were soaked, and shivering, and Jack put his arm around the girl to keep her warm.

Then they told each other secrets, though they made each other no promises, and they never said that thing they never say. And he sang her a song, "The Water Is Wide," and she cried, because she knew she couldn't have this.

"Don't cry, Sassafras," he said.

* * *
When she returned to her home that night, the boy who loved her very much was angry.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

She lied.

"Stop lying to me," he said. And so she told him the truth.

"Choose," he demanded. And she chose him.

And she promised never to see Jack again.

* * *
They met one last time. They went for a long, long, ride in Beauty. Jack let the girl drive. She drove all the way to Lake Ontario, and found a beach with big rocks. She liked to sit on rocks and skip stones. She used to do this with her father when she was a little girl.

"I am going to California," he said. Then he said nothing for a long while.

The girl was silent, too. She fixed her eyes on the middle distance, on the coruscating water.

"Come with me," he said.

"I cannot," she said.

They drove home in silence. The girl did not cry. Not then.

They were back in the parking lot. He pulled Beauty beside her car. The two beautiful, black cars had spent many hours together that way. In the sunshine. In the dark. In the bitter rain.

Jack opened her door, and took her hand as she got out of Beauty for the last time. The girl was trembling, just a little. Jack wrapped his arms around the girl and held her until she was still. Then he took a step back, so that he might look into her face.

"I will never love another," he said.

And then he left her.

* * *
Go to Jack and Diane [part III]

You've Got To Know When To Fold 'Em

The other day I wrote about friends, and how, sometimes, there is that moment when someone crosses the line from being just someone you know to being your friend. But there are also, I've just learned, those who come right up to the line; who you hope are going to cross it; you want them to cross it; you're waving them in. And then, instead, they retreat.

Last night I was out with one of those people, and, well, he retreated. Which makes me a little sad, because, though I've only known him for a few months, I think he's smart and interesting, and he knows a lot about music, and so I judged him worth getting to know better.

I've been told, by those who love me and by those who don't, that I'm too judgemental. It's a characteristic of Leos. But we are also, if you believe in horoscopes, and I'm not saying I do, loving and loyal, stubborn and sassy, brave and bossy, and generous. Of course I love "sassy." Enough to be able to bear the pejoratives that come with it.

OK, so I can be judgemental. I try not to be. And I really, really try to keep my judgemental thoughts to myself when I have them. But when you're out with a friend — a male friend — and his mother shows up, and he's obviously enjoying her company more than he is yours, I can't help but wonder if maybe it's time to throw in the towel.

It was, as you may have guessed, Gentle Reader, a karaoke event. I expected the person in question to be there, seeing as how this is his local, and it's because of him that I've been to this bar three or four times before. I know some of the people there, but he's the one I know the "best," if you will. And so we sat together.

Sort of.

I had arrived early, to get a table in the back room where the singers sing. My favourite table, the one with the red leather bench against the wall, was taken. There were only one or two people at each table; they were saving seats for their friends, likely. So I sat at the only empty table, in the middle of the room; two square tables pushed together so there were eight chairs around it, counting the ones on each end.

A few minutes later, my Not Quite Friend arrived, came to my table, took off his coat, put it on the chair across from me, and sat himself down in the chair that was as far as it could be from me without actually being at another table. Though I've never experienced this particular... configuration before, it felt somehow strange. Like having someone sit in the back seat of your car while you're driving, as if to say, I'm not going to ride shotgun because I'm not your friend.

About a half an hour later, his mother came into the bar, and joined us. This may strike you as odd. Perhaps you, too, are too judgemental. I had met her previously, and already formed the opinion that she must have had him when she was nine years old, which means I'm likely closer to her age than I am to his, which only adds to the general weirdness of the situation. I had this Dream On moment where she says to me, "What are you doing hanging around with my son? You should come over to my house and we'll bake cookies together."

She sat beside me, directly across from him. And for the next two hours, the two of them leaned across the table and chatted like a couple of schoolgirls. They even shared an order of fries. I swear, I'm not making that up.

So I went out back to the smoking patio for a cigarette with the bad kids.

After a few minutes I heard the KJ call my NQF's name, and so I said to the other kids, I guess I'd better go back in. Because that's what you do when your friends are singing at a karaoke event.

"Is he your brother?" asked Jim. Jim had seen me at this bar in the past. Once or twice with my not-brother, once or twice without.

