Your Princess is in Another Castle (30 page)

“How you doing
, cutie?” I ask as I sit upon the counter.  Sabrina will see this as a display of boldness.  And her customer, a short fellow to begin with, will basically be looking at me via a low-angle shot, the better to be in awe of me. 

“This l
ittle cutie is doing fine,” says Sabrina.  “It’s good to see you again.  I was beginning to think that you abandoned us.”

“No one
ever stays gone in the comic world,” I say.

“That’s very true,” says Sabrina.
  “And usually I prefer it when dead characters don’t make sudden reappearances, but in your case I’ll make an exception.”

“I’m glad to hear that,
” I say. 

“Uncle Ben
’s managed to stay dead,” says the customer.  His tone is subtly hateful, clearly he resents my intrusion.  Physically speaking, he’s more a caricature of a geek than an actual one.  Small in stature and with big glasses he looks like he’s about to audition for Urkel on a rebooted Family Matters.  Not helping is his red and yellow scarf, which I’m sure is licensed Harry Potter apparel.  Defeat is in his eyes, for he knows he cannot best an alpha such as I.  All he can do is say a prayer to St. Jude and hope for another shot at another girl sometime down the line.  I almost pity him.  Perhaps one day I could take the boy on as my apprentice, schooling him in the Way of the Asshole.

“Don’t count Uncle Ben out yet,” I say, compel
led to disagree with the guy in some way.  “I’m sure he’ll eventually come back as part of some master plan by Norman Osborn.  Now that Jason Todd and Bucky have both come back there aren’t many characters left to make shocking returns.”

“Alex and I were just talking about all-time awful s
tory arcs,” says Sabrina.  “The return of Uncle Ben would have to be up there.”  She bags Alex’s purchase.    

“Yeah,” says Alex.  He takes the bag
from Sabrina but can’t quite make up his mind if he should stay or go.  “We decided on Armageddon 2001 for DC and the Clone Saga for Marvel because of their flip-flopping their resolutions.”

“Good call,” I say.  “Although the Ned Leeds wa
sn’t really the first Hobgoblin revelation is my all-time most hated Spidey story.  Now, I could recount horrible storylines all day, but that would distract me from my real purpose.”  I smile at Sabrina.  “I came in here to ask you out, Sabrina.  Will you go out with me this Saturday night?” 

Sabrina looks at me with gr
eat surprise, like Bob Cratchit taken aback by the sudden generosity of Ebenezer Scrooge.  “I… sure, I’d like that.  Very much so.  Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to ask me that.  Especially not like this, just coming in and asking.  But yeah, I’d love to.” 

I hear the blaring of trumpets in the distance
.  A triumph should be declared in the Roman Senate and a laurel wreath placed upon my head.  Alex gives me a jealous glare.  I can’t help but wink at him.

“I’ll see you later, Sabrina,” says Alex.  He walks away utterly deject
ed, like a child finally giving up on beating Ghosts’n Goblins and going to play outside.       

“Bye, Alex!”
says Sabrina.  “See you next time.”

Alex gives her a weak good
bye and leaves.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” I say.  Oh, but I did.  I really did.                    

“It’s okay.  We were just talkin’ comics.  And
he’s one of my regulars.  He’ll probably be back tomorrow.  So, what gave you the courage to finally ask me out?”

I turned rogue.  Went evil.  Was
seduced by the Dark Side.  “It just seemed silly to be so afraid of hitting the jackpot.”

Sabrina smiles at me.  “So
, whatcha have in mind for our date?”

I hadn’t thought about this.  I should go with something
I know she’ll hate in order to immediately establish a disinterest in her likes while indulging in my own.  This will give her something to complain about to her friends, who’ll tell her I sound like a jerk.  She’ll agree, but see me again anyway, because of, not in spite of, my jerkiness.  I wish I knew her to be a vegan so I could take her to a steakhouse.  The sheer contempt I’d be showing for her beliefs would certainly make her want to jump into bed with me.  

“Have you seen the new James Bond movie?”
I ask.  I briefly considered asking her to a sporting event, but I don’t want to be miserable along with her.

