Set amidst the 1990s in the Twin Cities - love, basketball, sex, David Lee Roth, dating, Snoopy, bar hopping, Camel Lights, and Evonne Goolagong collide to concoct this unique tale. Of course, these aren't your typical ingredients for a comedy, but this isn't your typical comedy. This is the story of a jackass and how he becomes a real man.
Life is a clever cocktail of interesting moments, sinister monotony, and sublime mistakes. Jamie Tembreaux, a struggling playwright in Minneapolis knows that all too well. Unlike the famous Peter Pan Syndrome, Jamie suffers from a different Disney Disorder altogether, The Pinocchio Syndrome, which can only be disclosed within the confines of this tale. Forcing Jamie to realize he's twenty-five and has never really been in love.
Luckily for Jamie, he does have the support of his friends, but "Trick" Dunbar and Andrew Case are just as confused with their lives as Jamie seemingly is with his own. Torn between the fetching artist he's just met and an old flame who happens to be Andrew's little sister, Jamie navigates the dangerous waters of bachelorhood without a clue.
With the help of another friend from college Jo Fabre, Jamie searches for answers at the only place that makes sense to him - his childhood home. There, Jamie discovers where his life diverted from its natural path to an entirely new one. Jamie explores his past choices and their consequences like never before. He deflects his personal ordeals through the use of humor, thereby divulging uncompromising insight into the male psyche.
The novel is a dizzying leap into the shallow end of the pool of life. And somewhere amidst the infinite spectrum between a Blue Fairy and a Great Whale lies a broken-hearted hero. A coming-of-age tale with a twist and a comedy with plenty of edge. HOT WINGS & RUG BURNS is a wild look at one of the scariest challenges facing young adults of any generation – the opposite sex.
HOT WINGS & RUG BURNS
Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the BlondeBy Grant GuimontiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Grant Guimont
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-4757-4 Contents
Chapter 1 Delirious.......................................1Chapter 2 Housequake......................................10Chapter 3 Tick, Tick, Bang................................35Chapter 4 Dirty Mind......................................53Chapter 5 I Wanna Be Your Lover...........................90Chapter 6 When You Were Mine..............................134Chapter 7 Anotherloverholenyohead.........................158Chapter 8 Let's Pretend We're Married.....................187Chapter 9 Kiss............................................238Chapter 10 Baby I'm a Star................................264Chapter 11 If I Was Your Girlfriend.......................292Chapter 12 Controversy....................................315Chapter 13 Gett Off.......................................341Chapter 14 Around the World in a Day......................358Chapter 15 The Beautiful Ones.............................383AUTHOR BIO................................................415
Chapter One
Delirious August 29, 1997
Blink—and you might just miss it. I know I almost did. And I was there.
Our discussion turned serious rather abruptly. A wild twist of a tangent that seemed out of place for this low-key, weekend night. My boys and I huddled down to the Warehouse District on the fringes of Downtown Minneapolis.
The locale of choice this evening? A little place we liked to call The Loon. Most everyone else liked to call it that too, since it was the name of the joint.
Not in search of anything really. No good time. No mean buzz. No piece of tail. No attempts to regain some glory days that floated by us. We were more or less out, because that's just what guys do. More importantly, that's what my boys do best. The night had been shooting par up to that point. We were all caught up in our own little endeavors.
Drew and Trick had been casing the bevy of suburban trim loaded at the bar, blitzed on Merlot and a half-dozen shots, in search of a good time to accompany their bachelorette party that had found its way into the big city on this late, summer Saturday. Scotty had been drowning his relative happiness in his fifth Captain 'n' Coke, celebrating his unique sense of freedom away from his better half for the better part of the evening. Dan was checking his beeper and its CNN connection for the latest college football scores, desperately hoping that Clemson covered the spread. I was somewhere inside my own head thinking something about nothing too specific, cutting the deadened remains of my bubble gum that had turned stale after huffing down a half-pack of Camel Lights in an attempt to distract myself from having a beer, or any other booze that was experiencing an up tick in its marketing.
