Digits
an excerpt

Sane and well adjusted people don't end up thirty year old virgins. I know I'm a basket case. I haven't been able to delude myself in almost ten years. There are precious few sane and well adjusted twenty year old virgins.
Somebody knocked on my apartment door. I wiped stray smears of shaving cream off my chin with a towel and opened the front door.
Fred stepped in and took a quick look at me. He said, “You have got to be kidding me. You know we're going to a goth club tonight, right?”
“You didn't say this is a goth club.” I said.
“Pete, look at me.” Fred's piercings gleamed as he dragged me toward my cabinet. He wore a black trench coat, an “ironic” Dragonforce t-shirt, and grey cargo pants with chains spurting out from every direction. Unless he was in his work polo this is what he always wore. “What kind of a club am I gonna go to?”
I was wearing dark jeans with a vertical striped button-down and Italian leather shoes.
“Okay, Mary Poppins, let's see if we can come up with something for you to wear.” He pulled a five year old bootleg Johnny the Homicidal Maniac t-shirt out. He pulled out my six-inches-too-large black slacks. “You got any boots?” he asked.
“Work boots...”
“Forget it.” Fred said. “Try these chains on.” He pulled a strand free from his pants and slipped it around my throat.
After this ordeal I looked about as goth as Count Chocula.
#
As we closed in on the club my heart throbbed. It twisted and shivered and wretched. With three blocks left it finally shriveled up, froze solid, and tumbled into my stomach. Inside there it transformed into a gerbil, hamster or miniature Richard Gere and crawled around my bowels.
Oblivious to my digestive problems, Fred looked for a parking spot.
The little Richard Gere shook up a soda bottle and twisted off the cap. I poured noxious fumes, silent-but-still-deadly, into Fred's car.
Fred shuddered.
They say the best defense is a good offense, so I said, “You did it.”
Fred finally found parking. He pulled his tiny car into the empty space and fed quarters into the meter. He said, “Let's give it an hour and a half. If nothing happens by then we can call it a night, and if not I'll get more quarters.”
He lead me to a warehouse just off Central Square in Cambridge. Snakes were painted all across the building in various artistic styles. There were a few realistic depictions, along with Dayglo multicolored impressionistic snakes, Mayan serpent gods, cave paintings, and a giant green splash, which was either a paint spill or intentionally Jackson Pollack.
A line of twenty-somethings dressed like vampires extended around the side of the building. Fred walked around the outside of them until we reached the front door. Above that a massive sign read, “Glycon Hall”.
Fred walked up to an eighty foot tall bouncer and whispered something in his ear. The bouncer nodded and grinned at me.
“But I'll need to see some ID first,” the bouncer said. I sighed and pulled out my state liquor ID.
The bouncer muttered, “No fuckin' way.” He waved his buddy over. His buddy looked at my liquor ID. He laughed. The bouncer said, “Uh, what's your birthday?”
Every time I complain about this people tell me to stop whining. “It's a gift,” they say. When I turned twenty-one they said, “You won't complain much longer.” I still get carded half the time going to a rated R movie.
“May twenty-second, nineteen seventy-seven.” I said without missing a beat.
The bouncer handed my ID back to me and said, “Rock on.”
#
Fred lead me to the bar immediately. “First things first, you need to loosen up,” he yelled over the music. When we reached the bar he pulled out a ten dollar bill and waved it at the bartender.
She grimaced and said, “What do you want?”
“Two flaming Dr. Peppers, minus the flames.”
The bartender leaned under the bar and flipped through a little book. She wandered off to the bottles of hard liquor and returned with two pint glasses of brown, bubbling, liquid.
The little Richard Gere thrashed around in my bowels.
Fred handed her the ten bucks and said, “Keep the change.”
The bartender gave him a dirty look.
He shotgunned his drink. He motioned for me to do the same. He gasped great, huge, breaths.
I swigged a huge gulp down, caught my breath, then swigged another. Five gulps later I finished my flaming Dr. Pepper, minus the flames.
Fred finally caught his breath. “The shit in here is equal to three drinks,” he said. “Let's hit the head.”
“Kinda early for that.” I replied.
He shook his head. “Not for what I have in mind.”
“Look, I guess it would get me laid, technically, but I'm not touching any glory holes.”
“Pete,” Fred said, “You've got a filthy mind. Just follow me into the bathroom.”
We wormed past the dance floor. An ocean of fat girls rippled and heaved. Tiny islands of skinny girls swayed under flickering lights. The effect was hypnotic. Panic stabbed in my chest.
