Chuckie is the man.
He has a hot date with Melody, the librarian’s assistant, and he is making sure that everything is in place. From his perfectly sculpted hair, his lucky sweater from aunt Honoria, to his stylish slacks from Grandpa Charlie for whom Chuckie is named, there is not a single element left to chance. Tonight, Chuckie is finally going to get lucky.
Less than an hour remains before Melody arrives. Chuckie has been refining his plan since last night, going over minute details in order to ensure that the evening ended with the big score. Now it’s closing in on game time, it’s his last chance to go over the set up and to make any final adjustments.
Chuckie ticked his mental checklist:
Parents heading to double-feature in half an hour, check.
Living room light bulbs strategically removed to set the mood, check.
Putter left casually by the sofa to imply his athleticism, check.
Box of wine from friend’s brother chilling in the basement fridge, check.
Tin of curiously strong Altoids in shirt pocket, check.
One condom tucked in his wallet, big check.
A feeling like electricity surged from his scalp to the tips of his hair. Chuckie had used an entire can of hairspray to cement every turn of his coiffure in place. Every strand of hair had been accounted for since early morning and Chuckie made sure none of it was going anywhere. The apocalypse could come as an Earth-shattering blast and Chuckie’s do would not come undone.
He had also just spent an hour meticulously clipping and filing his finger- and toenails into perfect arcs just shy of being too short and picking out every last molecule of dirt that remained. This he followed with applications of his mother’s nail enamel so that his nails would appear as slick and glossy as his hair.
Looking at his reflection in the Altoids tin Chuckie thinks about all of his friends having their “getting to home plate” stories and how he is finally going to get his. This is a huge moment in nineteen-year-old Chuckie’s existence and he is feeling it throughout his entire body.
Chuckie glances up at the cat clock on the wall, its eyes and tail shifting side to side to mark each passing second. It’s 7:45. Chuckie thinks that his parents should be leaving any moment now and Melody will just miss them. Chuckie has heard too many horror stories of parents creating an awkward and entirely unseductive situation when they meet their son’s dates. Chuckie scheduled Melody’s arrival at the start of his parent’s movies just for that very reason.
Chuckie has also heard stories of parents walking in on their son or daughter right in the middle of the act. This thought frightens him more than anything else and is the real reason that he has worked so hard to make sure everything is in place. He wants to ensure that things proceed swiftly from first base straight to home plate. In his inexperienced and overzealous mind he hopes to even skip a couple bases or charge right through them at least.
The door swings open and Chuckie’s mom enters the living room, an air of chaos around her. She is frantically searching for her keys muttering that she can’t believe she lost them and that they will miss the previews. Sweat begins to bead on Chuckie’s forehead and he begins to clench and unclench his clammy hands. His concern turns to irritation and then to anger as his mom knocks over his putter and complains that it’s too dark in the room.
Chuckie looks again at the cat clock. It is now 7:52. Sweat starts beading on his brow as he tries to think of where he last saw the red shiny plastic heart of her keychain. His mother starts shouting at Chuckie to help her look and he feels his head about to explode. He drops down to the floor to look beneath the couch when his dad shouts from the bedroom that he’s found it.
The clock now reads 7:55 and Chuckie quickly ushers his parents out the door as he tells them not to miss the previews. They climb aboard their boat of a Cadillac and roll down the driveway, the gravel crackling louder than Chuckie thinks it usually does. He watches the taillights disappear around the next block and he rushes back inside the house.
Running now to the living room he resets the putter back beside the sofa. He straightens up the cushions his mom displaced in her searching and takes a step back to inspect the room. Everything is back in place, where it all belongs. Chuckie breathes a sigh of relief when he notices that it’s unusually cool.
His relief falls away as it dawns on Chuckie that his face, neck, and back are covered in sweat. 7:58 now, Melody will be here any minute. Chuckie walks quickly to the bathroom and splashes water on his face and pats it dry. He doesn’t have time to change shirts so he wraps his sweater around his neck in what he deems a very suiting fashion. It looks like he’s pulled it off when Chuckie notices not one but two stray hairs.
His can of hairspray empty, Chuckie grabs the nail enamel and brushes the hairs back into place. Crisis averted he steps out of the bathroom just as the doorbell rings. Chuckie strides to the door, not wanting to seem too eager but having difficulty controlling his pace. The bell rings again and Chuckie jogs the last few steps, opening the door and exhaling right into Melody’s face as she presses against the glass door front to see if anybody was home.
