You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(37)

Dick snaps his fingers at me. “Look,” he says. “It’s simple. It’s girls. If you want any chance with this girl…”

“I do.”

“Then you gotta leave her in the wind. Make her hope like hell that she didn’t lose you, show her that you’re the prize, the money, the catch.”

Another girl arrives, just as hungry for Dick, and I look out the fucking window and my phone rings—finally—but it’s not you. It’s him.

Angus.

My legs do me dirty, shake shake shake, and the coffee girls are competing for Dick, and I look around the room, the white clean walls, the antique overstuffed chairs. Every girl in here, all the seemingly smart subway minxes with messenger bags and their novelty journals wide open, pens in their mouths as they nibble…Every single one of them is eye-fucking the barista as if he’s the real deal, as if he’s Tom Fucking Cruise. He’s not even a bartender, and okay, he has muscles—soft and snuggly—and okay, he has a buzz cut—I love your hair…so ’70s—but there’s no denying it anymore.

He knows something about women.

It’s 9:01 p.m. and I’m a loser. I’m back in the third grade, on crutches after an “accident” with the stairs at “home.” Snow day. Not allowed to walk home from school. Not like this. Mrs. Pearson whispering to Mr. Calder.

His vile mother said he can fend for himself. Can you believe that monster?

I thought I was the monster, unlovable, and maybe I am. Maybe it’s a stench I can’t kick. Maybe I really do need a fucking father figure who’s not a crazy old bookworm.

Dick hands me a napkin like I’m crying. I’m not. Am I?

“D.B.A.,” he says. “Couple of blocks south. My buddy Schlitz is behind the bar. Tell him you know me. I’ll see ya there in a bit.”

“And if she comes…Vail?”

“Joe,” he says. “Go to the fucking bar.”



* * *



—

D.B.A. is loud, and my Motorola is so quiet it must be dead. But it isn’t.

You don’t want me. You don’t see me as the Tom Hanks to your Meg Ryan, and I want a vodka soda, but Dick says I need hard stuff.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll have that stuff you got at the Indian place…Jim Henson.”

Schlitz doubles over—he’s a blond version of Dick—and Dick elbows me. “It’s called Jameson, son.” And then he raises his shot glass. “To my long gone big brother,” he says, kissing those dog tags while all the girls turn to mush. “First of the day, God willing….”

“See ya tomorrow!” shouts Schlitz.

I’m a part of this now, Vail. Yep, I’m the butt of an inside joke that Dick says will haunt me to my grave—It’s called Jameson, son—and next thing you know I’m one of those dudes doing J?ger bombs.

It’s not the worst way to spend a night without you. The bombs hit hard, fast. The caffeine and the booze rev me up and how is this even legal? Schlitz and Dick aren’t the best but they’re okay. They’re a little older than Dumb and Dumber, a little smarter, like they rolled off a superior assembly line where they got the muscles and dog tags, the fuck-you-tight white T-shirts. What can I say, baby? Your bad week turned into my bad week. I can’t help it. Maybe I’m bombed, but it feels good that these cool dudes kinda dig me.

Dick drops a twenty on the bar. “I got this.”

No one ever bought me a drink, and the bomb explodes and tickles the thing with the feathers. The more I drink, the more I tell Dick about the way our Missed Connections are pulling us closer. He says I’m wrong. “If she missed you, she would connect with you. The end.”

I push back. We are romantic. We are Napoleon and Josephine. We are Love Letters. He says it again. “If she missed you, she would connect with you. The end.”

I tell him about Cynthia, about your boss, about the night with Angus. His eyes pop out of his head. “A hand job? Wait. She didn’t even suck you off?”

I don’t like that phrase, and I’m not that drunk. I have to stop talking about you because Dick came here to get laid and Schlitz wants his wingman. I am of no use. These girls don’t interest me, and that’s okay. It’s okay to be DOA in D.B.A. But then again, you blew me off. Are you like the girls in this bar? Is soft and snuggly a bad thing? It sounds like a bad thing, like a laundromat owned by Mr. Tongue and Mister Softee.

Dick downs a shot of Jim Henson. “Look,” he says. “I’m not a dick.”

“I know.”

“I’m just trying to help you out.”

A girl taps his shoulder. “Do you have a cigarette?”

Dick has a cigarette, same way he has a lighter. He and Schlitz are the Cusack and the Piven, and that makes me a third banana, as if anyone wants more than two. Dick just got another number, and he lifts that fucking comic book of a fucking chin.

“Kid,” he says. “You gotta stop sulking.”

I can’t. I’m a drunk banana, a poor man’s Piven, so fuck it. I tell them what you said, soft and snuggly. And Schlitz spits tequila—a girl bought him a shot—and Dick tells him to piss off.

“Look,” he says. “You did mess up, but if you want this…”