Fred led me into the men's room and then into the handicapped stall. “If anybody comes in,” he said, “make sounds like you're sucking.”
“What exactly are we doing in the toilet?” I asked.
Fred fished around in his cargo pockets until he pulled out a small orange bottle.
I grumbled. “What Jesus' tits is this?”
“It's called Adrenochrome Hydroibogaine.”
“That's a mouthful,” I said.
“Dude, I know what your problem is. You're like a dog tied to a post in the back yard. All the other dogs pulled their stakes out years ago and got a taste of that mailman.” he said. “Your stake's just nailed down too deep. You're too afraid, little man.”
He held two small pills in his palm.
“Eat these,” he urged.
“Adrenochrome Hydroibogaine.” I said. “Does it have a trade name?”
“Not yet. It's still experimental. We're doing trials.” he said. “Ordinarily I wouldn't touch such a thing, but they fucked up the invoice. They sent us twice as much as they thought.”
I stared at Fred for a few seconds.
“I wouldn't offer you this shit if it wasn't safe.” he said. “I read all the docs. All is does is block more than a certain threshold of fear.”
I thought about it for a second. Among my friends, Fred has bar-none the most pharmacological knowledge. I've smoked two spliffs in my day. Fred has eaten or toked everything under the sun.
“Alright,” I said. I took the pills and swallowed them quick. I asked, “How long do they take to kick in?”
“About five minutes,” he said, patting me on the back. “Looks like our little boy is growing up.”
We walked back out to the dance floor. I took notice of the little stage.
The band, The Hard Rock Zombies, thrashed away at their guitars. They banged their heads, and their gnarled shoulder length hair spun rhythmically around them. They wore retro hair metal outfits; torn denim jackets over tank tops. One of the guitarists wore fingerless gloves. The drummer was the dressed differently. He had a t-shirt with the sleeves torn off.
The singer growled in mock Latin.
Fred lead me through the girl sea. A whale nearly beached on me, but I wriggled away. I almost tripped into a coral reef with spiked up pink hair. Fred pulled me free from the undulating waves.
I said, “I think I'm sea sick.”
Fred dragged me back to the bar. The bartender shot Fred another dirty look. Fred smiled and said, “Let's get some brews. Whatever's cheap and on tap.”
“And for you?” the bartender grumbled.
“Sam Adams?” I said.
“Lager?” she said.
I nodded.
She pushed a glass filled with Budweiser toward Fred and a bottle of Sam to me.
I handed her a five and said, “Keep the change.” She broke her grimace for a quick smile.
Fred pushed three dollars and a few coins across the bar and said, “Likewise.” She winced.
“You know what to do. You're not retarded,” he said. “You just need some encouragement. See anything you like?”
A ham beast in a crew cut and corset stumbled up to the other side of the bar. She motioned toward the bartender.
A yeti walked up in a tiny black sun dress and knee high boots. The entire surface of her skin was covered in a complex mural of flaming angels, skulls, motorcycles and exploding guitars. Her septum ring glinted, much like Fred's fifty piercings.
Jesus. I guess Fred wouldn't judge me too harshly, but what if I brought one of them home to meet Berto? Tom? Matt? They'd die laughing. Mom and Dad would probably be happy just to see me with a girl... unless it was that one with the Adam's apple.
The little Richard Gere grabbed my heart and twisted it ninety degrees. I shivered.
“I don't know if I'm ready to go after the living dead.” I said.
“You think too damned much.” Fred said. “I know that look in your eye. Remember, you're just here to flirt, maybe get a few numbers. You're not gonna marry the bitch.”
I took a deep breath.
Fred motioned a few seats over. “See that girl, the one in the KMFDM t-shirt?” he asked.
I glanced over. She looked disarmingly normal, perhaps a bit chubby, skin too pasty, hair too unkempt, but she had glasses on. Black hair and glasses get me every time.
Fred knows my secret weakness.
I hung my head over the bar. I muttered, “What am I supposed to say?”
“You can just say, 'Hi,' dude. She won't bite.” Fred said.
“After that, though.” I said. “I don't have anything else to say.”
“Ask her what she thinks of the band. Know anything about KMFDM? Ask her what her favorite album is. Make an idle comment about your favorite album.” Fred said, “What's the worst that could happen?”
“She'll pull out a cannister of pepper spray and blind me, then have the bouncers drag me out for being a creep.”
Fred thought for a second. He said, “The sad thing is I don't know if you're joking or not.” I felt much the same way. He added, “Just down another drink and wait for the fear to bubble away.”
