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    Cris Kane
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental. Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

21-Year-Old Scotch - 4. Chapter 4

As he rang the doorbell of Amanda's sorority house, Scott realized he hadn't scrubbed off the hand stamp from the Rusty Nail. He quickly stuffed his hand into his pocket to hide the incriminating evidence, vowing to duck into the bathroom and rub it away as soon as possible. He stood tall and attempted to appear relaxed, having practiced multiple versions of what he would say on the walk over.

Lights flicked on in the entryway and Scott heard several latches being unlocked. As the door swung open, Scott saw the one person he had hoped to avoid, Amanda's ultra-serious sorority sister, Patty. It had been many years since he had seen her in the future, but Patty looked just as unhappy and disapproving as she had on the day when she served as Amanda's maid of honor. Patty glowered at him and said flatly in her perpetually hoarse voice, "Oh, look. It's you."

Scott put on a smile. "Hey, Pepp...uh, Patty!" Damn Todd for sticking that Peppermint Patty image in his mind. Now that's all he could see when looking at the androgynous woman before him. He was tempted to refer to her as "Sir," but doubted that she would get the joke, and was positive she wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, he asked, "Is Amanda here?"

"Yes, but she's not taking visitors at this time. Especially visitors who stand her up." Patty attempted to shut the door, but Scott wedged himself in the doorway.

"Come on, Patty. I'm here to apologize. I truly don't know what happened. It must have slipped my mind that we had plans tonight."

"It just slipped your mind that you were supposed to meet your girlfriend for dinner on your twenty-first birthday? Yeah, I can see how an unremarkable event like that might not really stick in your head."

Scott nodded. "I know. There's no excuse."

"So, where were you? Off with your stoner pal getting high?"

"No," he said, deciding not to mention that his "stoner pal" had actually been at the apartment waiting with Amanda in hopes that Scott would show up. Scott figured that would only make him sound even less dependable than a pothead. He'd be on sturdier ground if he just flat out told Patty he had time-traveled from his fiftieth birthday and landed flat on his back in a gay bar with no memory. At least then, she'd just think he was mentally ill instead of a flaming asshole. "If I could just talk to her for five min..."

"It's after midnight," Patty said. "No men allowed inside after hours."

"Can't you bend that rule just once?", Scott pleaded. His request was met with a stone face. "Okay, will you at least tell her I came by and...and ask if she'll meet me for breakfast tomorrow at eleven at the Pancake Pagoda? My treat!"

Patty repeated the key information robotically. "Pancake Pagoda. Eleven o'clock. Your treat...obviously. I'll tell her. Good night." She pushed against the door and Scott stepped backwards onto the stoop. She had already shut the door by the time he could say, "Thank you."

Scott walked backwards down the front steps, then crossed the lawn until he was below the second-story window that looked out from Amanda's bedroom. The drapes were closed, but Scott cupped his hands around his mouth and spoke as loudly as he felt he could without invoking the wrath of her sorority sisters. "Amanda, I'm sorry." He waited with nervous anticipation for her to open the drapes, turn on a light, flip him the bird, do anything to indicate that she had heard him.

Instead, the sprinkler system came on, drenching him thoroughly in a matter of seconds. He knew the sprinklers did not go on automatically but were controlled by a switch next to the front door, so he took this as a clear message from Patty to get lost. He trudged across the soggy lawn until he was safely out of the sprinklers' line of fire on the front sidewalk.

Scott shook his head vigorously like a dog who just climbed out of a swimming pool. His nimbus of soaked curls now hung limply to his shoulders and clung to his face like strands of seaweed. His already tight-fitting shirt was now plastered to his skin and, as he walked away, he heard his Topsiders squish with every step. In an instant, he had gone from looking like a Hollister-clad surfer boy to resembling a blond, waterlogged "Weird Al" Yankovic.

Scott headed back toward campus, unable to stop his teeth from chattering. All he wanted was to get back to the apartment, crawl under the blankets and fall into a deep slumber. Maybe if he was lucky, he'd wake up in the morning and be fifty years old again, because being twenty-one again wasn't quite turning out to be the dream come true he had hoped.