I laughed. "No! Why did you think that?"

"Because of the way you were sitting in there."

Then Rob says, "I thought you were a couple, and that you were having a fight."

"Sorry, guys, wrong on both counts. We're just friends. Sort of."

I went back inside. Not long after that, Mom and my not-brother got up simultaneously, and put on their coats. I suppose they had discussed leaving, but I hadn't been able to hear their conversations because the music was too loud. And, you know, because they were sitting at the other end of the table. I watched them go to the bar, to settle up their tab. Suddenly I felt a little pathetic, sitting at that big table, all by myself, in the middle of the room.

Then Jim came and sat beside me. Not across from me and at the other end, but right beside me. "Where's he going?" he asked.

"I don't know. Home, I guess."

"He's an idiot."

I didn't get what he meant at first. "Oh, no, that's his mother," I explained.

Jim looked at the two of them, then at me, then watched the two of them leave.

"Did I mention, he's an idiot?" he said again.

I wanted to agree, but I'm working on being less judgemental.

Go to next story in sequence. Or, skip ahead to this story, in which it becomes clear that Sass doesn't know when to fold 'em.

Thank You For Being A Friend

My horoscope today reads, "Instant romance could be yours if you go out with friends."

It's Valentine's Day, and I'm no one's inamorata. I woke up alone and didn't find my bed surrounded by 99 red balloons, as I have in years past, so I decided to trudge out to the corner store, despite the freezing rain, and pick up the fixings to make myself my favourite breakfast: a pumpernickel bagel with bacon and Swiss cheese. While the bacon was crisping and the bagel toasting I listened to the CD that E lent me last night, and made coffee. Strong and freshly ground, not instant.

I'm pretty sure I don't want instant romance, either. But I do like to go out with friends, and I feel blessed that I have them. My best friend; my ex-ex-friend; my old school friend; my karaoke buddies; my cousins, who, now that we're grownups are my friends; my shoulder-to-cry-on friend; my "big brother" friend. And Jack.

Then there are all the new friends that I've made since I began blogging, some whom I've met in person, and some who remain virtual. Logan's Dave referred to me as a dear reader today, which is nice, and posted some pictures of himself in a kilt. I canna' resist a man in a kilt. Happy V-Day, Dave.

Earlier this week it was my best friend, Kay's, birthday so I called her. She lives in Bermuda, so a long distance phone call is the present. I told her about what stupid Sparky did, and how I'm never speaking to him again, and I told her that Sara's getting married, and she said it's about time, and was happy for her, too, even though Kay and Sara only met each other once, years ago, in New York, when the three of us went Bloomie's-crazy.

Kay told me that she agrees with me and Lana: boys are stupid. She had called her boy a couple of days ago, and left a cheery message, "Hi, how's it going? Just wondering what you're up to, and oh, by the way, it's my birthday tomorrow."

She's subtle. Like me.

When she hadn't heard from him by late afternoon day of, she called again. "Oh, sorry," he told her, "When I heard it was you, and you sounded fine, I just deleted the rest of the message."

Kay doesn't know anything about Jack. Remember the Seinfeld episode where Jerry's dating a girl whose name he can't remember? And he explains to George how it's too late to ask her now, because they've spent so much time together; the moment to ask her name has passed, so instead he tries to contrive a way to discover her name. It's kinda like that. I don't know where to begin, to tell Kay the story. We used to tell each other everything, but I met Jack during the eight year period in which Kay didn't speak to me. Then, three years ago, when she showed up at my mother's funeral and we got back together again as friends, well, that was during the time that Jack wasn't in my life.

So we discussed plans for a trip to Mexico in the spring. We had a swell time together in Memphis last fall, even though we didn't go through with the tatoo, that we want to do it again. A trip, that is. And maybe the tatoo. We did spend an hour in Memphis Tatoo, talking to Roger, himself a fine specimen of his art. Field research, so to speak. He recommended bringing a photo, or a picture "off the Innernet" which he could stencil and replicate in whatever size we wish.

Me, I'm thinking something small. Maybe a flower. Maybe a Tiger Lily. Kay's thinking along the same lines, surprisingly and thank goodness. As for real estate location, we both agree that you gotta flaunt it if you got it, so mine will be on my ankle, Kay's on her chest.