As I mindlessly toyed with the rubber band that perpetually adorns my left wrist, I was hastened back to the conversation at the table by a gentle prodding of my elbow. I more or less shook off my inner-dialogue and became aware of my own presence within the bar once more.
After another pull off my nail, I asked Tommy to repeat his question. The one that had slipped past my goalie. A question so important it seemed that in search of its answer, the query had elicited a physical response from him unto me.
"I said, have you ever thought about it?" Tommy asked again.
I must have missed more than I thought, because even this fragment didn't shine any rays of light amongst the clouds in my head, or the ones that I had just exhaled from my lips.
I tried lending a reassuring head-bob-slash-nod-coupled-with-a-smile-motion to Tommy. You know the one you use when you're not entirely sure what the other guy said, so you just guess yes instead. But Tommy wasn't buying it. His quizzical expression never faltered even after my feeble attempt at acknowledgement fizzled away. I mean what's a guy supposed to do? There's a mound of assorted hot wings in varying flavors and spices just asking to be devoured directly in front of me. I got the Kinks blaring in my skull, courtesy of the Loon's choice stereo. I got Dan yelling obscenities at me for suggesting he lay down on Clemson and they're in the fourth, down six on his bookied line. Scotty is jabbering away in my general vicinity about some sort of landscaping scam sweeping the western suburbs that he somehow got snagged into. Drew and Trick are tangled up to their Abercrombie & Fitch hats in cleavage and belly rings ala the displaced pelt from the bachelorette party, who have now decided to grace us with their presence, while one of them has her thong-wearing ass directly at my seated eye-level gyrating to You Really Got Me, with her bestest friend in the whole world poking her suck-for-a-buck T-shirt in my face, and I really want one of the Blow Pops attached to her with Scotch tape to get rid of the rubbery remnants of my gum and the wicked bad taste it's left tracing on my tongue, to me in that moment, a dollar for one sucker seems entirely worth the price of admission, especially if I get to take it off the bride-to-be's amply endowed chest, but Tommy needs his answer, and he needs it right now. So, I dismiss everything else with nothing more than a swipe of my hand like a pestilent Caesar in favor of my friend and his current dilemma.
"I'm sorry. Thought about what?" I semi-yell to cover the persistent thumping of the Loon, peppered with my annoyance for Tommy, because if it wasn't for his meddling question, I could be sucking something else entirely, rather than sucking up to him.
"Have you heard a word I've been saying to you?" he asked.
And all the various amusements within my arm's reach, especially the young vixens, begin to tempt me again. I signal to Tommy a casual swooping of my index finger in a fit of non-verbal communication, which resembles a referee's call for a resetting of the shot clock, as if to say, "It's not my fault, it's the bar's."
Tommy seems to oblige because he finally notices the tasty morsels that have laid themselves on to our cookie sheet. Now he gets it. But he still won't let me have my fun. He decided to forgive me instead.
The Kinks have made way for Social Distortion by this point, and Tommy stage-dives right in, "I was just saying, that I've been wondering lately ..."
Good for you, Tommy. Congratulations. We all knew you could. Now keep in mind, Tommy and the word wondering rarely propose to marry themselves within the same sentence.
More so for curiosity's sake, I asked the question that wanted to be asked, "Wondering about what?"
Tommy was glad I did. I could see that in his crazy eyes. The eyes that were tripping over his mouth in order to reveal whatever was burning a hole in his brain, something akin to Superman's X-ray vision.
"Timing," he said.
That was it?
One simple word that evidently encompassed more than I would ever know for Tommy. I had my own connotations of that particular noun and what they may mean to me, but it seemed as if Tommy had delved a little deeper, uncovered some glorious prize, discovered a lost city of possibility within the context of the word itself. Quite frankly, I was almost jealous. I relented before the multiple definitions swallowed me whole.
"Well whadiya mean exactly?" I asked, fearing that within my own career complacency, Tommy had indeed grown smarter than me.
