Zero Sum Gain

EDITOR'S NOTE: the author originally submitted this piece to Non-erotic, likely because it contains no explicit sex, but we feel despite the lack of sex it is a better fit in Humor & Satire. Enjoy!

*

My name is Anna Fryan and I'm nineteen years old. I just graduated from high school one year after most people with my birth year graduate. "You might not be the brightest star in the heavens," my mom tells me, "but you're a very sweet girl." She also, like most people who know me, tells me I'm very pretty. McDonald's' customers sometimes try to flirt with me. One even waited outside until I got off work to ask for my phone number. I said thanks but no thanks because I don't go for leather and tattoo types. Anyway, I have long, light brown hair, blue eyes and a nice smile. I'm not overweight like a lot of the girls I work with, but I'm hardly what you 'd call skinny either. Pleasantly plump and built like a brick shit house are just two of the phrases people have used to describe my body. Bubble butt is another one. It used to bother me until friends convinced me that it was a compliment, something to be proud of, because plenty of guys go for girls with big, round backsides. My boobs attract plenty of attention also, much of it unwanted and rude.

See, I'm looking for a nice guy, a quality guy, one who's smart, well educated and going places, a guy who likes me for more than just my body and what he thinks he can get from it. Quality guys are attracted to me. But then, after just a few minutes of conversation, be it on the phone, email or in person, they lose interest, at least the ones seeking a serious relationship. The would-be users I drop like a hot iron. Bright star or not, I've become quite the expert in IDing guys who want me for just a piece of ass. You can't fool all the dumb girls all the time, I tell them.

But, like I said, more often than not, the quality guys who want more than just sex lose interest. Of course, I can understand why. I mean, my lack of education and smarts shows, not to mention where I work and what I do. I don't pretend to be someone I'm not. Once I did, though, and it was an embarrassing disaster. I had met this guy online, told him I was in my first year of our state university majoring in something or other, I forget. Anyway, he started asking these questions I couldn't answer and also correcting my spelling and grammar. He exposed me for the phony I was. So ever since then I've been straight with people.

Perhaps I should lower my standards, seek out guys closer to my level. Problem is, guys like that turn me off. I enjoy being with smart, well-educated people. Brainy guys, especially if they're good looking, turn me on. Somehow, I hope that some of their intelligence will rub off on me. Wishful thinking, right? Well, maybe, but I haven't given up. When I'm not on Facebook or running several times a week to keep my weight stable, I devote much of my spare time to reading. Tests show I read on a ninth grade level. Even so, I try to tackle heavy subjects, psychology, philosophy, history, stuff like that. I struggle, man do I struggle. The high school I attended serve kids from working class, blue-collar families. The school's state academic ranking is an embarrassment. Even so, we had our share of bright kids, many of whom overcame their disadvantaged circumstances (at least disadvantaged next to kids from wealthier backgrounds) and went on to college. Cream rises to the top, as they say.

Sherri Baxter is one of those kids, nice as well as smart. We met in high school and remain friends to this day, even though she's light years ahead of me in brain power. She encourages me to keep reading, to keep improving myself. She knows the kind of guy I'd like to get on with, and has someone in mind. His name is Arnold, a friend of a friend. Like Sherri, he's in his second year of university, a "gentleman and a scholar," she says. At least that's what she's heard from a "reliable source."

*****

Arnold calls me after Sherri passes on my phone number. "Good time or bad time?" he asks.

Right away, I'm impressed—he sounds courteous. "Good time," I say, "just got off work."

"I've heard you're well-read," he says after some small talk. He reads a lot too, he tells me, a mix of fact and fiction. "I'm a man of eclectic tastes," he says.

"Ec-lec...um, is that a type of book or something?" He chuckles. Then I cringe, thinking he'll insult me.

"It means I read from several sources, enjoy a broad range of subjects."

"Oh. Thanks." Right away, he earns brownie points for not putting me down the way others have done.

"Anytime, Anna. I look forward to trading reading lists with you, preferably in person."

It sounds good to me, which is why we arrange to meet at a local Starbucks. It's not a "date date," more of a meet-and-greet. I'm jittery as I enter the place, looking for the guy who described himself as "Mr. Average" looking. "You'll know me by my black frame glasses," he had said. Sherri had given her source a general description of me, though I show up with a few alterations. My hair, normally worn straight down, is up. Also, I wear a low-cut dress hemmed a couple inches above my thick knees. I must have changed outfits ten times before settling on this, a clear departure from my usual conservative attire—nothing you'd call slutty, but it does call attention to my feminine assets without being provocative.