Kay has been one of my 2:00 in the morning friends for twenty-five years. Everyone needs at least one of those: someone you can call in the middle of the night who would bail you out of jail, or help you bury the body. A few weeks ago I discovered that I have more than one.

Carson was hosting a special KAK at the Drake, and Lana and I were there, but none of my other karaoke buddies could make it. It was a slow night, probably owing to the fact that it was early January and -30º. When Lana got up to leave, she lifted her coat from the back of the chair where it had been hanging, and I noticed that mine, which had been hanging right under hers, was gone. We conducted a search, with the help of the bouncer and the bartender, but my coat was nowhere in the Underground. The bouncer suggested I stick around until closing — with the lights up, maybe we'd find it, or find another abandoned coat that might explain that someone had taken mine by mistake.

Then it was 3:30 a.m., and no coat.

My keys were in the pocket. The keys to my house, three miles away, and the keys to my car, parked on Queen Street, on the eastbound side, where, in four hours, it would be towed to make way for rush hour traffic.

And that's when the friends kicked in. Lana offered her phone and car. Carson, who lives around the corner from me, lent me his coat and his car. I drove him home, then drove myself home, then banged on the door of my friend and neighbour, Zee. Her dog, Gracie, started barking, and moments later a bleary-eyed Zee opened the door.

"I'm so sorry to wake you! Long story. Tell you tomorrow. Need my keys."

She reached behind her, located my keychain in the dark, handed it to me, and asked, "Are you OK?"

"Fine. Just cold. And I have to go rescue my car from Queen Street. I'll call you tomorrow. I owe you one."

Then I ran home and let myself in. It was now 4:00. The cats came downstairs to greet me, went straight to their food dishes, but looked perplexed. It was still dark outside.

I dialed AC's number while I hunted for my spare car keys.

"Don't panic. It's not a dire emergency, but I need your help."

"Now?"

"Um, well, yes. I mean, not immediately, but soon. I have to go get my car. It's up on Queen Street."

Only after I had hung up the phone did it occur to me that I could have taken a cab.

I have the best friends in the world.

Sometimes, if you're very lucky, there's a moment when you realize that those people you had considered only acquaintances cross the line and become your friend. It happened to me last night.

My karaoke buddies and I have joked about the fact that we're not really friend friends, we're just karaoke friends. We talk about our "real friends" — just like that, in quotation marks — who don't like karaoke. We've had the occasional awkward introduction moment, when it didn't seem quite appropriate to say, "This is my friend, Mo," or "This is my friend, Sass."

So I thought it wouldn't matter if I never spoke to Sparky again. I'd just think of him as that jerk who sometimes comes to the Rivoli. But last night, it had been two weeks since the incident, and when I saw him there, I felt a little sad.

Then Mo told me that he had spent much of the two weeks talking to Sparky, trying to get him to, well, stop being a jerk, but that Sparky was stubborn that way and he wasn't going to apologize. I thanked him for trying, and resigned myself to having lost a friend I never quite had.

And then, a little while later, Sparky came to sit beside me, and said, sheepishly, "I buy you a drink?"

"Is that by way of an apology?" I asked.

"It comes with an apology," he replied.

And so it did. And a very nice one, it was, at that. It looked like it was just about killing him to offer it, and for that I appreciated it even more. We kissed and made up.

And so, in the wee hours of Valentine's Day morning, I drove three of my favourite guys home. I like them even better than balloons.

Go to next story

Hotter Than A Pepper Sprout

During the past forty-eight hours I've been paid the following compliments by two of the boys I like.

First, on Friday night: "I promise you're the only girl I'll ever sing Jackson with. Unless, of course, Angelina Jolie walks in. Then you're toast."

Then, yesterday: "No disrespect intended, but if Joan Cusack came into the room where you and I were, I'd shoot you so that she could have a place to sit."

I suppose that's fair. Hey, I'd cheerfully run them both down with my car to dance on a pony keg with this guy.

Go to next story

Jack and Diane [part I]

A long time ago, in a small town far away, a girl took a night course at the university, to try to raise her grade point average so that she could apply to grad school.

The girl was very happy, then. She had a great job, and a cool car, and a new old house, and a boy who loved her very, very much. She bought a textbook called Rhetoric and the English Language, and drove to the university in her cool car, looking forward to an evening of mental stimulation in the halls of academia.