The next time the bartender walked by Fred ordered a Car Bomb for me and I reluctantly guzzled it down. Finally, the drinks and adrenochrome hydroibogaine kicked in and I could barely pay attention to anything.
I glanced over at the girl in the KMFDM t-shirt. She looked over at me and smiled. I smiled back. She pointed at the corner of her mouth. I thought for a second, then with lightening speed grabbed a napkin and wiped a smudge of curdling Guinness and Baileys from my chin. The girl in the KMFDM t-shirt chuckled.
My heart ached.
Fred said, “Don't let yourself think about anything.” He grabbed my shoulder and pushed me toward her.
I inched over to the girl in the KMFDM t-shirt and sat next to her .I said, “Hey.”
She nodded and replied, “Hey.”
I motioned toward the stage. “What do you think of this band?”
“Trash” she said. “Nothing more than Post-Hair Metal Meta-Industrial trash.”
“I got the word 'trash' out of that, but I'm not up on the rest of that Pitchfork Media review.” I said. “I'll give you that they're pretty trashy, though.”
She laughed and said, “You're not a music guy, are you? Pitchfork Media goes down on its knees and makes like a circus seal for Prog Rock. Radiohead, Pink Floyd. Never any variation of metal and rarely anything industrial.”
I wheezed. “Bad choice of review sites.” I said, “I was snarking on your choice of adjectives.”
“No shit Sherlock.” she said. “I'm not retarded.”
“I think I fell flat on my ass somewhere,” I said. “Let's start again. I'm Peter Carpenter.” I held out my hand.
The girl in the KMFDM t-shirt laughed and shook it. “Evelyn Wynn,” she said. “What brings you to Glycon Hall this awful Saturday night.”
“My buddy Fred,” I motioned toward him. “He thinks I need to get laid. Badly.”
Fred waved his arm and yelled “Abort! Abort!” from the other side of the bar.
“What do you think, though?” she asked.
I thought for a second and said, “Fuck if I know. What brings you here?”
“My friend Victoria.” She waved at one of the skinny girl islands out in the churning butter troll sea. A twenty foot tall girl poked her hand out above the crowd and waved back. “She thinks she needs to get laid. Badly.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Why aren't you out there dancing?”
“Oh, I'm not much of a dancer.” she said. “I haven't got a sense of rhythm. Most of the music I listen to is thrash, thrash, thrash, roar, kill-your-parents kinda stuff anyway. Not much to dance too.”
I smiled. “Well, at least you listen to stuff that technically qualifies as music. Most of the MP3's on my computer are experimental neo-primitive abstract expressionist gibberish.”
She said, “What the hell would that be? Captain Beefheart? The Residents?”
My jaw dropped. “Th-they're not obscure enough for me. Fucking everybody knows who Frank Zappa is.” I began. “I'm the only person on the eastern seaboard who has heard of Renaldo and the Loaf and I'd like to keep it that way.”
“So you're the indie-est indie fag out there?” the girl in the KMFDM t-shirt said.
I looked away and said, “The bit about Captain Beefheart being too popular was a joke.”
She laughed. “You gotta trust your jokes more. I got it.”
Her tall friend crawled out of the butter troll sea. “Eve!” she called. “Get me a Bloody Murder.” My previous estimation of her height was a bit overstated. She was really only a few inches taller than me. She wore a Steve-from-“Blues Clues” shirt with tight black leggings and knee high boots. On paper she was quite a bit hotter than the girl in the KMFDM t-shirt, but she failed to arouse even the tiniest emotion in my heart or extremities.
The girl in the KMFDM t-shirt motioned to the bartender and said, “You got that?”
The bartender nodded.
Victoria hugged Eve. She looked over at me and said, “Who's the guy?”
“I dunno.” the girl in the KMFDM t-shirt said.
“I'm a Peter.” I said. “You would be Victoria, right?”
Victoria said, “You've done your home work, Yuri Gellar.”
I pulled a spoon off the bar and bent it, pointing it at Victoria. “I've got the gift.”
Eve jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow and said, “I get it! Don't over-explain the joke.”
Eve and I laughed. Victoria stared for a few seconds, grabbed her drink and paid the bartender. She wandered off, muttering, “Dorks.”
I said, “C'mon, let's dance.” and grabbed Eve's forearm.
She pulled away for a second, but made eye contact with me. She said, “Okay.” The girl in the KMFDM t-shirt followed me onto the dance floor.
