The Bet
A Bluebell Kramer Short Story
I set my basket on the scuffed up linoleum floor and reach for the top shelf, trying not to knock over the display of Vagisil set up beside me. Seriously, who makes a display for Vagisil? Anything that cures an itching vagina should be kept in the back of the store, in unmarked packages like secret little surprise packs. SURPRISE, HERE’S THE CURE TO YOUR CHAFING, BURNING LABIA! But that’s just my opinion.
I chuck the box of tampons that I just swiped from the shelf into my basket and continue on my way. I love shopping at the drug store. I find it both relaxing and convenient. I turn down the aisle that will lead me to my next necessity - dark chocolate covered blueberries - when I spot him. The man I met last week at my sister Tully’s house. The man who hardly said more than two words to me during the entirety of that evening. The man whom I cornered in the entryway and offered my number to, only to be met with a grumbled “no, thank you.” The man whom I have seen two more times since that night and both times has given me nothing, not a smile, not a flirtatious response to my witty repartee, nada.
Poppy would tell me to quit obsessing. But I can’t help it, he’s so…mysterious. Dark hair, thick beard, a tall and muscular frame. Have mercy. You are all mine. You just don’t know it yet.
I casually saunter my way towards him, watching with curiosity as he inspects a box of Raisin Bran. I pause beside him and wait a minute for him to notice me. Okay, a minute is taking too long. Time to move in for the kill.
“Scott?”
He looks me up and down and smirks. The mother fucker smirks. He places the box of cereal into his own basket and picks it up, turning to face me.
“Bluebell, right?”
“That’s right,” I say. “Is there something you find funny right now that you’d like to share with me?”
“Not at all,” he says. “You take care.”
Oh no. Not happening. This handsome, burly son of a bitch is not brushing me off again. I’m cute, I’m spunky. I don’t want a relationship. What is the problem here? Because I don’t see one. I take a side step and line my much smaller body up with his.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” he exhales.
“Are you gay?”
“Am I gay?”
“Because if you are, you can just say so,” I tell him. “No judgement here.”
“No, I’m not gay.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“In a relationship?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell?”
“Has anyone ever said no to you before?”
“No.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he says. “Excuse me.”
I really should just accept that this particular man is not interested in me. I should just let him pass and be on my way and get over it. But I suddenly get a better idea.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “Spend the next three hours with me. If by the end of the third hour, you don’t want to kiss me, I’ll leave you alone and never bother you again. BUT, if you do want to kiss me, you have to take me out on a proper date this weekend.”
“Why would I do this?”
“Why not?”
I can see him beginning to waver, and I’m not sure if I should be insulted that he’d actually consider going to such extremes just to be rid of me or if I should be excited. I’m gonna go with excited.
“Three hours?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, but I have errands to run, so you’re coming with me.”
“Deal.”
*
Two hours later I’m standing in the middle of the pet store, watching Scott bend down to the bottom shelf. He hoists a massive bag of dog food over his shoulder and carries it to the checkout. We’ve gone to the post office, the hardware store and, before we came here, he spent twenty minutes at the car wash while I sat in the cab of the truck and waited. He’s said exactly ten words to me in that much time. I’ve said too many to count.
Trying to figure this guy out is like watching Donnie Darko with people who understand the plot while you just nod along and keep your mouth shut because you don’t know anything and you don’t want to look stupid by asking too many questions. It’s hard.
“So, where to now?” I ask, while he slides the heavy bag into his backseat.
He hesitates for a second and if I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s scrambling, trying to think of yet another tedious task to accomplish in an effort to bore me to death. Oh, I don’t think so.
“Ya know what? I know something we can do,” I say. “Unless you’re scared you might have to talk to me and then you might actually start to like me?”
“You don’t scare me,” he says.
“Perfect! I’ll tell you where to go.”
He begrudgingly stalks to the driver’s side door and slides behind the wheel. I direct him to a small dive bar downtown where I play a couple times a week. It’s super mellow and at this time of day, the place will be nearly abandoned. The perfect environment for us to get to know each other.