She was not disappointed. The class was small, only a dozen students, and the professor was an engaging speaker. That first day they discussed and debated the rhetorical merit of an essay, written by George Bush and published in Newsweek, in which he justified his decision to send troops to Kuwait. The girl argued that the essay was extremely persuasive. She argued vehemently against a tall boy in the class, who was equally firm in his resolve that it was not.

The class ended, but the argument continued all the way to the parking lot. She walked slowly, and he followed, never missing a beat of their discussion. Then they were at her car.

"Listen, Jack," she said, "I can tell you think you're pretty smart, but you don't know what you're talking about."

She lost the argument. She was not in the habit of losing arguments. She was not accustomed to arguing with a boy who was smarter than she was. The girl would never have admitted this.

She drove him home, since she had a car and he didn't. She drove him home, not every night, but most nights, for the twelve weeks of the course at the university. She lost more arguments, but she won some, too.

On the day of the last class, when she drove him home, she tried to get caught by all the red lights. She didn't want this to be the last time she'd see him, but she couldn't think of a plausible reason to continue the relationship. At the corner of his street, with the car in neutral, and her body turned fully to face him, she looked up at him through her thick, curly bangs that were in dire need of trimming, but he didn't do then what he told her, years later, he knew she wanted him to do: kiss her.

She didn't see him again for six years.

Then one day the girl was at work at an Internet company in the same small town far away, listening to her boss, who was a very smart man, tell her that she was being irritating. This was something he did from time to time, but only when she deserved it, and she admired him all the more for being straight with her, because she knew that sometimes she pissed people off without meaning to. She still loved her job, she still lived in the new old house with the boy who loved her very, very much, she was still very happy, and she had an even cooler car.

The very smart man was saying, "...and I don't want you scaring them. They're new, and we need them, so I want you to go meet with them... blah blah..."

And then he said a name, "____," and the girl remembered the tall boy in her rhetoric class all those years ago.

"How does he spell that?" she asked, "With an O or an E?"

The very smart man ignored her question, finished telling her what he was telling her, then walked away. As soon as he was gone she looked up the name on the company's email directory. It was, indeed, spelled with an E, and so she sent a message:

"Jack?"

Five minutes later he was standing beside her desk, looking down at her with his steel blue eyes.

"Hey, you," he said.

* * *
Here begins the four part story of Jack and Diane. Click here to read part II. Or, go to the next story in sequence, in which Postmodern Sass learns that she can't hold a candle to either Angelina Jolie or Joan Cusack — but then, she already knew that.

Going To The Chapel

My old friend from university, Sara, is getting married in New York next month, and I couldn't be happier for her. I asked Jack to escort me but he refused, which is just as well, since last time he accepted and then stood me up.

She's not, in point of fact, going to the chapel, but rather to a beautiful hotel on Long Island. I told Sara, "I don't care if I have to show up alone, dance alone, sleep alone, and sit in a corner by myself all night, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Though I haven't met the husband-to-be Sara assures me I will love him. "He's a huge Monty Python fan," she says, by way of making her point, keenly aware of the roads that lead to my heart. Last summer, when I took my first PhD course, "Ways of Knowing," and learned who Immanuel Kant, Heidegger, David Hume, and Wittgenstein, really were, I couldn't stop giggling.

I sure hope she's right about me loving him. Over the years I've met some of Sara's men, and they stirred many emotions in me, yet love was never one of them.

There was Errol, who I met in New York not long after Sara first moved there. He drove a Saab convertible, wore a diamond pinky ring, and reminded me of Snidely Whiplash. He was getting divorced, Sara told me. He was getting divorced... he was getting divorced... he was getting divorced. Finally, he got divorced. And then he married someone else.

There was Adam, the man for whom Sara spent two years living in Los Angeles, because he'd moved there after they had been dating for five years. The only problem was, she hadn't mentioned to him that she was planning to follow him. She managed to have her company transfer her to the west coast — it wasn't difficult; Sara works in the entertainment industry and at that time was an agent for one of the biggest talent firms in the country — then called him, casually, to say she was in town and would he like to go out for dinner. Before he could return her call, two weeks later, she was at the gym when her personal trainer, who was also his personal trainer, asked Sara whether she had heard that Adam was engaged.

All Sara's ever wanted is to marry a nice, Jewish, doctor. I don't think that's too much to ask for. But she's not had much luck that way, and it's about time she found one to be happy with. I hope with all my heart that Stephen King is the right man for her.