“Not yet,
but I want to,” says Sabrina.  “It came out the same day as the PlayStation 3 and that’s been occupying a lot of me and my family’s time, lately.  But I’m definitely a Bond girl, so we could see that.” 

Disappointing. 
I should have asked her to play darts.  Jessica always complained about Scott wanting to play darts, either by dragging her there when they’re supposed to be going out as a couple or his forsaking her altogether to go and play with the guys.   

“Bond it is then,” I say.  “You want to get something to eat, too?”        

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind filling up my tummy first.  How about we go out for pizza beforehand?  You can see me get stuffed from just two slices.”

“Sure,” I say.  “What time should I pick you up?”
  It feels good saying that, to a bona fide genuine date.

“Meet me here at three
on Saturday.  I get off then, and since I still live with my dad, he insists on meeting my dates before he lets me go out with them.  He’ll be here, too.”

“I can handle that.  Just
tell him I’m a friend of Chris’.  He’ll be down with me then.”

“Hmm, I don’t know if that’d be a good
thing or not.  Well, maybe he’ll think you’re normal compared to Chris.  Don’t worry.  He won’t be too hard on you.”

I’ve only ever met a girl’s parents once before.
  It was before going to prom.  They seemed to like me.  More than my prom date Nicole did, that’s for sure. 

“All right,” I
say, “I’ll swing by here at three on Saturday.” 

“It’s a date,” says Sabrina.   

A date.  On Saturday.  Molly works on Saturday. Can I handle seeing Molly?  Of course I can.  Molly will see me with Sabrina.  See what she’s been missing.  She’ll be jealous, maybe enough to reconsider my invitation out.  And Sabrina would be jealous of Molly if she saw me interacting with her.  Both of them jealous of the other, with me drawing strength from each of them.  Perfect.                

The Zeta Psi Mu house is large and designed in a gothic style making it look like it’s the dance academy from Suspiria, but the three Greek letters above the front door call to mind the glyphs designating vampire safe houses from Blade.  Perhaps it’s a general house of horrors welcoming covens of witches and all manners of the undead.  I know that if my true nature were to be discovered, I would immediately be seen as an enemy to be crucified/sacrificed/turned into a familiar slave, however, I’m confident my disguise will hold up to scrutiny and my intended boorish behavior should cast no suspicion. 

I’m still wearing the gold chain but have replaced the White Sox jersey for
a Nashville Predators one.  They are the Predators, after all.  On our trip to Sports Authority, Seth recommended going with a hockey team, telling me that while the NHL is still a professional sports league it is not the mainstream juggernaut that is MLB and the NFL, therefore it is less likely for me to be blindsided by a fellow fan hoping to talk hockey.

Cars are parked up
and down both sides of the street and many people are socializing at their vehicles and gathered on the front porch and in the yard.  Most of them are smoking.  “It’s a non-smoking house,” says Seth, who lights a cigarette of his own.  “You know, I would have liked living back in the forties when you could smoke in a stadium, a theater, or even a hospital waiting room.” 

“I would have thought a sorority house would
at least condone if not outright encourage all forms of hedonistic indulgences for its sisters and guests,” I say.

Seth gives me the same look kids used to give me
in PE when they realized there was no one else left to pick for their kickball team but me.  “Look, no offense, but I don’t think you’re going to make it in there on your own.”

“Nonsense.  You’ve guided me here and I appreciate
it, but I must travel into the house alone.  I must get Richelle into one of the upstairs bedrooms and ravish her on my own, without your help, being aided only by Richelle’s lack of judgment stemming from her voluminous alcohol intake.”

“I thought you were going to introduce me to
her friend Briley in payment for services rendered.”

“That was before I realized there’s the strong p
ossibility Richelle may be more into you than she’s into me, and I can’t have that.  And Briley already suspects me.  There’s no way I can score with her.”

“But it’s different on the inside.
  You keeping this act up is going to be like navigating stage seven of Double Dragon II with all those goddamn impossible to make jumps.  And I want to be there to watch you fall into the pit of spikes.” 