Finding a seat is easy in the downtime of a late afternoon in Starbucks. Training my eyes toward the entrance, I glance at my watch, realize I'm over five minutes early. As the minutes pass, I get more nervous and fidgety. "I'm waiting for someone," I tell the waitress when she comes over.

Just as she walks away, "Mr. Average" enters. At least I think it's him. He's on the tall side with dark frame glasses wearing jeans and a long-sleeve, blue and white checkered button-down. I raise my hand and shout, "Over here." When he doesn't respond, I repeat myself, this time getting his attention. "Arnold?"

He stands before my table. "The name's Barney, not Arnold."

Not only do I feel stupid, but disappointed. This guy's cute. "Sorry, I'm waiting for a guy named Arnold."

He smiles, then moves to the counter to place his order.

Arnold is now ten minutes late, and I'm getting annoyed. His number is on my phone. Should I give him a call? I debate this as Barney pays the cashier. He starts to walk out, then glances back at me. "It's none of my business, I know, but this Arnold looks like he's late for his date."

I nod. "Yes, by over ten minutes."

He steps closer. "Blind date?"

"Um, kind of." Should I be telling him this, a total stranger?

"His loss," Barney says, shaking his head sympathetically.

Politely, I smile. I'm flattered but also on guard. Like I said, guys tend to hit on me looking for just one thing.

"Well, maybe his car broke down," Barney says.

"Maybe." I'm still wary of this guy who is obviously in no hurry to leave.

"The least he could do is call, give you a head's up."

Barney holds his coffee in one hand, grips the back of the empty chair with the other. If he wasn't so good looking, I might tell him to scram. He's got that handsome raunchy look, you know, like some of those country singers. Billy Ray Cyrus comes to mind. This guy's hair is shorter but he's got the beard, scraggly but clean looking. I'd guess he's either a musician, auto mechanic or college professor. I'm tempted to invite him to sit. It appears that he wants to. "I'll give him another few minutes," I say.

"You might be waiting for Godot."

"Godot? No, his name is Arnold, remember."

"I meant that as a metaphor. You know, after Beckett's play about two guys waiting for another guy named Godot who never shows."

As usual, I feel inadequate but won't, like before, pretend to know something I don't. "Never saw or heard of it." I have just a vague idea of what metaphor means. But I'll keep that to myself.

He shrugs and asks if he could keep me company. "Well, I don't know," I say, "he could walk in here any moment." I dial his number on my cell but get nothing but voice mail. "I'm waiting for you in Starbucks, Arnold," I shout into the phone, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

"Look, if he shows up," Barney says, "I'll leave, simple as that."

"Sure, why not?" I invite him to sit.

After we introduce ourselves, he goes into more detail about Waiting For Godot, quickly losing me with terms like "theater of the absurd," "metaphysical anguish" and "existential reality."

He grins at my blank look and then tells me how pretty he thinks I am. "I'd love to see you with your hair down."

Impulsively, I touch my leather barrette, preparing to pull it out. Then I change my mind. I don't know this guy, this Barney Farnsworth who, for all I know, is one of those users I try to avoid. It's not my imagination that I catch him staring at my boobs. Not that I should blame him. After all, I'm wearing something revealing, exposing deep cleavage. Boys will be boys, right?

"Not today, Barney. Maybe another time."

The waitress comes over, figuring, I guess, that Barney is the other party I mentioned. I order a small decaf. Arnold is now over twenty minutes late, but I'm starting not to care. Besides his good looks, Barney Farnsworth is obviously bright, someone who could teach me things. I assume he reads a lot. "Are you a man of—let's see, what's the word—eclectic reading tastes?"

He laughs. "Not at all. The newspaper, a few magazines and Hemmings Motor News is about all I read these days. I restore old cars for classic car lovers with deep pockets."

"Well, I was close." I tell him I had him pegged for an auto mechanic, among other things.

Just then, I see a guy with dark frame glasses rushing through the door like he's in a hurry. He swivels his head, scanning the room. He looks worried.

My distraction gets Barney's attention, and he turns around. "Is that your guy, your Arnold?"

"Maybe." I'm beginning to feel tense. The guy wades further into the room and we make eye contact. He's wearing a blue blazer, a blue shirt with no tie and chinos. He described himself right, Mr. Average. If that's him, and I'm beginning to think it is. We stare at each other.