Oh, did I mention that that's his name?

I'll report on The Groom and, of course, The Dress, after the event. For now, I can report on The Shower, from which I've just come; The Maid of Honour; and The Ring.

Six of us took Sara to brunch today at the King Eddie. It was very grown up. Everything seemed to come with goat cheese, even the biscuits. Damned good coffee. We gave Sara her gift, a gift from all of us which Francine and I had done the shopping for yesterday. It was a long silk nightgown, in the most gorgeous pale gold colour, with delicate criss-crossed spaghetti straps and not one speck of lace on it anywhere. It cost more than my car.

I was terribly worried that Sara wouldn't like it. She can be rather... particular. Or that it wouldn't fit. It is, after all, lingerie. But she insisted that she loved it, and I don't think she's that good a liar. I was thrilled that she really liked it. See, I rather pride myself on being a good present-giver. I would have hated for this one to have missed the target.

At brunch I met Sara's Maid of Honour, her even-older-friend-than-me friend from high school. I felt like something of an alien, surrounded by JAPs whose recurring topic of conversation was their relative levels of JAPdom. That's their term, by the way, not mine.

The winner of the JAP-off, as declared by me, at any rate, was the Maid. Do you remember Janice, Chandler's ex-girlfriend, on Friends? I wasn't quick-thinking enough to make up a lie about moving to Yemen, so instead I found myself agreeing to be Janice's roommate at the hotel in March.

Ah, yes, The Ring.

I've always been of the opinion, though rarely expressed, that diamonds are, well, common. Every married and engaged woman has one, and I've never much cared to have something that everyone else has. I would prefer a ruby, or a sapphire. They have colour, and character, and look stunning accented with diamonds.
Not that any man's ever offered me one of any of the above, mind.

After seeing Sara's ring, however, I'm starting to feel a stir of affection for her friend Tiffany.

* * *
Next, Postmodern Sass begins the story of Jack and Diane. If you like, Gentle Reader, you may skip ahead to this story and find out what Sass bought her friend Sara for a wedding gift.

Highschool Confidential

Though we have, like Elvis, left the building, we never really leave highschool until we get married and start procreating. That's when we become grownups, not one hour sooner.

Until then, we remain social teenagers.

Like we're still in highschool.

Take the other night at karaoke, for example. Please.

My karaoke buddy, Sparky, caused grievous insult upon my person by singing a karaoke duet with Punky Nerdster, when he and I had discussed singing that very song together not two hours before. Then he compounded the insult to what may be unforgivable levels by not even realizing that he had insulted me. Apparently, to him, our earlier conversation, the words of which were barely dry, had been of so little importance he didn't even remember participating in it.

So I'm never speaking to him again.

When they got up to sing and I realized they were doing Come What May, I thought maybe she had cajoled him into it. See, the girl in question — who, by the way, is nineteen years old, wears a dog collar around her neck, nerdy-cool glasses, and her hair in braids — has a crush on Mo, my other karaoke buddy. He and I had done I Got You Babe earlier. I thought maybe she wanted to get back at him by singing with Sparky, which I could totally understand.

(In case you're thinking, Gentle Reader, that perhaps it is Sparky who has a crush on Punky Nerdster, I can assure you that isn't it. Sparky has a girlfriend, and it seems quite serious between them, though she rarely comes to karaoke.)

There are unspoken, but understood, rules of karaoke etiquette. You don't do someone else's signature song. You don't even do a song by someone else's signature band, unless you ask them first. When it's Lana's birthday, she gets to sing twice as much and you don't do any of the songs that she wants to sing.

And if you tell a girl you're going to sing Come What May with her, you don't go singing it with a different girl.

When Sparky and Punky were finished singing I sent Mo to tell Sparky that I hate him and am never going to speak to him again. Then Mo and I went out behind the bleachers for a smoke.

It gets worse.

So Mo and I are out having a cig and he says, "You're really mad, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I really am. I mean, it was about two weeks ago when Sparky and I first discussed the possibility of doing Come What May. We thought that, with some practice, we could do a passable job. At least as well as Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman, you know? It's a challenging song, and you know how Sparky loves to learn a challenging song. And there are so few duets on the song list."

"Well, there's Fairytale of New York." Mo and I have sung that one together several times.