“You don’t think I can hook up with Richelle or some other drunk
en tramp stamped hoe here?  It’s not like it’s hard.  She’s not coming to this party hoping to meet a guy who’s interested in hearing her read from her poetry book and be her soulmate. She’s just here to get shitfaced and bang whatever guy is acting like the biggest prick.”

“You said she was a math major who was intrigued b
y the plot of Pi.  Just because she likes going to parties doesn’t mean she fits into your misguided stereotypes.”   

“Even math geeks need to get laid.  And it doesn’t
matter how smart she is, she’s still a woman, and that means whether she admits to it or not she wants to get nailed by the alpha asshole.  And tonight that’s me.”

“You shouldn’t even be here.  You have a date with Sabrina
tomorrow.”

“And I’m
going to treat her the same way and she’ll keep on putting up with it because she’s a woman and that’s what they do.  And I don’t care how geeky Sabrina is, she’s not going to respect me if she finds out I’m a virgin.  There’s a difference between cute shyness and creepy celibacy.  I need one lay before I go out with Sabrina so sex with her won’t be like me trying for fifteen minutes to get my bent NES RF switch to finally connect to my TV.  And Richelle’s going to be drunk enough that she won’t realize I don’t know what I’m doing or even remember it the next morning.  So I need this tonight.  My future depends on it.”

“I can see this is just going t
o have to play itself out.  So go on in then, I’m gonna chill outside for awhile with the rest of the persecuted smokers and give you some time to locate your prey.” 

“Alright, I’m going in.” 
I walk up the steps and reach for the doorknob.  Like Dr. Loomis entering the Doyle house, I’m a man on a mission.

The first thing I notice is the crowd.
  There are a lot of people in here.  I need to make my presence known, establish myself as a power player to these sisters and their guests.  I silently begin moving through the house while looking for Pink.  I walk as menacingly as I can, like the Terminator searching for Sara Connor in the Tech-Noir club.  I even shove a puny nerd out of my way to showcase my dominance of the room.  I’m surprised he was even admitted (he’s actually wearing a Marvel Comics t-shirt featuring a who’s who of the company’s roster).

I grab a plastic of cup of beer from the kitche
n and lean against the stairway.  It’s a smart move.  It shows I’m too cool, too good, to talk to anyone yet.  I don’t see Pink.  I consider heading upstairs to where the bedrooms likely are in order to be closer to the zone of fornication, although without a partner yet that isn’t necessary.  And I’m sure there’s no after-sex cuddling to hold up the wait for vacant rooms.  Bad boys hate cuddling by nature and even if their conquests are sober enough to still harbor some feminine need for it, I know that a woman will ultimately acquiesce to the guy’s refusal to cuddle.  I briefly entertain the thought of screwing with my woman on the living room couch in front of everyone ala Conan (alpha of alphas), but my prowess is definitely not on par with Conan the Cimmerian.  Where women are concerned, I’ve much more in common with Kull of Atlantis.   

Suddenly wary that I may be drawing suspicion
by holding an ornamental cup of beer but not actually wanting to down it, I seek out what looks like a bathroom door and knock on it.  There’s no answer and a slight twisting of the knob confirms it’s not locked although the light is on.  I knock again.  No response.  I enter the room hoping that if it is occupied I’ll be lucky enough to walk in on a couple in the midst of a hookup rather than a drunk vomiting into the toilet, but the room is empty after all.  I pour my beer into the sink and turn on the water.  I look into the mirror and don’t see my true reflection staring back at me, and that’s why I know I’m going to succeed tonight.

Leaving the bathroom I head down into the basement.  As in my
daydream, this is where the beer pong is being played.  The table holding the plastic cups appears to be custom-made, featuring the letters Zeta Psi Mu painted onto the table in pink.  Such a decorative board suggests I’m in a den of professional pongers, however the women are fully dressed (although they all appear prepared to go wild at the slightest suggestion) and there are no letterman jackets hinting at the worship of an ancient serpent god, so there’s no need to fear the wrath of Set.