“Oh my,” Melody gasps as she is hit by a curiously strong mint wall.
It stings her eyes and she tilts backwards, her body threatening to fall like a cut tree. She spins her arms like propellers and gradually comes to settle.
“Why would you do something like that?” she asks Chuckie.
Chuckie’s brain is dead weight as he tries to come up with an explanation. After staring at her open-mouthed for a full thirty-seconds he apologizes and invites her inside, still intent on salvaging his score. To his surprise she accepts and he leads her to the living room.
“You know, it’s much too dark in here to read.” Melody says.
“What are you talking about?” Chuckie asks as he seats his guest at the end of the couch and himself next to her.
“Well, you did ask me to help you start a book club, didn’t you?” Melody asks.
“Um,” Chuckie says. He reaches inside his shirt pocket, his other arm snaking behind the increasingly uncomfortable looking Melody. “Altoid?”
Melody glares at Chuckie, and he isn’t sure if her face is red with anger, embarrassment, or burning lust.
“Yeah, about that,” Chuckie says. He decides to try a line from one of his mom’s romance novels, the ones with that “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” guy on the covers. “Melody, my dear, I have loved you since I saw you in that carriage in the country. I know I’m a simple stable hand and I haven’t much to offer you except true love. Now, come to my bulging biceps and let us make love with wild abandon in the hay.”
“Okay, you’re on crack,” Melody says.
Chuckie’s face went blank. He wasn’t expecting that reply – it never went that way in his mom’s romance novels. By this point he was sure he should be getting some sweet action. Time to improvise, Chuckie thinks.
“Melody, oh sweet Melody, your name reminds me of a melody,” Chuckie says, smiling internally at his own cleverness. He gives her a wink and notices her eyes rolling in their sockets.
Oh no, he thinks, I’ve overwhelmed her with my smoothness.
“Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?” Melody asks. “I knew you were kind of weirdo, always reading those lonely housewife books, but when you invite me over to help you start a book club and then you start breathing on me and telling me that you want to make love in the hay — what the fuck?”
Chuckie’s sure this time that Melody’s reaction is anger.
Everything has gone wrong. Chuckie stands up to say something, anything, but as he gets up he feels like his stomach is still there on the couch. He looks down expecting to see his entrails strewn all over the floor but everything is intact. His heart is thudding and he can hear a “whump whump whump” sound in his ears.
“Chuckie? Are you alright, Chuckie?” Melody asks but it all sounds to him like being inside a car going through an automated car wash.
“Chuckie?” Melody’s voice fades away at the end, and Chuckie realizes he’s losing conscious.
Chuckie is having a dream.
A woman’s voice is frantically screaming his name and Chuckie smiles thinking that he must be getting lucky. It doesn’t feel very good though and Chuckie wonders why that is. The woman is now shouting his name directly into his face and it’s hurting his ears. He realizes that it’s his mom’s voice and he finds himself hoping he is really dreaming.
Chuckie’s eyes snap open and his mom’s face is inches away from his, mascara running down her face in black rivulets as she continues to scream his name. Chuckie’s face turns ashen and he turns to his side and begins vomiting. He quickly discovers Altoids are not curiously strong enough to cover the taste of stomach acid and bile.
Reality settles in on Chuckie and he realizes that he was not just doing the horizontal mambo with his own mom.
“Oh my god, Chuckie, my new carpets,” Chuckie’s mom screeches, her hands clutching at her afghan.
“Mom? Where’s Melody? What time is it?” Chuckie asks.
“Melody? Is that the girl who was on your cell phone? She said you fainted. Who was she Chuckie?”
Chuckie feels his stomach dip dangerously low again.
“Where is she now, mom?” Chuckie asks.
“Well, how should I know, Chuckie?” his mom replies.
Chuckie groans and his mother runs to the bathroom to collect cleaning supplies. He knows this evening is ruined and he won’t be getting lucky tonight. It was so perfect too, he thinks, and he can’t understand what had gone wrong.
It must have been her, he concludes. Melody was what went wrong. I just need to try again with someone more normal than her. Maybe I’ll ask Courtney, the cafeteria check-out girl. Just because she has a unibrow and counts on her fingers doesn’t make her abnormal, Chuckie thinks.
Already, as his frantic mother scrubs the carpet with new-rug scented cleaner Chuckie begins planning his next hot date.