"I know, darlin', that's our song. So anyway, we agreed that we'd practice our parts at home and try it in a couple of weeks. Tonight, when we first got here, we talked about it again, and decided that when it got slow at the end of the night, maybe we'd give it a try. And then suddenly he's up there with Punky, singing Come What May. With not so much as a by-your-leave. What am I, dirt?"

"It sounds to me like Sparky owes you an apology."

"Yeah, well, that would be nice. At least they sucked. That makes me feel a little better."

"Meow!"

"I know how catty that sounds, but I'm not jealous of Punky — though I would have been, had she nailed the song — I'm insulted at Sparky treating me like I don't exist."

"It doesn't make any sense to me. Sparky emailed me the other day and asked me for Punky's email address. He said he wanted to ask her about a song."

I waited in vain for a moment for the manhole beside me on Queen Street to open up and swallow me. When it didn't happen I decided to go back upstairs and get drunk instead.

Curse him.

Lana was onstage, again, this time singing Add It Up. She was celebrating her birthday, and had invited a dozen or so of her friends, karaoke virgins all. Carson granted her the immunity challenge and put her in the rotation twice.

One of the friends that came for the party is the boy Lana has a crush on. Remember when you were in highschool, you had crushes? They'd come upon you for no sensible reason. The object of your crush was usually someone you'd known for years, and then one day he smiles at you a little differently and boom, you're crushed.

Yeah, you guessed it, there's a boy I have a crush on, too. He comes to karaoke sometimes. Good thing he's not the same boy as the boy Lana has a crush on. Since we're both mature, intelligent, desireable women, instead of talking to the boys we like, we went out for a smoke and talked to each other about the boys.

Me: "So the boy you like is the tall one, right?"

Lana: "You mean the one I've been practically hanging onto and making cow eyes at all night? How'd you guess?"

Me: "Don't worry, no one else noticed. Boys never notice when you like them.

Lana: "Boys are stupid."

Me: "Yeah. Have you ever seen that poster?"

Lana: "Which poster?"

Me: "This one:"



Lana: "So what do you think?"

Me: "He's cute! Where do you know him from?"

Lana: "He was a friend of a friend, and is in the circle of people I hang out with, so I've known him for a couple of years. I think he has a girlfriend, though."

Me: "You're not sure?"

Lana: "No. See, he mentioned this girl he met on Lavalife a couple of weeks ago, and I thought he was going to bring her tonight, when he said he was coming to karaoke, but he's here alone, so I don't know."

Me: "Do you want me to talk to him and try to find out?"

Lana: "Do you think you could?"

Me: "I can try, but I can't push it. If I ask him too abruptly, he'll think I'm the one who wants to ask him out. And then we'll find ourselves in the middle of an episode of Three's Company."

Lana: "So what about... you know, him?"

Me: "What about him?"

Lana: "Have you asked him out?"

Me: "No!"

Lana: "Why not?"

Me: "'Cause then he'd know I like him!"

Lana: "Isn't that the point?"

Me: "Not if he doesn't like me."

Lana: "What's wrong with men?"

Me: "Nothing's wrong with the one behind the bar. Let's go back in and have him pour us another little something."

Back inside, I sneak up behind Goldilocks and mess up his hair a little. I can only do this when I catch him off guard, and even then he squeals in protest. He has really great hair, it's so hard to resist. I wonder if he carries a comb in his back pocket, the way I used to do when I was in highschool.

I call him Goldilocks, to tease him. Remember when you thought that if a boy teased you it was because he didn't like you? Even though you teased the boys you liked, and just ignored the ones you didn't like? And much later, when it's too late to do anything about it, you realize that the boy who teased you by pulling your pigtails or lifting up your skirt or calling you "Blondie" did so because he liked you?

The verb to tease had a different meaning back then, too.

When I was actually in highschool, I used to read Cathy. It wasn't available online back then. I haven't read it for years, and only this week learned that Cathy and Irving, after two decades of dating, are getting married. Sadly, she doesn't think the silly pretty shoes were what did it.

* * *
Go to the next story in sequence, in which Postmodern Sass learns that her friend Sara is marrying Stephen King. Or, skip ahead to find out whether Sass and her friend Sparky make up. If you want to know who the boy Sass has a crush on is, you can read all about it in The Viking Trilogy, beginning with this story.