Stepping forward, he raises his arm, then points at me. "Anna?"

"You're Arnold, right? What took you so long?"

He apologizes, says he "misjudged" the time. He stares at Barney suspiciously. "I expected you to be alone."

Barney stands up. He towers over Arnold by half a foot. "She WAS alone, pal. We just met." Turning to me, he says, "Look, Anna, I'll make good on what I said about leaving if your date showed up."

I don't want him to leave. I see potential for something here. Plus, a big plus, Barney is better looking than Arnold, Mr. Average Arnold, with his dorky buzz cut and fancy blue blazer and that sorry ass, sheepish smile plastered across his round face. This is so incredibly awkward, being stared at by two guys waiting for me to make a decision.

"You did have a date with me," Arnold says.

Barney pulls out his phone. "Look, Anna, Arnold's right. But let me give you my number. You can call or not. It's up to you."

I nod and begin to punch numbers into my phone.

Arnold drops his sheepish grin for an angry scowl. "I don't believe this, making a date with someone else when you're supposed to be with me."

"I'm merely taking a number, not making a date," I argue. "You were over twenty minutes late, Arnold. I don't enjoy waiting for Godot." I shoot Barney a wink.

Arnold rolls his eyes. "Godot never showed up. I'm here."

Barney points his finger at Arnold. "Like the lady said, you missed the bus."

Customers and staffers begin to take notice, looking more amused than concerned. One young guy pulls out his cell, I'd guess because he thinks there might be some juicy video to capture.

Barney, meanwhile, gives me the rest of his number.

Arnold shakes his head. "I can't fucking believe this." He chuckles, a bitter ha ha, not a funny ha ha. "On second thought, maybe I can. I mean, what can I expect from a girl who doesn't know what eclectic means?"

I wince from the insult. Still, I can't blame him for being pissed.

Barney wags his finger inches from Arnold's face. "Listen pal, you really shouldn't use that kind of language in front of a lady."

Arnold bats the finger away. "No lady would be taking another man's phone number in front of another man, the man who she agreed to meet."

Barney then steps closer, looks like he's about to slug poor Arnold. "Don't hit him, Barney, please don't," I plead.

The kid with the cell phone camera is filming. Others join him.

Barney says, "Don't worry, I have no intention of doing that, because Arnold here isn't going to drop anymore F bombs. Isn't that right, Arnold?"

Arnold looks like he's about to explode with outrage. A vein on the side of his head looks like it's about to burst. "What's right is that I'm standing my ground. No bully is going to run me out of here."

I realize that Arnold isn't bad looking. He has a certain clean-cut, preppie look that some girls go for. Not me so much, but then looks aren't everything. I can't help but admire his courage in standing up to a big man like Barney, who rolls his eyes, looks at me and then asks again if I want him to leave.

Arnold then asks me the same thing, and I start to laugh. This is comically absurd. I come here to meet one guy and end up meeting two. Both seem to like me. Either that or they're sticking around out of pride. "Maybe you both can stay," I say.

Barney shrugs. "Works for me."

Arnold bangs his fist on an empty table. "Sure it works for you, my interloping friend, chivalrous defender of women against outraged F bomb throwers. But it doesn't work for me. So, Anna, who's it going to be?"

Barney rolls his eyes and pokes the air with his finger. "Eeny. Meeny. Miny Moe."

Chuckling, I tell Arnold to "lighten up."

"Yeah, pal, where's your sense of humor?" Barney says.

Arnold hesitates, looks like he's trying to decide which way to go. Then, stepping closer to Barney, he shouts, "Up your ass!" He then bolts for the door.

Barney goes after him. Embarrassed by the camera phones pointing at me, I jump up and throw a couple bucks on the table before heading in the same direction.

Outside, my two would-be suitors face off on the parking lot trading insults. Yelling for them to stop gets me nowhere. I expect Barney's fist to flatten little Arnold any second. The ruckus attracts a small crowd. No surprise, they begin filming, too. Then, moments later, the Starbucks's manager, a young black guy nearly as tall as Barney comes out. He approaches the two and demands they move along. They comply but not before yelling parting shots. I shake my head watching them drive off the lot.

Hours later, I'm on the phone with Sherri telling her all about it. We both have a good laugh. Then I say, "Next time, Share, set me up with Godot."