As he hit the campus business district, weaving his way through the pedestrians careening from one bar to another, Scott heard a feminine voice shout from behind him, "I see you, you asshole!" Man, Scott thought, I'd hate to be HER boyfriend. Then the same voice cried out, "Scotty Mitchell, I'm talking to you!"

Scott froze in his tracks. He knew that was voice far too squeaky and shrill to be Amanda's, and a couple of octaves too high to be Patty's, but it was definitely the sound of a woman scorned. Was another of the night's surprises going to be that he'd been seeing another woman besides Amanda?

He took a deep breath and turned around, but the only person looking in his direction was a pale, scrawny waif in a tiny white t-shirt and narrow-legged red jeans, with dark eye shadow, maroon lipstick, and dyed black hair with bangs that descended in an arc like a crashing wave. Either this was a guy in makeup or a girl with the flattest chest that Scott had ever seen.

Scott's taunter got nearer, shouting, "You jerk, you took off without even telling me!", and slapping a palm onto Scott's chest with so little force that Scott barely felt the impact. "Euh, you're moist! Where have you been, a wet gingham shirt contest?"

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?", Scott asked, deciding from the prominent Adam's apple and razor-burnt cheeks that this must be a guy.

The scarecrow slung a bony arm around Scott's neck. He was about three inches taller than Scott, but half his weight. "Very funny, Scotty. I guess I can't blame you too much. Who wouldn't ditch me for a quick BJ in the alley with Art Concrete?"

Whoever this was, Scott realized he must have been at the club if he knew about Scott sneaking out the emergency exit with Art. "Is that really his last name? Concrete?"

The gangly boy rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue. "Of course not, silly. That's just the nickname we all gave him at the Nail because his body is so hard. Well, MOST of it, anyway." He emitted a high-pitched giggle that sounded like an exotic bird's mating call and drew sidelong glances from the passing pedestrians.

Scott's discomfort was visible from space.

Scott tried his best to politely extricate himself from this situation. "I apologize for being rude, but I've had a...really bizarre night and I'm...kinda drunk and I...HONESTLY...can't remember..." He was about to say "who the fuck you are", but switched at the last moment to the more diplomatic "...your name."

The thin man put on a meek expression and lowered his voice as deep as it would go, delivering a fairly accurate impersonation of Scott. "I apologize for being rude, but..." Returning to his higher voice, he said, "God, you are so fucking...appropriate! But don't worry, we'll suck that insufferable politeness and goody-goodyness out of you yet." He gave Scott's arm a feeble swat and declared, "I'm Phillipe, you fuckface!"

The name meant zilch to Scott, but he could tell he was not going to shake this guy easily. He decided to play along as best he could. "Phillipe U. Fuckface, eh? Is that really your name?"

"Oh, yes," Phillipe said, quickly returning serve on Scott's sarcasm. Holding the back of his hand against his forehead, he said dramatically, "I come from a long distinguished line of Fuckfaces. We came on the Mayflower with the Pilgrims. Actually, most of the time, the Pilgrims came on us." He tittered again at himself. "So tell me, Scotty, what does Artie have that I don't, I mean besides a pretty face, great big muscles, and a teeny-weenie weenie?"

"To tell the truth," Scott admitted, somehow not embarrassed to be discussing such matters on a public street with a total stranger, "things went south pretty quickly. I never got to see his 'weenie.'"

Phillipe "tsk"-ed with his tongue. "What was the problem? Did he come too fast? That's what happened with me."

"You gave him a blowjob?", Scott said, louder than he expected, surprised by the intensity of his own curiosity.

Phillipe seemed offended by the suggestion. "No way. The arrogant prick refuses to use protection. Just because he can do a couple of handstands, he thinks he's invincible? No, I just jerked him off. Believe me, you didn't miss much." Philippe held up his thumb and forefinger with a two-inch gap between them. "Boy needs to start lifting weights with that dinky so it can get as jacked as the rest of him."

Despite himself, Scott snorted a laugh. This guy was a bit too fixated on trying to be outrageous, but Scott had to admit that he was entertaining. Still, he seemed like he was best taken in small doses, and Scott felt like he'd about reached his limit. "Well, I am sorry if I left you high and dry at the club. I haven't really been acting like myself tonight. In fact, I think I'd better be calling it a night."