I spasmed and writhed. I popped and locked. And Eve followed my lead.
Normally, I'm a wall flower. I want to dance, I have a good sense of rhythm, but as soon as I step onto the dance floor my mind fills with doubt and fear. Is that girl talking to her friend making fun of me? That frosted tipped Guido? Is that land whale with the hot girlfriend judging me?
And on the mental level I don't care. On another level, a more visceral, animal level, the fear grips me and doesn't let go. Unless I'm drunk and my brain is full of adrenochrome hydroibogaine.
After the Hard Rock Zombies played two more songs Eve disappeared with Victoria. Fred, ever vigilant, appeared ex nihilo and lead me off the dance floor.
“I thought you were royal fucked when you brought out the 'my friend thinks I need to get laid' line, but you turned it around, brother.”
“Huh?” I said.
“Body language.” Fred said. “Wait another two hours before you hunt her down again, then go in for the kill.”
“I'm really not feeling it...” I said.
Fred dragged me to the bar. “You need more booze. Barkeep! We need two Zombie Apocalypses, stat.”
A new bartender appeared a few moments later with some orange brown drinks. Fred paid him and pushed them both to me.
“Chug.” he said.
I gulped the zombies down.
#
I kept myself busy for the next few hours. Fred would use his Desperation Sense to find some lonely girl, then he'd throw her at me. None of the conversations I started lasted longer than the one with the girl in the KMFDM t-shirt.
The brief surge of energy she gave me wore off, and by eleven I sat in the middle of the bar downing Sam Adams after Sam Adams.
The girl in the KMFDM t-shirt marched up to the bar.
Fred said, “What you gotta do now is strike like a viper.”
He pushed me toward her again. I said, “Hi.”
She nodded at me and said, “Peter, right?”
I nodded. “We talked about music earlier.”
“Who the fuck are 'Renaldo and the Loaf'?” she asked.
“Exactly.” I said. “Anyway,” the adrenochrome hydroibogaine's effect wore off. The little Richard Gere vomited out silk and grew himself a chrysalis. As soon as he sealed himself up he emerged, no longer Richard Gere, but a troll.
The troll in my guts stabbed my kidneys and liver. The troll in my guts stabbed my lungs.
Goddess, I prayed, just give me a break.
“Anyway,” I said, “I don't meet anybody whose heard of Captain Beefheart often. I was thinking maybe we could grab some coffee some time. Could I get your phone number?”
Crickets chirped.
The girl in the KMFDM t-shirt said, “Gimme your cell.” I handed it over. She dialed a number and saved it. “Call me any time after seven.” she said.
I wheezed, “Great.” genuinely perplexed. Was it really this easy? I mean, my other failures tonight notwithstanding.
Evelyn smiled at me, then downed her last drink and disappeared into the crowd with her friend.
Fred said, “I don't want to tempt fate. Let's blow this popsicle stand before you break your heart again, and then refuse to come clubbing for another two years. And I'm kinda low on quarters.”
I followed him back to his car.
The tempest Richard Gere set in motion in my bowels subsided.
“Here's what you do with that number,” Fred said. “You gotta wait three days.”
“I've always heard that but it never made any sense.” I said.
Fred turned the car on and pulled out of his parking spot. “You don't want the girl to think you're desperate. That's also why the 'friend-think-I-need-to-get-laid line' is such a faux pas.”
“She seemed to like me okay.” I said.
Fred said, “Dating is an elaborate game of cat and mouse. There are rules guiding rules that you didn't even know existed, and those rules guide other rules. Or something. You've already made a horrible mistake by not learning this stuff when you were in High School or College.”
“So I have to take my shoes off if I go inside her house?” I asked.
“You know what the worst thing is,” Fred said, “You can't even second or third guess yourself because the girl will know. Dating is retardedly complicated.”
#
Just before I left work on Tuesday night I ate two adrenochrome hydroibogaine tablets. They still hadn't kicked in by the time I got home. I paced around my room, staring at my cell phone. The troll in my belly poured gasoline around my bowels and lit a match. I smoked and bubbled.
After thirty-five false starts I finally led the cursor down to Evelyn's number. My thumb hovered over the green button for a few minutes, until I finally pressed it down. My heart pounded. I raised the phone to my ear.
The number rang once then clicked. A girl's voice, not Evelyn, said, “You have just dialed the Fake Phone Number Hotline. Sorry. Somebody didn't want to give you their real number, but also wanted to let you down easy. So I guess this is easy.” The phone beeped.