By this time, the chick with the obscenely, delicious ass had taken her friends and exited our scene. Probably to find a few good men. A few good men whose intentions were not so graphic or readily obnoxious. Drew and Trick only dug in harder with the next batch that aimlessly happened by, innocent gazelles trailing into the lions' watering hole.
Most nights, the gazelles never stood a fighting chance. And amidst the strained lines the boys slung their way, they debated if the bachelorette party leaving was a good thing or not. For Drew, the girls' departure served them well. Better odds. Simple as that. One of them was getting married anyway. It was a lost cause. For Trick, the opposite was true and I'm ready to side with him on this one. Seeing one of your best friends about to be married, kinda places things in perspective for the rest of the troupe. Desperation clung to the bride's friends like Rosie O'Donnell clings to a turkey drumstick. Desperation is a man's second best friend. (The first is a dog to be sure, but only within the context of a freshly-mowed lawn. At night, at a bar, man's first best friend surely is liquor.)
Those girls would have been up for any, and I repeat, any, sexual Olympics that Drew and Trick might have suggested after just one more shot of Jag. Plus, who knows? Maybe the bride herself wanted one last taste of the good life. One more divergent path before a life of the straight and narrow.
As far as Trick was concerned, their best chance had just made a mad dash for the door. I think Trick wanted to track their scent, because the rest of the night he never did readjust to the scene. He became almost surly, as most guys do in the same sitch. At the other end of the table, Dan had now joined Scotty in a balls-out buzz-on, after he envisioned himself handing over two bills to Jimmy the French since Clemson had failed to come up with any last-quarter heroics. And then the Rolling Stones were singing about some unwelcomed guests on their puffy white clouds.
Tommy lit up one of my smokes. The bastard. He was one of those social smokers, never too eager to flare up a dart if it wasn't attached at the lip to a domestic bottle. Lackadaisical in his approach to the appreciation of the finer art of dragging. Bumming a nail to a casual smoker is like handing over the keys to your Mustang to a marathon runner.
The treat was more or less something to do for him, something to occupy his time, not something that he desperately enjoyed or was addicted to. But I had known the guy for sixteen years, I had to oblige. Especially if he was about to wax poetic.
Tommy rolled the stick in his fingers, then rolled his words unto me, "Timing. The fact that so much of it has slipped through our fingers lately. When we were younger, it seemed that's all that we had. Time and the chances to fill it in."
Nothing shocking. There had to be more to it than that for Tommy. I let him vent.
"I mean, I get the whole adulthood thing. Growing up, things changing. But it's more than that. It's like the relative nature of time itself has changed along with us. Take a look at where we are and I don't just mean tonight. Two years ago we all sat here, in this very bar, with our grandiose plans on how to conquer the world as we know it. Not much has changed in those two years, but those two years only seem like a few short months ago to me."
Theories on relativity on a Saturday night, I looked around the table for a friend to pawn the conversation off on. I found none. All the boys were preoccupied with their latest diversion. Sports Center had just started and even though the sound was blanketed now by The Who's Won't Get Fooled Again, all eyes were attentively fixed on one of the six sets scattered throughout the joint. There were NFL injury reports to consider, priorities adjusted accordingly. There was even an audible groan from Dan when the Clemson Tigers' logo flashed on the screen making things official.
Then it happened. Tommy asked the one question that had eluded me for so long. My lack of articulation on the subject and the formulation of the actual question itself only seemed to fuel my desire to encapsulate this larger feeling into simple sentiment. In his question, I found that sentiment.
"When did it all change?"
The sentiment had been named, but its answers would be harder to come by. Most tough questions are like that.
Tommy continued, "I wonder when my life diverged from the natural path it was supposed to take. I wonder if I would be living a different life if I had decided to take a scholarship from Colorado, instead of the U. If my leaving would have allowed for a different outcome for Debbie and me. I wonder if my life switched tracks even long before that. I wonder if everyone's life, everyone's choices, change on a daily basis. If somehow each choice we make, no matter how large or small, sends us on a new path in the infinite roadmap of life. If that very change is part of the ultimate plan. If that change simply diverts us from the person we could have been or worse yet, the person we should have been."