When we walk through the old double doors of The Pistol, I spot Leah, one of the bartenders, washing out some glasses behind the bar.
“Hey, girl,” she says.
“Hey, can we get a couple beers?”
“You got it.”
I lead us to a booth along the brick wall and slide into the worn out blue seat. Scott does the same on the opposite side and when Leah places two bottles of beer on the table, he picks his up and takes a long sip.
“Jesus, am I that unbearable?”
He doesn’t answer but instead asks, “Is this where you party on the weekends?”
“Ummm, no. I play here a couple nights a week,” I say.
“You play?”
“Yeah, as in I play the guitar and sing. Sometimes if I’m feeling really crazy I even play the harmonica,” I say.
“Hm. How old are you anyways, like eighteen?”
“Twenty-five. You?”
“Thirty.”
“You’re a little young to be so grumpy,” I say.
“I’m not grumpy,” he says.
“Okay,” I say with a shrug.
We sit in silence for what feels like ten thousand freaking years before he speaks again, “So, what kind of music do you play?’
“I have a few original songs, but mostly I play acoustic versions of popular songs. People love that shit, and it’s fun,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
He nods his approval before taking another sip from the bottle in front of him.
“Did you always want to be a fish guy?’
I nearly slide right off my seat when he smiles and lets loose a low chuckle.
“No, I can’t say that I did,” he says. “But that’s kind of how things turned out, so…”
“When I was a kid I wanted to be a lesbian. I didn’t know what a lesbian was, or what it meant. But for like an entire year at the age of four, that’s what I said every time someone asked me what I wanted to be.”
His loose chuckle turns into a full on laugh and lord help me, it is deep and divine.
“So,” I begin. “Let’s get to the hard stuff. Why don’t you like me?”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Exactly my point,” I say. “Did you really think I was only eighteen? Is that it? You thought I was jailbait?”
“No, not really,” he says.
“Aaaaand?”
“What the hell,” he mumbles to himself. “I just got out of a relationship,” he says. “It didn’t end well.”
“Was she a vegetarian?” I ask sincerely.
“No,” he grunts. “She, uh, decided that she liked my best friend more than she liked me.”
“Ouch, that’s rough,” I say. “Were you together for a while?”
“Eight years.”
“Holy shit, double ouch. Hey Leah,” I shout. “Can we get another round, please?”
“So, I’m sorry,” he says. “If I was rude. It wasn’t personal.”
“I accept your apology,” I say. “Wanna get drunk and make bad decisions?”
“Something tells me you’re the kind of girl I should stay sober around,” he grins.
“Aw, look at you, making a joke at my expense.”
For the next forty minutes we talk about nothing in particular and everything, if that makes any sense at all. Scott tells me that his family owns the market where he works. His parents live in Chicago and he has one older sister who lives in New York, and prior to the cheating girlfriend debacle he was living in Aurora.
I tell him all about my family and my music and about how it’s never been a dream to be famous, just to do what I love. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever spent this much time simply talking to a guy. Usually it’s one third talk, two thirds naked fun time.
When the hour is up, I insist on paying for our beers and we make our way back to Scott’s truck. We only had two each and we split a plate of terrible tasting nachos so we’re both sober. I decide as we approach his truck that I like him. As a person and not just a piece of man candy.
“Hey, so, I’m gonna call off the bet,” I say. “And not because I feel sorry for you.”
He pauses with his hand on the passenger side door, “Oh?”
“Yeah, I mean it was silly and I was mostly bluffing anyway,” I admit. “But I’m glad we hung out. This was fun.”
I reach for the handle once he unlocks it. “You’re still driving me home, though,” I say.
I expect him to step away. I expect him to get in the truck and start the engine. But he doesn’t. He’s perfectly still behind me and before I know what I’m doing, I turn to face him. I crane my head back just as he leans down and places a firm kiss on my lips. A kiss that I feel right down to the tips of each one of my toes.
“What was that for?” I ask when he pulls back.
“I wanted to,” he says.
This time when he leans down, I stand on my toes and wrap my arms around his neck. It was just a bet, nothing more. But something tells me that bet was the best decision I ever made.
The End