Scott tried to extricate himself from Phillipe's chokehold, but Phillipe resisted Scott's attempt to pull free with all the strength in his frail body. "Oh, no, sweetie, you're not gonna squirm away from me twice in one night. You are coming with me to Jared's party."

Another new name. "Jared?"

Phillipe lowered his chin and gave Scott the side-eye. "Okay, now I know you're just fucking with me!" Scott shook his head and shrugged apologeticaly. "He played Alan in 'Equus'? He rode naked on your back for nine performances?" Scott's expression remained blank. "Did somebody drop you on your pretty little head tonight? I certainly wouldn't be able to forget having Jared Taylor naked on MY back."

Scott wondered if this was what the early stages of Alzheimer's felt like. He still had crystal clear memories of his earlier life, but in this plane of existence, he couldn't recall anything he had supposedly done more than a few hours ago. He had to trust that what people were telling him was the truth. He felt like that guy in "Memento" and wondered if he would need to start getting tattoos as crib notes for his new life.

As Phillipe dragged Scott onward in the direction of off-campus housing. Scott kept waiting for a chance to wriggle out of Phillipe's grip and bolt toward home, although he had to admit he was now curious to see this Jared guy. It felt so strange to be told he wasn't just studying theater but had actually been in a play where he gave a naked man a piggyback ride. He wondered if Amanda or his family or his roommates had come to the play. From Phillipe's description, he doubted it would have been quite their speed. Kevin surely would have used this as exhibit A that Scott had come down with a severe case of the gays.

Phillipe twisted a long strand of Scott's hair on his index finger and clucked his tongue. "So, when are you gonna let me do something with this hideous mop you've got on your head? I know it was supposed to be your 'mane' in the play, but the play's over, honey."

"I dunno, I kinda like it," Scott said. In fact, having a thick head of hair again was Scott's second favorite aspect of tonight's transformation, although it trailed several miles behind having a killer bod.

Scott had totally lost track of where they were when Phillipe pulled them down a side street. Even from a block away, it was easy to figure out which house was holding the party. It was the one where colored lights bathed the curtains of every window, and drunken laughter and synth-driven beats were seeping throughout the neighborhood, the volume ebbing and flowing each time a guest used the front door. Scott made one last attempt to resist, dragging his feet while Phillipe kept walking. He wound up toppling to his knees and tearing a gash in his painter's pants.

Phillipe turned around and loomed over Scott's crouched figure on the pavement. Arms crossed, he asked with irritation, "What is your major malfunction, numbnuts?"

Scott looked up and pleaded to the beanpole towering above him. "Please, just let me go home, okay? I'm drunk. I'm tired. And I really don't want to go to some party where I don't know anyone."

Phillipe's patience had run out. "What's gotten into you tonight? Why are you suddenly so uptight? This isn't like you!" Scott thought it sounded exactly like him. "You know me, you know Jared, you're gonna know most of the boys there. It's gonna be a blast! Don't be such a wuss, for fuck's sake.

Scott felt his masculinity was being challenged. He wasn't about to let some sassy little snot tell him he wasn't man enough to go to a gay party. He rose to his feet defiantly and stared Phillipe in the eyes. "Fine, then, let's go."

"Yay!", Phillipe shrieked, hooking a skinny arm around Scott's elbow and ushering him toward the lively house.

Walking arm in arm like this gave Scott a strange sensation of intimacy. "So, Phillipe, pardon me for asking, but are you and I...like...a couple?"

"A couple of what?", Phillipe replied flippantly, before offering a real response. "Oh, sweetie, you're awfully cute, but you are much too butch for me. Plus your whole monogamy trip is way too kinky. No, dear, I'm afraid you'll just have to settle for being my arm candy." He brushed aside some of Scott's straggling hair and gave Scott a platonic peck on the cheek. Scott blushed as they walked up the steps of Jared's porch and entered the house.

Copyright © 2017 Cris Kane; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental. Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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This trip into an alternate eighties universe is priceless, and just got better. Philippe? Jared? Oh, boy. Can't wait for the next chapter...

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