Tommy could see his diatribe was bordering on the philosophical and that was more than he had originally intended. Little did he know I felt a close kinship with him at that very moment. Simply because Tommy had been able to attach a definition to the very thing that evaded my clutches for the better part of four years—maybe longer.
He shifted gears, "Debbie. Debbie was my best."
Then he trailed off. Until this came out next, "What woman was the best of your life?"
More questions. Here was the double from the first whammy. During a commercial break we brought the rest of the boys in on the fun.
Answer that question any way you chose. The definition that seems to fit for you. All of my crew did in one way or another. Some were crude. Some were genuine. Some were even romantic. I ... well. I was dumbfounded. And here's where the truth comes into play. I was silent. I left my crew's company without divulging any answer that evening. Not because I was afraid. Not because I was embarrassed. Simply because I wasn't lucky enough to have discovered one yet. Let alone discover much of anything else either. I'm getting a wee bit ahead of myself.
And there was the blink.
The best. The best ever. That—has yet to happen. Don't get me wrong, I don't doubt for single, solitary moment that it will one day. I just prefer to think that I have endured my lifetime up until this point for that one moment of incredible fruition. A moment that has yet to materialize. A moment I can only hope to call the best. My best.
In case I haven't driven my point home clearly enough, I'll spell it out for you. All of it. The best. My best. And when it comes to such lofty ideals, there is one element that does not belong within this particular realm for me—that element is surprise.
Now, I know that those two words are nearly inseparable, as in the element—of—surprise! But not here. Not for this bloke. Not with my best. It comes down to this and everything comes down to something sooner or later, surprises are elemental in their same rapid disappearance.
Take sex. Surprises in sex are fleeting. I'm not talking about The Crying Game kind of surprises either. I'm talking about the one-nighters, the illicit flings, the moments of passion. God bless 'em, one and all. The best is not born from such a beast. Hell, the best isn't even conceived from such a beast.
I'm not one to object to such frivolities, I'm just a guy who doesn't happen to adhere to them. Where's the skill in that anyway? Two to three hours of work out at a bar, liquids running their course, the right pick-up line slung her way, the small talk hitting a nerve, the next thing you know, your clothes are on the ground, intertwined with hers, and you're bumping uglies with a perfect stranger on a couch that's seen its better days come and go, only fearing that her roommate may be home too soon. No hint of commitment. No hint of trust. No hint of the best.
By the way, more times than not, the closer your appearance does border on perfection, the better you will succeed in such measures of surprise. To be honest with you, I've never had too much trouble here in this land of decadence, but it ain't my best.
I'm the kind of guy that thrives on groundwork and originality. The pursuit. The mild obsessing. The tenacious defense. The forty minutes of hell. Sure it starts where the other leaves off—at a basic fundamental attraction. But it takes skill and charm to accomplish, and fortitude and perseverance to maneuver through the long term. I'm talking traipsing strolls amidst hole-in-the-wall art galleries and insightful theories regarding the JFK assassination. I'm talking dinners of Cornish game hen served on a bed of wild rice prepared by my own hands and the knowledge of who her favorite Beatle is. I'm talking about playing Scrabble with her college roommates and meeting her great-aunt Sheila at her cousin Tina's wedding. I'm talking about holding the strands of her first haircut in your hands and knowing who she had a crush on in high school because you read what he wrote to her in her sophomore yearbook. I'm talking about what she wants to name her kids and opening presents with her family under a lavishly, decorated Christmas tree. I'm talking about committing to paper a poem fashioned in the wake of her heart describing the intricate color of her eyes and smelling the lingering fragments of her perfume on your clothes hours after she has parted your company for the evening.
Do I know what I'm talking about? No, I don't. Because it ain't happened yet.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from HOT WINGS & RUG BURNSby Grant Guimont Copyright © 2011 by Grant Guimont. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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